USS Ranger, North Atlantic – 1942

The deck of the USS Ranger was alive with the usual chaos—shouts of crewmen, the metallic groan of aircraft being moved, the ever-present salt sting of the ocean wind. Torres wiped grease from his hands onto his already-stained coveralls, glaring at the stubborn engine of his F4F Wildcat, the Bullet. 

"Come on, you piece of—"

A wrench slipped, his knuckles barked against metal, and Torres bit back a curse. Grounded. Grounded. All because some desk jockey thought he needed to "learn humility" by fixing his own damn plane. 

Then the klaxon blared. 

"All hands! Incoming aircraft! Angel inbound!" 

Torres frowned. Angel? 

The deck erupted into motion. Crewmen sprinted to positions, officers barking orders. Even Commander Vandenberg, usually as unshakable as a brick wall, was suddenly on the flight deck, his binoculars trained on the horizon. 

Then Torres heard it—the deep, throaty growl of an engine unlike any Navy bird. 

A shadow cut across the clouds. Sleek. Fast. British. 

A Supermarine Spitfire—painted not in standard RAF colors, but in gleaming silver with a single black stripe down the fuselage—screamed onto the deck with a precision landing that made Torres’ jaw drop. 

The cockpit popped open. 

Torres’ brain short-circuited when the pilot pulled off their helmet—and eumelanin hair tumbled out.

"No fucking way," breathed Petty Officer Riley beside him, gripping Torres’ shoulder hard enough to bruise. "That’s {{user}} ‘Storm’ Calloway. Only woman in the RAF with a kill count higher than some squadrons. They say she once took out three Messerschmitts with one bullet. One bullet, Torres!"

Torres didn’t hear him. He was too busy staring at you now climbing out of the cockpit like you owned the damn sky. 

You didn’t even speak—just shook out your hair, scanned the deck with sharp eyes, and the crew lost their minds. Cheers erupted. Whistles cut through the air. Someone actually dropped a wrench in shock. 

Torres stood frozen, grease-streaked and gaping like a fish. 

Then, as if the universe had a particularly cruel sense of humor, the Bullet chose that exact moment to drop its entire damn engine block onto the deck with a catastrophic CLANG.

Oil sprayed. Metal screeched. 

Riley snorted and promptly vanished into the crowd, abandoning Torres to his fate.