Page 44 of Aviatrix

I have to. We’ve lost too many already. And I’m done waiting on Lark, or Gary, or General Salamander to make sense of this mess.

This was never going to be someone else’s fight.

This job? It’s mine.

“We’re ready for you, Captain Quay,” I hear behind me.

I turn slowly, expecting an unmistakable silhouette. But what I see waiting at the end of the hangar halts me mid-step, my breath catching in my throat.

It’s unlike any aircraft I’ve ever flown.

Matte black with razor-cut wings and a cockpit canopy that shimmers between opaque and glass-clear, the jet looks less like it was built and more like it was born from shadow. Sleeker than a Hornet, more menacing than an F-35, and brimming with quiet power. A lone red X glints on the tail fin. No call numbers, no country markings. Just that single, defiant signature. Like a secret finally stepping into the light.

“What is that?” I murmur.

The young airman grins, clearly proud. “Classified prototype. Designation: VAL-X. She's fast, quiet, and mean as hell. You’ve got one of the only clearances to fly her.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Something about the neural-response system. It only syncs with certain pilots. Females, mostly. They say the calibration works better with your brainwave patterns. Command doesn’t even fully understand why.”

My breath catches. Project Aviatrix. Suddenly, this isn’t just a ride. This is a clue.

I step closer. The air around the VAL-X hums. Not like an engine, but like a sleeping beast.

“She’s a recon vessel, and not equipped for combat. She’s yours for as long as you need her,” the airman adds. “Good luck out there, Captain.”

I nod, running my fingers along the smooth hull.

“Let’s see what you can do.”

I climb the ladder and drop into the seat. It molds to me like it’s known me my whole life. Like it’s been waiting.

A shiver runs down my spine, nerves sparking as the cockpit thrums softly beneath me. Simple control panel. Nothing flashy. Just a wraparound display and a faint white glow around the flight stick.

The glass canopy closes with a hiss. Seals me in.

Then, I hear it. Soft and ambient. Almost a thought in my own head.

“Captain Kinley Quay. Identity confirmed.”

I flinch. “What the hell?”

The heads-up display—HUD—flickers to life. Data scrolls across the screen in code I’ve never seen. Organic and angular. Some of it… pulses.

“Pilot sync… initializing.”

A second later, my breathing stutters. Something brushes the edge of my thoughts like a fingertip on glass. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t ask. It just… knows.

“CogniSync… stable. Welcome, Captain Kinley Quay.”

I grip the sides of the seat. “Who are you?”

“Callsign: VAL-X. Prototype model X-99. Optional designation: VAL.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay, VAL.”

The hangar doors begin to creak further open. Light floods the runway. I catch my reflection in the canopy. Lips pursed, brown eyes hard. This isn’t just a test flight. It’s a goddamn declaration.