#refueling operations

[canonkiller]

Orm looms over her shoulder. "The gods took your weapons and gave you children."

She goes as rigid as the resting city.

Orm's clover-shaped face folds with a clatter, shuttering; the warforged is laughing. "I steal the words from Maes. Credit your surprise to them, not I."

"You are not children," Valka answers eventually. "When the warforged woke, they - you - understood violence. You understood that you were being used."

"Did we?" Orm asks. "Would children?"

some less polished warforged, D6 and Orm. these guys weren't gonna come up for a long while, in a self-governing, physically walking warforged settlement named Wanderstrand - a lifestyle only possible, with the destruction after the war, when your main population doesn't require any food or water from the land it visits.

[chloroformcurry]

Fast food ft Kacey

[opelman]

Rainy RIAT by Treflyn Lloyd-Roberts Via Flickr: German Tornado 44+29 kicks up spray as it reverses thrust on arrival at Fairford. It was part of a short display of air-to-air refueling at the 2023 Royal International Air Tattoo. Sadly, the weather limited them to just one pass on the Sunday. Aircraft: Luftwaffe Panavia Tornado IDS 44+29 from TaktLwG 33. Location: RAF Fairford, Gloucestershire.

[historyofguns]

The article "Convair B-58 Hustler — The Strategic Bomber Built to End the World" by Will Dabbs, MD, published in "The Armory Life," discusses the history and technical characteristics of the Convair B-58 Hustler, a Cold War-era strategic bomber designed for high-altitude, high-speed missions. Initially intended to perform a singular mission focused on nuclear delivery, the B-58 was engineered for speed and operated at Mach 2 and 70,000 feet. Despite its advanced design, including features like a delta wing and the use of four General Electric J79 engines, the aircraft faced limitations, such as vulnerability to surface-to-air missiles and challenging flight characteristics. The article details several engineering challenges, such as crew safety at high speeds, and mentions its operational history, highlighting it was never used in combat and was phased out due to the evolving nature of aerial threats. The piece emphasizes the B-58's role in America's nuclear triad and its iconic status as a technological marvel of its time.

[rcmclachlan]

wind finding

buck/tommy

8x14/8x15 spec fic

I wrote this right before my first morning meeting, so if it's rushed and makes no sense, I'm well aware. Enjoy!

+

The very second Tommy went with helicopters, people came crawling out of the woodwork to offer their two cents on everything from industry politics (all dangled carrots and empty promises) to what constitutes a good operator (whoever's actually signing your paycheck at the time) to which jobs would bring in the most money (ditching helicopters entirely in favor of planes) to the best ways to manage stress (avoiding utility altogether).

But the one piece of advice Tommy has never forgotten came from one of his first operators in Afghanistan, who had a face like a mountain crag and every word that came out of his mouth had to first find its way around the wad of dip permanently attached to his bottom gums.

"Being able to find the wind is the only skill you need to nail down, or else you're gonna frag out faster'n you can say 'high as bat pussy'. The odds of being able to see the leaves on a fuckin' tree are less'n nothin' out here, never mind spottin' a fuckin' windsock, Kinard. The second you get in the air, you just listen to your bird; she'll tell you point blank where the wind is, so long as you've got your ears on."

Then Warrant Officer Harold hocked a loogie the size of a crow at the ground and stormed away, shouting, "PRIVATE KEATON, IF YOU DON'T STOP FONDLIN' THAT REFUEL PROBE I'M GONNA SHOVE IT IN YOUR DICK HOLE!"

Twenty years later, Tommy's in the cockpit of his favorite AW139 with the mouth of a glock pressed right above his brain stem, and the second he achieves optimal altitude, he finds the wind.

"You make it look so effortless, like it's just something your body does. Like breathing," Evan had said during their one and only legal flight together, like he wasn't furious that Tommy had woken him up at 3:30 in the morning on his day off to go for a joyride. Even as the sun peeked over the horizon to see if the coast was clear, it couldn't hope to match the sheer brightness of Evan's smile.

If being able to find the wind wasn't practically part of his autonomic nervous system at this point in his career, Tommy'd have no business being in the air at all.

"Remember," the guy with the gun, Remo, murmurs into the headset he'd forced Tommy to give him. "Top of the Aon. We're making the switch there."

"Nakatomi Tower would be better for this sort of thing," Tommy mutters.

Instead of being whipped with the gun, the speaker in his ear crackles with Remo's laughter. "I was more partial to the second film."

Tommy grips the cyclic a little tighter. "That's the worst thing you've admitted to so far."

It's not. Bombing multiple police stations was bad enough, but one of them was right next to a school. The last thing that came through the comms before Remo's buddies hacked it was the 118 being called to 309 Lucas Ave in Westlake North for fire containment and emergency medical assistance.

