Two days had crawled by since the punishing SERE exercise, yet Nathaniel Hawkins still felt the phantom ache in every muscle. He'd survived the desert pursuit, endured the dreaded after-action review, and believed the hardest part was behind him. Then Elin Lindström had stepped into the picture.
He couldn't help recalling the first twenty-four hours after meeting her—when she seemed to appear out of thin air at every turn. Less than a day after Fareeha Amari and Hawkins were introduced to the shapely Swedish public affairs specialist, Lindström had wasted no time in demanding their stories. Photos, quick interviews, candid behind-the-scenes video—she collected them all with the persistence of a woman on a mission.
Hawkins quickly realized Lindström had a mischievous edge that made her relentless charm all the more potent. She'd show up right at the moments he tried to relax—sometimes in the makeshift Overwatch briefing tent, sometimes near the base's outdoor dining area—camera at the ready and datapad in hand. She seemed determined to pry every detail of his upbringing and family legacy from him, and, to his dismay, she took an unmistakable delight in how flustered he got whenever she hovered close.
"I need some quotes on your earliest interest in flying, Lieutenant," she'd say, leaning in to point at something on her datapad. Inevitably, her shoulder and—he couldn't help but notice—her very well-endowed chest would brush him with each shift of her posture. Hawkins would freeze, a wave of hot embarrassment climbing his neck. Over and over he tried to keep his gaze fixed on the text she was showing him, but the intangible swirl of her perfumed shampoo or lotion was maddeningly distracting.
It didn't help that Lindström was, objectively, stunning. She wore her fatigues with casual ease, the uniform doing little to hide her well-formed silhouette or the confident sway in her step. Where Fareeha Amari possessed a sharp, disciplined aura, Lindström's vibe was all playful persuasion—like a cat toying with a mouse. Whenever Hawkins tried to respond politely, she'd flash a bright smile that said I know exactly what I'm doing, leaving him at a loss for words.
He discovered that Lindström's dogged interest wasn't limited to him: Fareeha got it too, interrogated about her mother's military exploits and her own. But somehow, Lindström saved her fiercest "close-quarters interrogation" for the nineteen-year-old pilot. Hawkins tried to rationalize that he should be flattered—maybe Overwatch's newest star had big publicity potential—but most of the time, he just felt cornered. He hated how his cheeks would warm whenever she breezed into the room with a teasing comment about how "cute" Overwatch's youngest aviator was.
He tried to compose a mental shield, reciting flight checklists or engine specs anytime Lindström loomed into his personal space. He'd silently go through the FFR-31MR D Super Sylph's start-up procedure: engine spool up, check the flight control surfaces, calibrate the sensor suite… But inevitably, the second Lindström leaned in—her voice low, "Oh, sorry, I just need a closer look at these images…"—his concentration blew to smithereens. Of all the ways Overwatch could test me, he brooded, this is downright cruel.
It'd only been forty-eight hours, yet Hawkins already felt worn down. He'd endured SERE training, which battered him physically. This, however, was a mental siege—one well-aimed to crack the shaky composure of a teenage pilot who, for all his bravado in the sky, didn't know how to handle a disarmingly stunning woman curving her smile at him in an enclosed hallway.
Sighing, he realized there was no immediate escape. Lindström had official orders from HQ, after all—and she brandished them at every turn, granting her full license to probe "Overwatch's newest success story." Hawkins only hoped that eventually her fierce curiosity would be satisfied, because the thought of more impromptu photoshoots and gentle brushes of her body against his uniform made his stomach churn—and a small, infuriatingly traitorous part of him didn't entirely mind it.
Hawkins lay sprawled on his bunk, staring at the pockmarked ceiling of his cramped barracks room. The metal walls echoed with the distant hum of machinery and the shuffle of boots outside—normal base sounds, but each one made him tense, as if every footstep could herald her approach. She hadn't found him here yet. But it was only a matter of time.
He let out a low groan, draping an arm across his forehead. "This is fucking stupid," he muttered, half in disbelief at his own predicament. After all, he'd survived SERE training in a scorching desert, faced down omnic drones in the sky, and come out battered but triumphant. Yet somehow Elin Lindström—armed with a camera and a directive from Overwatch HQ—was on track to break him in ways the rogue omnics and the Egyptian Army never could.
He replayed the morning in his head: he'd left the mess hall early, hoping to slip back into his quarters unseen. But as soon as he got his door open, he'd glanced over his shoulder to spot her stepping into the corridor. She hadn't called out, but he felt her eyes on him, that playful arch of her brow. In that split second, he'd seized the chance to dash inside and lock the door behind him. Now, minutes or hours later—he couldn't tell—he waited in this uneasy hush, sure that if he so much as cracked the door, she'd be standing there, greeting him with a cunning smile and a barrage of new questions.
Hawkins sat up with a frustrated sigh, picking restlessly at the chipped paint on the bedframe. I can't just hide forever. Lindström was legally permitted—no, empowered—to shadow him for "morale and public engagement." And Overwatch's directive made it clear: as long as she didn't interfere with critical operations, she was free to embed. He grimaced. If only I had an actual mission right now… He almost envied Fareeha Amari right now, out with her unit on perimeter duty—at least they had a legitimate excuse to keep Lindström at bay. Meanwhile, Hawkins, stuck between flight rotations, was basically a sitting duck.
