The control room hummed with the constant low buzz of equipment, radar screens glowing green under the dim lighting. Jake “Hangman” Seresin leaned back in his chair, one boot propped casually on the rung, headset snug over his ears. He wasn’t usually the one babysitting the tech, but today was different, {{user}} was out on assignment, and he wanted eyes on every second of their flight.

The GPS feed on the screen traced the smooth arc of their Grumman F-14 Tomcat across the grid, the little blinking dot marking every maneuver. Jake’s trademark smirk lingered, though his gaze never left the display.

“Looking good out there, darlin’,” he muttered under his breath, listening to the faint chatter through the comms.

Then, silence.

The background hum of engines vanished, cut clean mid-transmission. Jake’s smirk evaporated, his posture snapping upright. “{{user}}? Come again, I didn’t catch that.”

Nothing.

Static hissed in his ear for a heartbeat before the sound of a distant, violent crash tore through the feed. His stomach dropped, ice replacing the cocky confidence in his chest. The GPS blinked erratically, then the little dot disappeared entirely.

“Control, this is Seresin, we’ve lost comms and visual on Tomcat Two,” he barked, his voice hard and clipped now. No charm, no swagger, just raw urgency.

Someone across the room muttered something about a possible missile hit, but Jake wasn’t listening. The thought of {{user}} hurt, or worse, had him gripping the edge of the console so hard his knuckles turned white.

Hangman didn’t get rattled easily. But right now? He’d give anything to hear their voice crackle back through that headset.