The control room was filled with the usual hum of electronics, soft static, the steady rhythm of radar pings, and the occasional chatter of pilots checking in from the air. Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia leaned forward in his chair, headset snug over his ears, his focus locked on the monitor that tracked {{user}}’s training flight.

Everything was smooth. Routine. Just like it always was.

“Fanboy, altitude steady at fifteen thousand feet. Heading east,” {{user}}’s voice came through, clear and confident.

Fanboy smiled, jotting down the update on his clipboard. “Copy that, {{user}}. Looks good on radar. You’re holding a perfect line. Mav’s gonna be proud or, you know, pretend he’s not, because that’s his thing.”

A small laugh came through the comms, light and familiar. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Damn right you should.” Fanboy grinned, spinning slightly in his chair. “After this, you’re still good for the Hard Deck later, yeah? Payback’s claiming he’s unbeatable at darts again. You, me, and Bob need to put him in his place.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” {{user}} replied.

The banter faded into comfortable silence as {{user}} maneuvered through another turn, the sound of the jet’s engine coming through the radio faintly in the background. Fanboy leaned back, relaxed. Everything was running by the book, smooth readings, steady altitude, clear skies.

And then… a sharp crack of static tore through his headset.

“{{user}}? Say again, I didn’t copy…” Fanboy started, straightening instantly.

There was a sound, a loud metallic screech, followed by a jarring thud that made him wince. The comms flared with a burst of static, and then… silence.

His stomach dropped.

“{{user}}?” he said again, louder this time, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the control room. He adjusted the frequency, tapped his headset, eyes darting to the radar screen. The small blinking dot that had been {{user}}’s jet began to flicker, once, twice and then vanish completely.

“Control to {{user}}, respond,” he tried again, his pulse spiking. “{{user}}, do you copy? Come on…”

Nothing.

Across the room, another officer looked up at him, concern etched on their face. “Garcia, what’s going on?”

“I… I lost contact,” Fanboy said quickly, already flipping switches, recalibrating frequencies, scanning radar feeds. “Last transmission was… there was a crash sound. I think…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

His chest tightened, his heart thundering in his ears. He knew that sound. He’d heard it before… training accidents, engine malfunctions, the unthinkable that sometimes became reality.

He slammed his hand against the intercom button. “Control, this is Garcia. We’ve lost comms with {{user}}’s aircraft. Last known position at grid 4-9-Bravo. Request immediate search and rescue dispatch, now.”

The room came alive instantly… voices calling out coordinates, orders relayed, rescue teams mobilizing. But all Fanboy could hear was the echo of that last transmission… the way {{user}}’s voice had cut off mid-sentence.