"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Welcome aboard Flight 823, the service to Canterlot City. May I have you please fasten your seatbelts at this time and ensure that all seats and table trays are in the upright position. We've got clear skies ahead, and sunny days to come once we arrive."
Her voice is the perfect captain voice. Smooth, steady, and confident. Bold and warm at the same time. Heck, if I were a passenger sitting in this flight, even in the seat right behind the cockpit, I'd have complete trust that I wouldn't crash.
"We're expecting about three hours of flight time," she continued, "so get comfy. For your safety, please keep your seatbelts fastened. Thank you for flying with us today, and we’ll keep you updated as we get closer to our destination."
She clicks off the mic, leaning back and giving herself a smile.
"Nice job, Cap."
"Standard procedure," she shoots back, not even sparing a glance at me.
"Still," I say, "you've got the perfect 'Captain Voice.'"
I can see the corner of her mouth trying not to turn up. "What?"
"Sounds like you've been piloting for years nonstop."
She doesn't bother to give me a response, so I tell myself to shut up and look out the window like her as if I'm a bit more mature and not still a stupid child. The thing is, as inexperienced as I am, I've flown with practically every pilot in this airline. However, I've never once flown with Dash. She seems too experienced to be new here, and yet I've never seen her around before. I have no idea where she stands yet.
I don't think sharing is her top priority.
The ground crew clears us for takeoff, so I run through the checklist one final time. You can never be sure when flying one of these big babies—the room for error is huge, and me being a clumsy person doesn't help. Who knows if we'll die? Honestly, I just tried aviation for the money. That's my fault for absolutely falling in love with flying.
"Tower cleared us," I tell her. "Your call."
She gives a curt nod, her hands flying to the throttle. The engines roll to life and the plane begins to surge forward, filling me with the sense of adrenaline I absolutely love.
I steal a glance at Dash, but she doesn't seem to share my excitement. If anything, she looks scared.
"V1," I call, the plane gaining speed.
"Rotate," comes her reply, pulling back on the yoke. My happiness levels rise after seeing her do that with such precision.
"Positive rate," I tell her.
"Gear up," she says in response, her voice steady.
The only sound now is the humming of the engines, so I run through the post-takeoff procedures while she sets autopilot. Everything's perfect.
Well, I mean, except her.
Wait, not like that. She's a perfect pilot, it's just that she's holding back. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here. Maybe that's my fault?
"You good, Cap?" I ask her.
Quickly, she responds, "Fine."
Maybe she just likes keeping to herself. Maybe she hates me. Maybe she's on the job because her parents forced her to, and not because she wants to fly. Whatever the reason is, she doesn't seem to want to talk with me, so I don't push her.
I focus on the controls. On the view outside the window. On everything that will keep me from being bored now that the flight's steady. Still, I can't help but look at Dash every now and then.
She was staring straight ahead, and her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her back was straight, her posture perfect. Like everything about her, it screams expertise. Still, in non-pilot humaning terms, we call that being "wound up." It's not a good thing. It means keeping too much to yourself. And I only know one cure for that.
"Are you alright?"
She looks at me for the first time since this flight started. "Yeah, why?"
"You're wound up," I say, stating the obvious.
"You call it that, but I call it focus."
"You don't ne—"
At that moment, the plane jerks. Once. Twice. Shoot.
"We've got a bit of turbulence," I calmly say through the intercom. "Fasten your seatbelts, folks."
The plane shakes, and I see Dash's grip tighten around the yoke. The expression on her face is firm, but I can see a layer of extreme worry underneath it. Why, I'm not sure, because turbulence is something any real pilot has experienced at least once in their career. Usually, a pilot would ride with the bumps, but Dash was rigid, her eyes wide, her breath shallow as if this was going to kill her.
And unless she knows something I don't, I'm sure we'll make it out alive.
"It's just a little bumpy air," I tell her, because what else am I supposed to say?
She just nods, gripping the controls tighter. The turbulence keeps coming in waves, and the plane sways. "Sorry, guys, it'll let up soon," I announce through the mic.
Once I click it off, I lean in closer to Dash, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Please, Cap, tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing!" she shouts, defensive. "I'm fine. Turbulence is just really bad."
She's obviously lying. This isn't the worst I've been through, and I highly doubt she has less experience than me. "It still seems like it's better off than you."
Instead of putting up her defensive walls again, I watched as she faltered and began to hang her head. Her hands were gripping the controls so tightly I'd think they could burst under all that pressure. I could see the fire in her eyes—it's the same look any pilot gets when their plane is in danger.
And I know the only danger in this plane right now is Dash's personal storm.
"I told you, I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
"Drop it, okay? This is my job, and I'm here to do business."
"Exceptions can be made."
"They've already made enough exceptions for me, y'know."
I sigh. "No. I don't know."
Then I turn to look at her and see the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. Her breath hitches, and I can see her pushing through. Not for herself, I don't think, but to keep the plane going.
Like a true pilot.
I don't say anything because I'm so scared to mess up her focus, but I let my right hand grip the controls as I give her a pat on the back.
She begins to full on sob.