He glances at the dashboard. Tucked right above the radar is a little photo he'd printed out at his local CVS on a whim while he was getting a 'Happy 80th birthday, grandma!" card for Sal. It's barely anything: a portrait forced to inhabit a 4x4 square, so the quality is extra shitty. But the man in it is smiling brighter than a sunrise over the ocean, and Tommy's heart gives a pitiful thud just looking at it.

Melton would've shit a brick if he'd known about it. Despite what Hollywood would have the general populace believe, having pictures of loved ones on a pilot's dashboard can be a hell of a distraction. It goes against LAFD regs.

But having spent the last month reacquainting himself with Evan's smile and the wild hope that they could have a future together, it felt right to tack the photo up. He was professional enough that he wouldn't let it get in the way of the job.

He thinks of Evan watching him from the bed this morning, tangled up in sheets that smelled like the both of them. He thinks of the blurred, sleep-damp smile on Evan's face as Tommy hid the evidence of what they got up to the previous night.

"You're covering up a masterpiece," Evan had said, voice a little blurred with sleep. "That's some of my best work."

"Let me guess: if I connect all the hickeys, it's gonna turn into a dolphin or something?"

Evan had thrown back his head on the pillow and cackled, and Tommy had thought, We could build a life on this.

Except Evan is pulling tiny bodies out of the ruins of Gratts Elementary, Tommy's got a gun to his head, and Remo's little cell of opportunistic assholes are using the bombings across the city to distract from the 51% blockchain hack they pulled off two hours ago. Tommy doesn't understand crypto for the life of him, but what he got from Harbor's newest probie was something something a blockchain’s distributed ledger was changed and double spending was enabled. At the time, it seemed like a lot of bullshit that boiled down to "they now control the invisible internet money conveyor belt," but at least 200 people are dead, and according to Remo, there are still 70 bombs wired and ready to explode on his say-so.

Unless Tommy flies him and his weird, silent friend to the Aon, where someone's going to be waiting to whisk them away to all points nowhere. Tommy knows exactly how this is going to shake out: the second he lands the bird, Remo's going to bury a bullet in Tommy's brain before disappearing into the wind, leaving the world in shambles. But it won't be enough. Remo will get bored before long—the smart, psychotic ones always do—and then pop back up at some point to do even worse if he has the opportunity.

Ten years from now, they'll make a documentary series about all this. Evan will watch it, because he's contractually obligated to seek out things that will hurt him for some reason, and it'll probably be like cutting open a just-healed wound. He'll spiral until Maddie or one of the others forces him to stop. The series will be called something stupid, like Finding Remo.

That is, of course, if Remo has the opportunity.

Swallowing, throat clicking, Tommy glances at the photo on the dashboard. Evan beams at him from where he's posing like the dorkiest Greek god in the pantheon on top of a boulder somewhere on the Temescal Canyon Trail. That had been a good day. It seemed like the start of a lifetime of them.

He looks away and out the windshield where, up ahead, the Aon stands tall against the sky. But standing taller, and closer, is Library Tower.

Exhaling, Tommy keeps his eyes straight. "Listen, you can put the gun away. It's not the threat you think it is."

"No?" Remo presses the glock harder against the back of Tommy's head, and Tommy stifles a wince. "You think I won't shoot you?"

"Oh, I know you're gonna shoot me," Tommy says, almost cheerfully. He refuses to look any closer at that. "I just don't think you're gonna do it while we're hanging 900 feet above the city."

The pause that follows is probably only a second or two, but it feels like a decade. Finally, the press of metal disappears, and Tommy hears the safety clicking back on.

"You seem pretty calm about all this," Remo says, curiosity making his already light voice positively airy.

Tommy shrugs. "Last year I stole one of these to fly some friends into a category 5 hurricane, then landed it on a capsized cruise ship. This? Doesn't even break a 6.5 on my Crazy Shit-o-meter."

Remo laughs, and Tommy hears the tell tale rustling of the gun being holstered. Thankfully the rotors completely drown out the sound of his heart pounding, which would otherwise be audible from space.

"Let me just say that of all the pilots I could've kidnapped, you're by far the most entertaining."

"Thank you," Tommy says seriously.

Below them, the Walt Disney Concert Hall is lit up for the night's show. They'll be passing the BoA Financial Center, and from there it's only a couple of minutes until their destination.

"Hey, uh, since this does end with me getting shot," Tommy ventures, trying to keep a lid on the massive amounts of adrenaline that are being dumped into his bloodstream. He must be visibly vibrating. "Could I... could I make a call?"

Remo snorts. "Let me guess: 9-1-1?"

Okay, that's kind of funny. Tommy cracks a grin. "Not quite. I have someone... I have someone, and there's something important I need to say."