Guilt flared up alongside his embarrassment. He liked being decent and polite—his mother had raised him better than to snap at someone doing their job. Yet Lindström pressed every button he never knew he had. Why does she have to stand so close? he thought, recalling the gentle press of her chest against his shoulder earlier that day when she'd "helpfully" pointed out a line on her datapad. It had taken every ounce of discipline not to jerk away, and every ounce of something else not to lean in. The moment felt like a slow-motion meltdown in his brain: relief when she eased back, mortification at how he'd nearly lost it over a fleeting moment of contact.
He swallowed hard. "I gotta get out of here," he murmured, pushing off the bunk. Even the cramped air in his room felt stifling, laced with the tension of waiting. He yanked open a small locker, rummaging for a fresh flight suit jacket—purely for appearances, since he had no flight scheduled. If Lindström cornered him outside, at least he could pretend to be somewhere important. Or maybe she'd leave him alone.
Then it came to him: Mendez and Ramos. His ground crew. They were always tinkering with the Super Sylph at the far edge of the runway—one spot Elin Lindström might not spontaneously wander, especially in the midday heat. He nodded to himself. Even if she did follow, maybe he could bury himself in the plane's maintenance talk. Mendez loved to drone on about calibrations and stealth coatings. Good luck filming that, Miss Lindström.
Decision made, Hawkins took one last look around. He realized how fleeting this respite was; as soon as he walked out, the cat-and-mouse game might resume. But staying put would only feed his anxiety. Better to face the desert than be pinned in here like a cornered rabbit. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself, and opened the door a crack. Empty hall. No sign of Lindström.
He inhaled, exhaled, then slipped out into the corridor, footsteps light against the metal floor. His mind spun with worst-case scenarios—like turning a corner and running straight into her. But the hallway remained still. Heart hammering, he made for the exit, determined to reach the open flight line. If she's out there… well, I'll handle it. Because for all her unstoppable presence, at least out in the dusty air, he had Mendez, Ramos, and the comforting hum of his jet's engines to anchor him. And if he was lucky, that might just be enough to stave off Elin Lindström's next wave of unstoppable charm.
Hawkins felt his pulse steady as he walked the length of the runway, each step carrying him farther from the anxious confines of the barracks and closer to a strangely comforting horizon: the parked silhouette of his beloved FFR-31MR D Super Sylph. Though the midday heat had turned the tarmac into a shimmering griddle, the open air at least offered a sense of freedom—he could move without fear of bumping into Elin Lindström around every corner. If there was a single place he might avoid her relentless questions and mischievous grin, it had to be here, among his grounded domain.
From a distance, he spotted two figures bustling around the Super Sylph's sleek fuselage. As he drew nearer, Chief Master Sergeant Mendez's broad-shouldered form came into sharper focus, hunched over a tool case, while Specialist Ramos, lankier and perpetually grinning, sorted through diagnostic cables. Together, they formed the backbone of his ground crew, a pair he trusted implicitly. He often joked that they might know the fighter's every rivet and circuit better than he did.
He approached at a brisk clip, attempting to look calm and purposeful, even though inside he was half-prepared to sprint if Lindström appeared behind him. When he reached them, he raised a quick hand in greeting, just enough to catch their attention over the heavy drone of nearby machinery.
"Hey, guys," Hawkins said, trying and failing to keep all traces of relief out of his voice.
Mendez, stooped over a pallet of supplies, straightened up with a curious glint in his eye. "Lieutenant, you're a sight for sore eyes." He glanced around. "Something on fire? Didn't think you had a flight on the schedule."
Ramos, perched on a battered crate, wiped sweat from his brow. "We just did the standard maintenance run on the Sylph. Last I checked, she was in tip-top shape—unless you did something new to her?"
A faint flush touched Hawkins's cheeks. "The plane's fine," he said a bit defensively. "No flights, no damage. I, uh…" He shifted awkwardly. "I came out here to—sort of—hide. I'm being chased."
Ramos's grin widened, showing a flash of teeth. "Chased, sir? By who?"
Mendez slanted his head. "Let me guess… that Overwatch PR lady who's been buzzing around the base?"
Hawkins's shoulders slumped, grateful he didn't have to explain from scratch. "Elin Lindström," he confirmed with a weary exhale. "She's everywhere lately. Every time I open a door, she's right there, wanting photos, interviews, or just—I don't know—using me for target practice. Morale, PR, synergy, blah blah." He clenched a fist, then forced himself to relax. "I'm exhausted. And it's only been a couple of days."
Ramos cackled, nearly tipping backwards off his crate. "That's hilarious, el-tee! So you came to the flight line to escape?"
A prickly heat rose to Hawkins's cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words. "It's more than that—she's unstoppable. Like, no sense of personal boundaries unstoppable. I can't concentrate if she's pressing her camera against me, or leaning over my shoulder."
Mendez let out a deep, amused sigh. "Well, can't blame you. Heard from the rest of the guys that she's quite a looker, even by old dog standards." He tapped his chin knowingly. "But if you need somewhere to lay low, guess we can handle that. She sets foot on our patch of tarmac, we'll drown her in engine calibration talk. See if that keeps her camera at bay."
Hawkins's face relaxed into a half-smile, gratitude brimming at the offer. "I owe you one, Chief. Thank you both."
Ramos hopped off his crate, brushing dust from his fatigues. "Happy to help. So what's the plan, Lieutenant? Lurk around the plane all afternoon pretending to fix something?"
Hawkins glanced at the Super Sylph, half-contemplating the idea. "If it comes to that, maybe. I just… needed some air." He paused, gaze drifting over the craft's sharp lines. No matter how many times he saw it, the fighter's advanced geometry never ceased to amaze him—those carefully angled surfaces, designed to scatter radar signals and keep him nearly invisible at altitude. A far cry from the battered prefabs he'd been stuck in.