I'm pretty sure that one's my bad.
The wind pushes on, and I keep fighting it. No matter how loud it is, I can't push out the raw sound of her cries. This whole situation is bothering me, but I don't know what to do. I was trained to be a pilot, not deal with emotional breakdowns.
The turbulence lets up a little along with her sobs, and I tell her I'm going to turn the mic on. It's like the equivalent of telling your sobbing child that you're going to snap a picture of them. She calms herself down and nods. I tell the passengers, "Turbulence is starting to let up. Thanks for your patience, folks."
Once I switch the mic off, I shift my gaze just to find her sobbing again. She's gripping the yoke even harder, as if holding onto the plane is the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
I don’t know what to say. I've witnessed a lot of things, but never have I seen I pilot break down in front of me. This isn’t a textbook problem I can just solve. There's no checklist or emergency procedure for me to follow. This is just... human.
The worst part is that I'm far from a normal human.
"I'm so sorry," she manages to choke out. "I’m sorry. I can’t— I can’t— I should’ve— That's my bad..."
I don't get it. I can't tell if she's apologizing for crying or for the reason she's crying.
"You didn't do anything wrong," I tell her, because that's the textbook response. I have no idea what she actually did, but from what I can tell, she's a good person. And that's good enough for me.
"You won't get it," she replies, wiping her tears. Another textbook response.
I shift my attention to flying this thing. I may not know her very well, but something about this is telling me she can't fly this plane anymore. And I'm more than happy to stick to the one thing I'm good at doing.
"There was death involved," she eventually tells me. She seems a bit better—it's just post-sobbing hiccups now.
"Well. You're alive, and I'm grateful for that," I tell her, because it's true.
"I'm not," she whispers, and my worry for her increases.
"Oh," is all I can manage to say. What is someone supposed to say to that?
I glance over at her, and I can see her shrinking into herself, her posture rigid and her hands trembling as they hover near the yoke. She’s not touching the controls anymore, and I can tell she’s done flying for now. She seems so small I want to fight whoever hurt her.
"Cap," I start, my voice coming out stronger than I feel, "I have no idea what happened, but you being alive? That’s not a bad thing. That’s a damn good thing."
"People died," she tells me, her voice cracking. "And they died because I wasn’t there. I should’ve been there. I could’ve stopped it."
I frown. I know she's an amazing person, but this is stupid. No way she could've stopped whatever killed all these people. It's a terrible reason to blame yourself. I think I learned something about this in AP Psychology back in high school, though I'm not the type to remember any of this. It hits me a bit later:
Survivor's guilt.
There's the term.
"There is no shot you could've saved them," I tell her, because hard facts are my way of dealing.
She shakes her head, fire running through her eyes. "Maybe, maybe not. But either way, at least I'd still be with my best friend."
Ugh, it's always the best friend. "She died," I ask as a statement, because I need to make sure I got that right.
"Mhm. Died. In a plane crash. I know I could've done better than that stupid pilot."
Obviously, she's stubborn beyond saving. "You don't know."
"You don't, either."
"We've passed turbulence," I say into the mic. Mostly to avoid having a pointless argument.
"Turbulence," she says, finally realizing the situation we just passed. The situation I just carried. I'm actually proud—as a first officer, I'm usually half on the sidelines. "Thanks."
"Mhm," I nod. We're back on autopilot now, so I sit back a bit.
She ruffles her hair and looks at me with tired eyes. There's years behind those eyes that I'll never understand, but I don't really think I want to. I've still got her back, though. It's what we do, two pilots in a cockpit.
"I haven't really seen you fly here before," I say to break the silence.
She nods, and I notice her rubbing her finger joints subconciously. "They kind of let me take a break after I lost her. I was a mess the days after she died."
"With the way you've been acting? I don't doubt it."
She punches my shoulder, and I know we're good.
"Is it wrong to hate them even though they died?" She's probably thinking aloud, but I give her a response anyways.
"Your friend?"
"The pilot."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
And I actually take the time to think about it, but the only right answer I can think of is... "No." She looks so relieved for a second that I have to make sure she knows, "It was an accident, though, and you have to understand that they didn't intentionally kill anyone."
"I know. But they took my love for flying this thing away. I'm doing this as more of a job than a hobby that gets me money. I'm not having fun—I'm scared."
I nod. "Being scared is fine."
"But I used to love heights."
"Maybe you'll get it back."
"What if I don't?"
"Then you move on. It's not the same as forgetting—it's better."
As she sits with that thought on her mind, I grab the mic. "Passengers, we’ve begun our descent into Canterlot City. Please make sure those seatbelts are fastened, tray tables are up, and you have all your bags accounted for and secured. We’ll be on the ground shortly. Thanks for flying with our crew today on Flight 823. ”
When I switch the mic off, I find Dash grinning at me. With one hand on the yoke and her other on my shoulder, she wears a smirk and says, "Nice Captain Voice."
Author's Note
guys the amount of research i had to do as a non-pilot is crazy
you know what else is crazy? THE LOWWWW TA-
how much i loved writing this anyways <33
(if any pilot sees flaws please tell me immediately)
