Bob Floyd sat in the dim hum of the control room, eyes fixed on the tracking display. The green blip marking {{user}}’s Tomcat moved steadily across the map, every smooth arc and turn like clockwork. He’d been quietly monitoring their flight for the past hour, hardly saying a word, just keeping an eye out, making sure everything went by the book.

It was supposed to be routine. Safe. In and out.

Then the line on the comms cracked.

“{{user}}, you’re breaking up, can you—” Bob started, leaning toward the mic.

And then… nothing.

A deafening crash erupted over the headset, followed by a sickening silence. The blip on the GPS faltered, stuttered… and then disappeared altogether.

For a moment, the quiet part of Bob, the one that always lingered in the background, was gone. His chair scraped hard against the floor as he shot up, headset clamped tighter against his ear, frantically trying to reestablish contact.

“Mayday, mayday—Tomcat down! Last known coordinates—” His voice was sharper, faster than anyone in the room had ever heard from him. His hands moved over the controls in a blur, pulling data, marking positions, already queuing up the rescue protocols.

There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. His entire focus had tunneled down to one singular goal, bringing {{user}} back alive.

The Bob who usually hung back, quiet and cautious, wasn’t in the room anymore. The one here now was relentless, driven by the fear clawing at his chest and the absolute refusal to lose them.