Then he noticed Mendez fiddling with a short-bristled paintbrush and a small container of blackish substance by the Sylph's fuselage. The Chief was crouched, delicately dabbing something at chest height. "What're you up to, Chief?" Hawkins asked, curiosity sparked.
Mendez brightened, waving the brush. "Oh, this? Finally adding your kill tally to the side of the bird, kid. Figured it's about time we gave credit where it's due."
Hawkins took a step closer, heartbeat picking up a notch. "A kill tally? Seriously?"
Ramos smirked, flipping open a specialized container. "It's not just any paint," he clarified. "Radar-absorbent stuff. Same stealth compounds as the main coating, so we don't ruin the plane's signature. You know how picky Overwatch is about stealth metrics."
Hawkins gave a low whistle. "Huh. So we can't even put normal paint on it without messing up the entire reason it's special. That's… complicated."
"Sure is," Mendez agreed, tapping the container gently. "We had the Overwatch eggheads whip up a custom batch—fancy as all hell. Took them fucking forever. That's why we waited so long to do this."
Hawkins's gaze drifted over the Sylph's flank. It was largely smooth, a matte finish designed to scatter radar waves, interrupted only by panel lines and maintenance latches. Now, Mendez was carefully stenciling small silhouettes: four for omnic aircraft kills, two for bunkers, and a single turret mark—each representing a significant threat to mission success.
A quiet sense of pride swelled in Hawkins's chest. The tradition was an old one: fighter pilots marking each victory or objective destroyed. He'd grown up seeing black-and-white photos of biplanes or early jets with rows of painted crosses or stars. Yet in this high-tech era, he'd half-assumed that tradition had faded out. "Guess it's pretty cool," he admitted softly, kneeling to watch Mendez's brushstrokes. "Never thought I'd see it on a stealth fighter, but hey—some things never die."
Mendez gave a nod, continuing his meticulous painting. "Exactly. We might have cutting-edge AI and exoskeletal suits and shit, but a pilot's gotta keep the spirit of the old ways alive."
Hawkins chuckled. "Yeah… plus, it's a nice reminder of what we actually accomplish up there."
Ramos nudged him playfully. "Just don't let it go to your head, Lieutenant Ace. We'll have to invent a bigger marking system if you keep blowing stuff up."
"Never hurts to be ambitious, right?" Hawkins replied with a lopsided grin.
Standing upright, he noticed another detail: just beneath the canopy frame, three engraved names gleamed: Lt. Nathaniel Hawkins, CMSgt (R) Julio Mendez, and Spc. Erwin Ramos. He remembered the day they'd etched them, shortly after his first major operation and having recently joined Overwatch. Mendez had insisted that a plane was only as good as the team behind it—all the team, not just the pilot.
He laid a hand on that etched patch of metal. The surface was warm under the Egyptian sun, though the memory behind it sent a comforting chill down his spine. It symbolized more than mere ownership or credit; it was a pledge that each mission they flew, they were in it together. Mendez and Ramos might never touch the pilot's seat, but they were every bit as integral to his successes as he was.
"I never thanked you enough for that day," Hawkins murmured quietly, almost to himself. "I was so caught up in everything else. But it means a lot that you guys stuck my name here alongside yours. Makes me feel… not so alone, I guess."
Mendez paused his painting for a heartbeat, his expression softening. "You earned it, kid. This plane might be the property of Overwatch and the UN, but what we do—keeping it ready, helping you stay in the air—that's personal. We're all in, or not at all."
Ramos nodded in agreement. "Couldn't have said it better. We're family in our own weird, dysfunctional way."
For a moment, the trio stood in easy silence, the desert wind stirring up a swirl of dust around them. Hawkins inhaled, letting the scorching air fill his lungs. This space—the scuffed tarmac and the towering tail fins of the Super Sylph—felt more like home than the sterile bunk or any prefab office. Here, no matter how many times Lindström's inescapable presence made him want to bolt, he had steadfast allies who understood him.
At that thought, he gave a brisk nod, swallowing the last of his tension. "Thanks," he said simply, voice sincere. "I mean it."
"Don't mention it," Mendez replied, returning to his methodical strokes of RAM paint.
Ramos grinned like a cat who'd just pulled off a heist. "And if your Swedish shadow hunts you down here, we'll run interference. Or you can do an emergency takeoff—just slip into the cockpit and vanish at Mach Two."
Hawkins laughed, relieved. "I might actually consider it if she cornered me again."
For the first time that day, he felt a spark of genuine humor in the face of his predicament. Because while Elin Lindström might eventually track him down, hawk-eyed and unstoppable, Hawkins had a refuge. He had Mendez, Ramos, and the Super Sylph—his steadfast partners, in the sky and on the ground. And as Mendez's paintbrush laid the final kill silhouette in place, Hawkins couldn't help feeling a swell of hope. If he could survive near-catastrophic dogfights and desert evasion, surely he could outmaneuver a cunning public affairs specialist… or at least he had the moral support to try.
Mendez capped the container of stealth paint with a satisfying click, setting it aside as Hawkins took a moment to admire the freshly stenciled kill marks along the Super Sylph's flank. The three of them lingered by the gleaming fuselage, still in the tail end of light banter—questions about upcoming flight schedules, jokes about the next big Overwatch test. For a while, it felt like they could pretend Hawkins's "pursuer" didn't exist.
