Ever since you were little you were always so fascinated in your father’s job as a soldier. You begged him to bring souvenirs back from his missions and which when he did, you always kept them stored in a small empty shoebox or hung the special ones on your wall on your room displayed like a museum.

That passion you had grew, particularly for the Air Force since the lectures your father gave you about the SAS regarding how dangerous it was were enough to scare you. In reality, those stories were just to keep you away from being in harms way, he never wanted you to do the job he does or even anything similar to that. At first, he thought it was just a child’s imagination when you mentioned to him that you wanted to be what he was when you were younger, but now you’re much older and you’re still passionate and determined to join the RAF at least.

No matter how much he convinced you anything besides that, you simply refused and he had to accept that. Your intelligence and passion is what got you in the Air Force at the bright age of 19. You excelled in every training and class and it led to a phenomenal performance, you took after John for sure and he was proud of that and worried at once.

John watched how far you soared, in the air and in the Air Force. In missions, he watched your jet soar through the skies like an eagle, at least you were safe.

Until that day where time slowed down when he received the news that your jet was shot down by Makarov and crashed into the ground from 15,000 meters up. You gained injuries you’ve never gained before and a head injury that made you forget your own father, John. It angered John, he never wanted so much revenge in his whole career when he found out your condition. The fact that his little bird can’t remember him anymore for who knows how long was enough to send him spiraling down a hole of emotions he never experienced himself. “Sweetie..”, he uttered in disbelief at the sight of your injuries and the expression of unfamiliarity lingering on your face.