One of the drawbacks of a helicopter's cockpit is there's no rearview mirror, which would really come in handy right now. He has no idea what Remo's face is doing. He has no idea if he's looking at his silent companion and having some kind of wordless conversation, if Remo is the kind of guy who would grant the last wish of someone he's using.

Finally, after what feels like years, Remo says, "You get ten seconds. You'd better make them count."

He's done more with less. "That's fair. But I'm either going to need you to call it for me or let me hook into an open line."

The air inside the helicopter seems to squeeze inward. "An open line?"

"My... my boyfriend's LAFD." He bites down on the inside of his cheek as they pass the BoA Center on the left, and hopes against all hope that Remo isn't too much of a homophobe to deny the request.

But surprise, surprise. Remo only laughs and says, "How romantic. Urs, get him on an open line to his firefighter boyfriend. It's the least we can do after everything he's done to help us."

Tommy can't see what Urs is doing, but his headset crackles with the familiar static of a live comms line.

"Ten seconds," Remo reminds him. Below them, the roof of Library Tower seems both miles away and impossibly close.

It's all he needs.

"This is LAFD pilot Tom Kinard. Evan Buckley, if you're listening, look in the drawer to the right of the microwave. There's something in there for you." He quietly undoes his harness and kills the engine. "It's yours. It's always been yours."

Just as the AW139 is about to clear the roof of the tower, Tommy shoulders open the door and kicks off into the sky.

The wind is blowing southeast.

+

"N-No, no, no, hey, it's okay, don't fight it, you're okay—hey, I need some help in here! He's waking up! Tommy, they're going to take it out, just wait."

There's a tree trunk growing out of his throat, but trying to move it is impossible, and the effort takes everything out of him. So he gives up, gagging and drifting in and out, then decides to just climb the entire length of the tree to get a look at the view. From there, it's just a matter of finding the wind and floating away with it.

The next time he surfaces, there's something hard over his face, warm and humid, and when the clouds clear from his vision he's able to see two things: Evan's wide-eyed expression of relief, and a giant orange poster board in Lucy's familiar, blocky handwriting that says 2 DAYS SINCE KINARD LAST TAUNTED GOD.

There's a 1 in front of the 2, but it's crossed out.

"Hey!" Evan breathes, and the mattress at Tommy's hip dips a little under his weight. "H-Hey, there you are. Morning! Well, not, uh, morning exactly—it's like 8 o'clock at night—but you're awake!"

"I am." It's muffled by the oxygen mask.

"How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?" Evan leans in, blocking Tommy's view of anything else. He hasn't shaved in a bit, and the hair at his temples looks a little greasy. He's the most gorgeous thing Tommy's ever laid eyes on.

"No pain," Tommy rasps. "M'body's full'f cotton."

Evan smiles a little. "Yeah, they've got you on the good stuff. I can't tell you how many bones you've broken, because it seems like they're still finding them. The doctor did say he'd never seen a pneumothorax quite like yours before, though. He keeps bringing other doctors in to look at your scans. I think a couple of them cancelled their surgeries so they could watch yours yesterday. You're like a celebrity. You've got, like, four tubes in you sucking the excess air out."

For a second, Tommy has no idea what he's talking about. Pneumothorax? How'd he manage that? Lucy's gonna give him shit for the next year.

Then, like a breeze kicking up from the west, it all comes sweeping in. Something starts beeping a little erratically. "Did—did he... he didn't... did... R-Remo...?"

The words are slow and thick, like they have to climb over the broken branches the tree had left behind, but understanding lights up Evan's face almost immediately. He thinks Evan must be holding his hand, because there's pressure on his fingers that feels like it's coming from another room.

"He didn't," Evan says softly, but there's a sparkle of brutal satisfaction in his eyes that Tommy can't look away from. "The helicopter went down like a sack of bricks after you ditched it. It took out the coffee shop in the library. Before you ask: they close at 2:30, so no one had been in there for hours. No one was hurt. Except, well, what's his name."

Tommy closes his eyes and breathes in the canned, almost metallic stuff they're feeding him through the mask. It's so pure, it makes him a little dizzy.

"Good." His sinuses prickle hotly. "Good. That's..."

"Hey, hey, shhh," Evan coos, and Tommy opens his eyes just in time to see Evan press his mouth lushly to the curve of the oxygen mask. Despite whatever they're giving him, Tommy's lips ache with the need to feel that kiss.

"Evan," he whispers.

When he pulls back, Evan's got a wide, almost gleeful grin tugging the corners of his mouth to his ears. He looks like he's about to blow up a Gotham City school bus to try and draw out Batman. Instead, he lifts his left hand.

The lights in the room are low, so the ring on Evan's finger doesn't really glint as brightly as it should, but the light in Evan's eyes is almost blinding.