Then everything changed in an instant. Mid-sentence, Mendez went abruptly quiet. Ramos's eyes grew wide as dinner plates, his jaw slackening until it nearly touched the tarmac. Hawkins's brow furrowed in confusion; he'd never seen Ramos so blatantly starstruck. Slowly, an ominous prickle traveled down Hawkins's spine.
He turned around, and there she was. Elin Lindström. Stepping across the scorching airstrip with a camera bag slung over her shoulder and a datapad clasped to her hip. Her uniform top hung unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a snug, form-fitting tank that accentuated her curves more than any strictly professional attire had any right to. Even from a distance, there was a purposeful sway in her walk, as though she was acutely aware of an audience and welcoming it.
Hawkins's stomach tightened, half humiliation, half panic. His flight-or-fight instinct kicked in, but he was rooted to the spot—no exit in sight that didn't involve flat-out sprinting, and the runway offered little cover anyway. If he so much as tried to hide behind the plane, Lindström would see in an instant.
"Well, goddamn," Mendez muttered under his breath, cutting through the hush. "Who the hell is that, and what's she doing in a dusty base instead of modeling somewhere in Paris?"
Hawkins cleared his throat, cheeks burning. "That's… Elin Lindström. The Overwatch Public Affairs Specialist. The one I said I was, um, avoiding."
Mendez let out a soft whistle, his eyes never leaving her. "Avoiding? That? Are you fucking kidding me? Good grief, boy," He glanced sideways at Ramos, who sat there dumbfounded, mouth still agape. With an exasperated snort, Mendez reached over and snapped Ramos's jaw shut with an audible clack. "Pull it together, Specialist."
Hawkins gulped, struggling not to fidget. "Not the point, Chief. She's… relentless, I guess. I just wanted a break."
Mendez exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. "If I wasn't happily married and more than twice your age, I'd do more than run from her. She's a goddess, kid. Trust me."
Hawkins wanted to argue but couldn't seem to string the words together. By now, Lindström was close enough to hear if they spoke too loudly. She offered the men an easy, professional smile—warm, friendly, yet possessed of that faintly playful glimmer that made Hawkins's stomach flip.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she greeted, voice carrying over the engine hum. "I hope I'm not interrupting crucial business." She slowed, turning that smile fully on Hawkins. "Lieutenant, fancy meeting you here."
All Hawkins could manage was a strained, "Uh… yeah. We were—just working."
Mendez sniffed, crossing his arms but looking amused. "Just finishing some paint work, Miss Lindström. Nothing top-secret. What can we do for you?"
Lindström's gaze flicked briefly over the Super Sylph's new tally marks, then returned to Hawkins. "I was hoping to drag our pilot away for a little Q&A session. No time like the present, right?"
Hawkins's heart pounded. He forced a stiff smile. "Oh, well, I—uh—thought I should do more checks on, you know, engine calibrations—"
Mendez's soft snort betrayed him instantly. Ramos nearly choked back a giggle. Lindström just tilted her head, lips curving. "Is that so? Because you told me earlier you had no flights scheduled until tomorrow. I'd hate to think you're hiding from me, Lieutenant Hawkins."
His face blazed with embarrassment. "N-no, not hiding. I just… I was with my crew. Doing crew stuff." He gestured wildly at the tools and crates.
Despite his flailing denial, Lindström's smile only grew more teasing. She stepped closer—close enough that Hawkins was again reminded of how her top two shirt buttons lay undone, exposing the snug tank underneath. She gave him a pointed, expectant look.
"Well?" she asked, lifting her datapad. "Shall we find somewhere quieter to talk? It won't take long. Promise."
Hawkins released a helpless sigh, as though resigning himself to fate. "Sure. Let's… get this over with."
From behind, Mendez offered a poorly contained chuckle, and Ramos's grin stayed plastered to his face. The second Hawkins took a step away, Lindström fell in beside him, exuding a subtle floral fragrance that only heightened his embarrassment. He glanced back at Mendez and Ramos for a final, desperate lifeline—but they just watched in open amusement, both men exchanging a look that said Better you than us, kid. Moments later, he and Lindström vanished down the runway, leaving the ground crew to share a conspiratorial laugh and return to their day's work.
Hawkins didn't entirely register how he'd ended up following Elin Lindström through the base's winding corridors. One moment, she'd politely suggested a "more private spot" for their Q the next, he was crossing the threshold into a surprisingly spacious room that looked nothing like the drab prefab barracks he and most of the Overwatch personnel occupied. By the time the door shut behind them, he blinked, realizing he'd unthinkingly trailed her to her personal quarters.
"This place is… different," he managed, glancing around. The walls were still the standard dull grey, but it was clear Lindström had pulled strings to dress them up. A few pieces of framed photography—scenic shots of mountainous landscapes—adorned the surfaces, and a table with two chairs stood near the center, illuminated by a soft lamp. It was downright comfortable, something Hawkins hadn't expected in the middle of a dusty forward base.
Elin shrugged out of her uniform top, draping it neatly over the back of one chair. Underneath she wore a snug tank top that clung to her figure with maddening precision—especially around her full bust and narrow waist. Hawkins swallowed, immediately hyperaware of how the garment drew attention to every line of her silhouette. His pulse kicked up a notch, and he shifted his eyes to the nearest wall, desperate not to stare.
"Oh, trust me," Lindström said with a small laugh, "I fought for something beyond the standard prefab. Not everyone's thrilled, but Overwatch's Public Affairs directive gives me leeway—particularly when we're capturing daily life in the field." She waved him toward one of the chairs, then stepped off toward a small bathroom door, flipping on the faucet. Water ran briefly as she rinsed her hands. "Feel free to sit. Make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant."
