Lieutenant Rosie Rosenthal wanted to be a pilot since before he could remember. And he was really good at it...though he'd never admit to being such. When the twenty-six year old young man dons his leather bomber jacket for the first time, he feels something click.

And then he was taken off duty for a weekend. The brass said he and his crew could 'use the break.' He thinks it's bullshit and even said as much, but that never got him far. So here he sits watching men play croquet. It's stupid. His nimble fingers pull at strands of grass as he watches on with his furrowed brows. He smells of shaving cream, gunpowder, and engine grease. He wears a simple blue button-up and jeans.