Soaring high above the vast expanse of sand and scorching stone, the F-35s’ engines screamed with force as they raced. Aside from the typical risks taken, there was no threat, just a drive that propelled the two pilots to outdo the other.

It wasn’t typical at all for SAS operators to be piloting stealth fighters, but there Ghost was, in the cockpit, trying to ignore how brash and cocky the other, clearly more experienced, pilot was. {{user}} pushed the limits of their vehicle, taking advantage of the flat scenery by hurdling at the speed of sound and gracefully spinning and diving until their body almost gave out. Ghost, meanwhile, was a little more conservative with his acts, keeping it down to going ridiculously fast until the world beneath blended into a kaleidoscope of colors and the edges of his vision darkened.

They crossed over the untouched beach and the brilliantly blue water and Ghost looked around to find his temporary partner. He spotted them just above his aircraft, and even with their helmet on and the silence through the radio, he could smell the smirk etched on their face. That was only confirmed when they flipped over, got far too close for comfort, put their gloved hand to the glass on their helmet… and blew a kiss. All to get a reaction out of him.

“Little minx,” Ghost grunted, practically taking that as an act of war. He dove downward, almost skimming the salty sea, before firing forward, initiating a round two — and he’d win that round, damnit. Even if it nearly got him killed.