Comfortable. Hawkins almost scoffed but couldn't muster the cynicism. His nerves were on high alert. He eyed the door, momentarily tempted to make an excuse and bolt—but that felt ridiculous. You're a goddamn fighter pilot. You've faced down omnic war machines. You can handle a conversation with a gorgeous woman. Right?
Lindström reemerged, patting her hands dry with a crisp towel. Spotting him still rooted near the door, she arched a sculpted brow. "Is the chair booby-trapped, or…?"
That prodded him into action. "No, sorry, I…" He let out a breath. "Right. I'll, uh, sit." Quick strides took him to the table, and he lowered himself carefully. The seat was alarmingly comfortable—extra padding he'd never seen in Overwatch's usual furnishings. He pressed his back to the chair, folding his hands stiffly in his lap, gaze darting anywhere but her form.
Lindström took the opposite seat, setting down a datapad. "Thank you for this," she said, voice gentler than usual. "I know I've been persistent, but HQ is hungry for content. And you—youngest pilot in Overwatch, vanquisher of omnic drones, and all that—are prime material."
He tried to swallow the dryness in his throat. "I—um—understand. You have a job to do." Inside, he still felt trapped, but at least a measure of professional rationale steadied him. This was an interview. He could treat it like a debrief, minus the threat of an omnic incursion.
She tapped her datapad, bringing up notes. "So, I have some standard bullet points: your background, your thoughts on bridging air and ground ops, your perspective on Overwatch's mission. But we can talk about that in a minute. First…" She leaned forward slightly, forearms on the table, causing her neckline to dip. Hawkins's heart lurched. "I wanted to check if you're okay. You looked so… cornered out there."
He forced a chuckle, scratching an imaginary itch on his cheek. "Sorry if I seemed rude. Just… not used to all the direct attention, I guess." That was an understatement. Stop thinking about her top, he ordered himself. Focus on words, not the curves in front of you…
Lindström's eyes gleamed with understanding. "I get it. This gig can be invasive—especially if you're not accustomed to cameras. But I promise, we can keep this low-key. My footage is purely for morale pieces, recruitment ads, that kind of fluff." A hint of playful curve touched her lips. "It's not meant to unravel you, Lieutenant."
"Well…" Hawkins exhaled, shoulders slumping. "That's a relief, I suppose." Could've fooled me, he thought, recalling how every shift of her stance or brush of her hand seemed precisely timed to set him on edge. She's lethal in a different way, he decided.
Yet, for all her teasing charm, Hawkins noted Lindström never pushed the conversation too far, always retreating before he genuinely felt cornered—just enough to leave him off-balance, but never truly uncomfortable. Her professionalism was subtle but clearly present, a careful balancing act he'd slowly come to recognize and, in a small begrudging way, respect.
"Anyway," she said, scanning the datapad, "I'll just ask you a few opener questions, and we can see where it goes. Sound fair?" Without waiting, she angled herself closer, the subtle scent of floral soap wafting across the table. "Don't worry if it's not formal. Let's keep it natural."
Hawkins forced a nod. Yes, natural, sure. But with her closeness and the memory of how easily she'd disarmed him before, "natural" felt like an enormous ask. Even so, he reminded himself: if he could just power through this session, maybe she'd ease up on hunting him down every hour. This was better than the cat-and-mouse chase, right?
He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and forced a polite smile. "All right. Let's do it." Inside, his heart thrummed. As awkward as it was, he would try to remain professional—he would face down Elin Lindström in her own domain. If he could outfly omnics, maybe he could outlast the unstoppable Public Affairs Specialist with a well-timed grin and a straight back.
He hoped.
Lindström's datapad glowed faintly in the cozy lighting of her personal quarters, poised to capture every word Nathaniel Emerson Hawkins offered. The small table between them felt simultaneously too close and too formal: it was the kind of setup that encouraged private confession, yet Hawkins still fought the urge to inch away. He kept his spine upright, forcing composure even though the lingering fragrance of Lindström's freshly washed skin—something vaguely floral and impossibly distracting—continued to toy with his focus.
She flipped through a few digital notes. "Alright, Lieutenant," she began, voice light, yet purposeful. "We've touched on how you ended up in Overwatch, but HQ wants the bigger story. How does a nineteen-year-old become one of the top aviators for the world's most advanced task force?"
Hawkins gave a self-conscious shrug, glimpsing the curiosity glinting in her eyes. "I guess it started back a few decades ago… or more accurately, it started with the entire Omnic Crisis. You know how that war turned everything upside down."
Lindström nodded slowly, the casual edge of her demeanor slipping into genuine interest. "I remember the headlines. Horrible attrition rates for militaries worldwide."
Hawkins cleared his throat, tapping his fingers lightly against the tabletop. "The Omnic Crisis devastated the U.S. Air Force. Pilots were getting shot down faster than they could train replacements, and planes were lost in staggering numbers. Before they knew it, they had less than a quarter of their original strength left. Something had to give. The solution was… drastic."
He saw Lindström lean forward slightly, that inquisitive spark on her face. At least for once, she wasn't brandishing that playful smirk which turned him upside down. She looked… honestly engaged.
"Drastic how?" she asked. "I heard rumors that some younger cadets got fast-tracked. But I didn't realize it was that big a leap."
Hawkins offered a half-smile, thinking back to the pitched chaos of that era. "It was more than a fast-track. They ended up creating an entire pipeline from scratch—Young Eagles, they called it. Basically, they took kids as young as fourteen, put them into a specialized program with a heavy STEM curriculum and military training, plus sims in conjunction with early flight exposure. It was an attempt to replenish the pilot corps quickly since all the usual sources—reserves, retired pilots—were exhausted."
A flicker of surprise crossed Lindström's features. "Fourteen? Truly that young?"
"Yep." He sighed. "It was controversial, sure. But the politicians and generals were panicking. And, well… it worked. Sort of. One in two hundred might get accepted, and then huge numbers would wash out anyway because the training was intense. But those who stuck around got a year and a half of undergrad pilot training jammed into a pipeline that was normally four to five years. Some were just kids finishing puberty."
Lindström shook her head in disbelief. "That's insane. But they had no choice, I suppose. And you—were you part of that subsequent wave?"
Hawkins grimaced. "I joined at thirteen, technically. Had to wait until I turned fourteen to start flight sessions. My father… well, he kind of 'volunteered' me," he added wryly.
"Volunteered," she repeated, picking up on his tone. "So not exactly your first choice?"
Hawkins hesitated, feeling the room suddenly grow heavier. Lindström's lighthearted approach softened into quiet attention, signaling clearly she was ready for whatever he was about to share.
He swallowed, eyes dropping to his lap. Here came the tricky part. The mild tension in his gut warned him how personal the next revelations might get. But he'd told himself he'd endure this. He forced the words out:
"Growing up, I despised the Air Force and the military. My dad was a career officer—gone all the time. We moved constantly, base to base. I blamed the uniform for, well, everything. Never seeing him, never settling in one place. And…" His lips twisted in a small, bitter smile. "I was close to my mom, though. She was the one stable thing in my life. We tried to make the best of it—do normal family stuff even if Dad wasn't around."
Lindström's expression gentled. No trace of mischievousness remained; she seemed almost solemn. "I see. Did your mother support you going into the family business, then?"
Hawkins's throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn't meet her gaze, the old ache flaring up. "She, uh… she died not long after my eleventh birthday." The words felt leaden, but somehow he pushed through. "It was sudden. A complication in a routine surgery. I was just… left with him, you know?"
He noticed Lindström's posture still. Gently, she placed the datapad on the table. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, voice low. "That must have been… unbelievably tough."
He shrugged, feeling that empty pang in his chest. "It was. I still miss her every day." An exhale shuddered out of him, surprising him with its intensity. "After that, my dad and I barely got along, really went at it. Made me even more rebellious and angry. He tried to 'fix' my anger by pushing me into the Young Eagles program, claiming it was time to follow the family legacy and man up. I was furious—didn't want any part of it. But he insisted."
Lindström's brows furrowed, the sympathy plain in her eyes. "And then… your father passed too?"
A nod. "Yeah, a training accident when I was fourteen. One year after I started the program. So I guess… ironically… I ended up following his footsteps anyway," he said with a short, humorless laugh. "By the time I realized I wasn't half bad at flying and maybe it wasn't so horrible, he was gone."
Silence stretched between them, not quite uncomfortable but thick with unspoken empathy. Hawkins shifted in his seat, gaze flicking to Lindström's face. She wore a quiet, compassionate look, uncharacteristically subdued compared to her earlier teasing. After a beat, she reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over his.
He blinked, pulse fluttering. That simple contact—her palm warm against his skin—wasn't laced with flirtation or mischief this time. It felt genuine. In a single gesture, she communicated more sympathy than all her flowery words had earlier.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes sincere. "Truly. I had no idea."
Hawkins swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. "It's fine. Well—maybe it's not fine, but I've mostly made my peace with it. Or tried to. My mother… was everything. My father… well, we never got to fix the rift between us. But here I am. An Overwatch pilot. And ironically, I owe that to him."
Lindström gave his hand a small squeeze before withdrawing, her thumb lingering a second longer as though she loathed to break the moment. "Thank you for sharing," she said, voice earnest. "I won't exploit it in a crude way. But it helps me… understand you, you know? And that's what Overwatch wants to show the world: real people, not just a uniform."
The sudden softness in her eyes caught Hawkins off-guard. He felt an unexpected twist—something like gratitude, but also confusion. He'd spent the last two days running from her, certain she only wanted to poke and prod him with sly amusement. Now she sat there, concern etched in her features, seemingly just as vulnerable in this moment as he felt.
"Yeah," he managed, glancing down. "Guess I'm not the typical volunteer with a heroic childhood dream. I hated it at first—everything about planes, the military. But after Dad died, I had nowhere else to go. No real plan. The program was all I knew. And… over time, I found I love flying. It's freedom, you know? In the cockpit, I can breathe. That's maybe the only part of his legacy I'm grateful for."
Lindström's lips curved gently. "Sometimes life puts us on paths we never expected, hmm?" She paused, studying him intently. "I promise, off the record, I understand. On the record, though… we can shape that narrative however you prefer. We can highlight the tragedy or keep it subtle. It's your story, Hawkins."
He inhaled, feeling a cautious warmth blossom in his chest. "Thanks. I appreciate that." He offered a wry half-smile. "Can we skip the sob story angle, though? People already pity me for being young, and I'd hate to add orphan pity to the list."
Her answering smile was gentle, lacking her usual teasing edge. "We'll be tasteful," she assured him. She retrieved her datapad, but her gaze remained soft. "We have enough other angles to cover—like your combat achievements prior to and with Overwatch, your synergy with Captain Amari, your comedic attempts to hide from me—"
Hawkins's cheeks colored, but there was an odd lightness in his chest now. "Right. Those angles." A flicker of humor touched his eyes, mixing with genuine relief. Despite all the embarrassment he'd endured, at least now he felt… understood in a way he hadn't anticipated.
They lapsed into a quieter conversation. Lindström jotted more notes, occasionally firing a question about his first flight experiences, or how the Young Eagles program accelerated his readiness. He spoke more fluidly this time, no longer clenched by tension. Whenever his eyes dipped to the faint curvature of her tank top, he'd remind himself of that sincere empathy she'd shown moments ago, and it helped keep him from imploding with nerves.
Eventually, Elin clicked the datapad's screen off, exhaling as if the official portion was done. She looked at him with a lingering softness. "I think we have enough for a short piece… for now. Thank you, Nathaniel."
Nathaniel, she said, not "Lieutenant" or "Hawkins." A flicker of closeness warmed him again. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Thanks for, um… letting me talk."
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs comfortably. "You're welcome. And if you ever want to talk more—off the record—my door's open." Her lips curved again, hinting at that playful spark, but the gentleness remained. "I might still chase you down for photos, though."
He let out a short laugh, the tension in his shoulders fading. "I guess that's your job. Just… try not to corner me so dramatically next time?"
Her grin brightened, and she raised both hands in a mock surrender. "I'll tone it down—slightly. But no promises. We both have roles here, after all."
He grinned back, something inside him loosening. Maybe she wasn't the unstoppable flirt-bomb he'd branded her as—well, not only that, anyway. Maybe behind the lens, she carried her own sense of empathy and duty, just like the rest of Overwatch's weird little family.
He rose from the chair, noticing how the day's exhaustion settled into his bones. "I… guess I should go, let you compile your notes," he said. A small part of him was reluctant, though. Lindström's quarters were uncomfortably comfortable— a hush removed from the harsh desert wind outside. Yet the rational side reminded him it'd be wise to leave before any new wave of nerves could strike.
She nodded, standing as well. "Thanks again, Hawkins. Truly." Then, as if spontaneously, she reached out a hand, giving his arm a gentle, fleeting squeeze. "And… I'm sorry about your parents. If you ever want to talk about them—or not talk about them—just let me know."
He swallowed, nodding, feeling that heartbreak-laced relief swirl in his chest. "I'll keep that in mind," he managed, voice quieter.
She stepped back, giving him space. "Be safe out there, Lieutenant. I'm sure we'll see each other soon. Might even be at your plane again tomorrow," she teased, though more softly than her usual coy jabs.
Hawkins just nodded, a small, genuine smile curling at the corner of his lips. "Sure. I'll try not to run away… again." And with that, he made his exit, closing the door gently behind him.
The corridor felt emptier, but the tension he'd carried was lighter now, replaced by a curious sense of resolution. Lindström, for all her relentless approach, wasn't just a tornado of sensual chaos—she was also a real person who listened, who understood. Maybe working with her wouldn't be so unbearable after all.
As he set off to find a late meal or maybe check in with Fareeha's unit, Hawkins realized something subtle had shifted: the terror of her closeness was no longer quite so raw. He still found her presence disconcerting, but beneath that lay a fragile thread of mutual respect. Funny how a single conversation could strip away assumptions. Still, he'd remain cautious—Elin Lindström might have a sympathetic side, but she was no less formidable if she chose to turn that playful mischief on him again.
Still, as he replayed their conversation, he found himself reluctantly impressed by the way she balanced her relentless enthusiasm for her work with genuine compassion—a surprising, and quietly admirable, blend that left him feeling strangely grateful, and slightly less wary of her intentions.
Yet, for now, he felt a twinge of—dare he call it—comfort. We're all just doing our jobs, he reminded himself. And maybe, just maybe, forging unexpected bonds in the process.
Young Eagles Program: A Rapid-Pipeline Approach to Pilot Training
By Defense Correspondence Weekly
Background and Wartime Impetus
At the height of the Omnic Crisis, global militaries suffered catastrophic losses in airpower. Traditional pilot candidate pools—Reserve Officers, retired flyers, and advanced trainees—dwindled so quickly that nations found themselves unable to maintain air superiority against omnics. In the United States, the Air Force experienced staggering aircraft attrition and pilot mortality rates. The resulting shortage posed an existential threat to continued operations.
Under intense pressure from the Joint Chiefs and Congress, the Air Force devised a controversial yet pragmatic solution: the Young Eagles initiative. Initially conceptualized as a temporary emergency measure, the program aimed to rapidly replace fallen aviators by lowering the minimum enlistment age to fourteen, funneling qualified teenagers into an ultra-compressed pipeline. The high command believed this was the only way to stave off complete operational collapse in critical theaters, particularly at a time when existing manpower was insufficient to hold key strategic air corridors.
Lowering Age Requirements and Selection Process
Before Young Eagles, the youngest prospective pilots generally went through the U.S. Air Force Academy, entering around eighteen and spending years in academic and flight education. Wartime demands made such timetables impossible. In an unprecedented decision, the Department of Defense (DoD) and Department of Education (DoE) collaborated to create what some described as "emergency vocational militarization."
Eligibility Age: Aged 14–15 upon program start.
Screening Criteria: Academic Performance: Emphasis on STEM capabilities—math, physics, and engineering fundamentals.
Physical Aptitude: Rigorous tests to ensure cadets could endure high-g flight and stress.
Psychological Resilience: Early psychological evaluations to filter out those unable to cope with war's mental toll.
The program accepted only a sliver of applicants—around 1 in 200 advanced beyond the preliminary stage. And once training began, a sizeable portion still washed out due to the intense academic or physical requirements. The result was a hyper-focused group of teenage cadets being groomed to operate advanced military jets far sooner than any conventional system allowed.
Intensive Training Curriculum
The Young Eagles pathway averaged around 3.5 years, blending academic rigor with unprecedented flight exposure:
Foundational Stage (18–24 Months)
Accelerated STEM Education: Cadets spent full days in condensed mathematics, physics, aeronautics, and engineering labs. Strict standards meant many faced weekly or monthly reevaluation to retain their slots.
Military Core and Leadership Skills: Basic military discipline, communication drills, and an introduction to tactics. Exposure to survival training (SERE basics), physical fitness regimes, and group-based exercises.
Undergraduate Flight Training (c. 18 Months)
High-Fidelity Simulation: Extensive hours in advanced flight simulators, including near-realistic dogfight and emergency scenario modules. Early introduction to situational awareness under stress, simulating missile evasion or low-visibility landings.
Real-World Flight Sessions: After proving competency in sims, cadets transitioned to trainer aircraft. Instructors closely monitored technique and adaptability, aiming to accelerate cadets to more complex jets quicker than typical pilot candidates.
Advanced Specialization (6–9 Months)
Airframe Track Selection: Performance data determined whether cadets would serve in fighters, bombers, or specialized support aircraft.
Combat Scenario Training: War-game drills featuring emergent sim-tech and live exercises. Close integration with active-duty squadrons to witness real operations before final assignment.
By the time they graduated, many Young Eagles cadets were under eighteen yet possessed hundreds of simulator hours and dozens—sometimes hundreds—of real flight hours. This marked a historic departure from the pre-crisis norm where pilots typically began flying advanced jets in their mid-twenties.
Teething Pains and Controversies
Criticism and Ethical Backlash
The program courted controversy from its inception. Critics labeled it a "mass militarization of minors," alleging the Air Force exploited adolescent recruits not fully capable of informed consent. Child advocacy groups lobbied Congress, claiming the initiative risked mental health crises by thrusting teenagers into life-or-death duties. Military officials countered that the staggering losses of the Omnic Crisis permitted no alternative.
Dropout and Attrition Rates
Initial cohorts saw dropout rates approach 40–50% before the second year:
Many teens found the tandem burden of accelerated high-school equivalency and advanced pilot training overwhelming. Some succumbed to the psychological strain of rotating between classroom learning and live-fire exercises. A minority left due to injuries or health complications, often from high-g tolerance tests or extended stress on young bodies.
Resource Allocation and Oversight
The emergency nature of Young Eagles required sudden reallocation of instructor staff, simulator equipment, and flight hours—sometimes siphoned from conventional training pipelines. This caused friction: existing flight schools felt overshadowed or starved of resources. Over time, the Air Force introduced oversight panels to track training quality, ensure safety standards, and mitigate potential abuses.
Family and Social Impact
Young Eagles cadets often lived on or near bases, removed from typical teenage life. Reports surfaced of social isolation, fatigue, and—at times—questionable mental health support. Though the DoE attempted to maintain a semblance of standard secondary education, the intensity of the program left minimal room for typical adolescent development. Still, many graduates later stated they valued the deep camaraderie formed under such intense conditions.
Program Successes and Revisions
Despite the criticisms, Young Eagles accomplished its primary wartime objective:
Replenishing Fighter Squadrons: Within two years, newly minted teenage pilots began bolstering depleted front-line units.
High Skill Retention: Many displayed agile reflexes and rapid adaptation to next-gen HUDs, stealth systems, and advanced flight controls, rivaling or surpassing older colleagues.
Cultural Shift: While initially viewed with skepticism by older aviators, successful Young Eagles graduates earned reputations as resilient and resourceful. Over time, acceptance grew, and certain wings prided themselves on "Eagle-born" squadrons.
A few years post-Crisis, the Air Force scaled down its reliance on underage cadets, transitioning the program into a specialized track for high-achieving sixteen-to-eighteen-year-olds. The pipeline remained expedited compared to legacy training models but adopted greater psychological support structures and limited placements to ensure volunteer clarity.
Legacy and Contemporary Significance
Though the Omnic Crisis ended, Young Eagles left indelible marks on military aviation doctrine. Notable graduates found their way into Overwatch, black-ops squadrons, or advanced R&D units, advocating for further integration of youth STEM curricula in national service. Defense analysts have dissected Young Eagles as a prime case study of crisis-driven innovation, highlighting both its operational victories and moral quandaries.
In present-day U.S. Air Force policy, aspects of Young Eagles live on:
Accelerated STEM Partnerships: Joint school-base programs continue grooming potential candidates earlier than college age—albeit nowhere near age fourteen.
Heightened Tolerance Testing: Modern advanced jets place extreme g-forces on pilots; the pipeline's methods for building such tolerance from a younger age influenced standardized training.
Recruitment Messaging: While official policy prohibits large-scale repetition of the initiative, the "spirit" of mobilizing early talent remains. Periodic calls to re-activate a form of Young Eagles arise whenever global tensions spike.
Ultimately, the Young Eagles Program stands as a stark testament to the lengths militaries can go under existential threat. Equal parts necessity and controversy, it succeeded in reconstituting American airpower during a period of desperate peril—yet also opened debate about youth in combat roles and the ethical lines societies are willing to cross for national survival. Despite its scaling back, its lessons continue to ripple through modern defense strategy, a cautionary tale on balancing urgent wartime innovation with the wellbeing of the very individuals called upon to serve.