"Drawer to the right of the microwave, huh?" He laughs a little, like it's bubbling out of him, like he can't stop it. "How long had that been in there?"

It takes a moment for Tommy to pick through the cobwebs in his brain. "Mm... got it... after we did that flight over... hm... Channel Islands."

Evan stares at him, then his bubbly laughter morphs into maniacal cackling.

Tommy glances down at his hands to see if they gave him a button for the pain meds he's on. He's going to dilaudid himself into oblivion.

"That was four months into..." Evan uses their joined hands to wipe away the tears beading on his lashes. "When I asked you to move in, you ran away so fast you left a trail of dust behind you. But you bought an engagement ring four months into dating me?"

"In my defense," Tommy says, suddenly very jealous of Remo for dying a fiery death in the LA Library coffee shop. "I knew... you were it for me. You, on the other hand, had no idea... hm... what you wanted. Asking me... to move in wasn't—it wasn't about me."

Pursing his lips, Evan ducks his head and doesn't deny it, but when he tilts his chin up, the only thing on his face is bare, earnest truth. "I knew I wanted you, Tommy, any way I could have you. I didn't know what that looked like, and not knowing made me... I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to cling when I panic."

Tommy thinks back over the last month—how every time he showed up on Eddie's doorstep, Evan practically threw himself at Tommy, clutching at him like he was afraid Tommy might go back down the walkway and leave; how getting up to take a piss or grab a Gatorade meant leaving the bed, and the look on Evan's face every time was like watching a car crash—and squeezes Evan's hand. He thinks he does, at least.

"Do you... know what it looks like now?" It takes almost all his strength to get the words out. A wave of exhaustion rolls over him, and he pinwheels a little with it. Kicking his way back to the surface takes concentration.

Evan lifts his hand again. The ring fits his finger perfectly. "It looks like you, about to fall asleep."

Another wave bowls him over, and he fights to keep his eyes open. Lucy's stupid poster blurs like someone's upturned a can of Sprite over it.

"I'll be here when you wake up, and so will half the LAPD and a bunch of people from the FBI. You're the hero of the day," Evan murmurs, and Tommy grumbles a little. "But, hey, Tommy. Before you—how did you know? How'd you know I was it for you?"

Even as he's being pulled down into the dark, he looks up, and he sees the surface roiling, dancing with the light of an old sunrise that couldn't hold a candle to the phenomenon of Evan Buckley's smile.

"Found th' wind," Tommy mumbles, drifting down, down, down. "'s easy. Like breathing."

[probablyasocialecologist]

Pro-Palestine activists have damaged two Royal Air Force (RAF) planes after breaking into the largest airbase in Britain early on Friday morning on electric scooters.  Footage shared by Palestine Action (PA) shows two protesters riding scooters towards the RAF planes on the runway at the Brize Norton airbase, where they used "repurposed fire extinguishers to spray red paint into the turbine engines" and "caused further damage using crowbars". The activists then evaded security and escaped the base. The group announced on its website on Friday that the aibase was targeted because flights leave daily from there "for RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus, a base used for military operations in Gaza and across the Middle East". "Red paint, symbolising Palestinian bloodshed, was also sprayed across the runway and a Palestine flag was left on the scene," Palestine Action said. Brize Norton serves as the UK's hub for strategic air transport and refuelling.  The planes the activists damaged were Airbus Voyagers, which carry military cargo and refuel fighter jets and military aircraft. A Palestine Action spokesperson said: "Despite publicly condemning the Israeli government, Britain continues to send military cargo, fly spy planes over Gaza and refuel US/Israeli fighter jets. "Britain isn’t just complicit, it’s an active participant in the Gaza genocide and war crimes across the Middle East." The spokesperson added: "By decommissioning two military planes, Palestine Action have directly intervened to break the chains of oppression."

[...]

Last month, MEE reported that the UK government blocked Labour MP Kim Johnson from asking about Israeli bombers using the Cyprus airbase.

20 June 2025

[makis-eyebrows]

Request: 🍓

One Page At A Time

Exam stress is something Lily and Oscar never want to see from their daughter. So they do what they can. They help her.

The house was quiet — not peaceful, but tense.

Upstairs, the only sound was the furious scratch of a pen on paper, the occasional frustrated sigh, and the muffled thud of a textbook being slammed shut.

Y/n Piastri-Zneimer sat hunched over her desk, hair piled into a messy bun, eyes darting over formulas and facts that refused to stick. Her room looked like a war zone — colour-coded notes scattered across her bed, flashcards stuck on the wall like battle plans, and a half-finished mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

It was exam season. The final exam season.

The one that decided her future.

University applications were around the corner, and her grades this year would carry the most weight. And though Y/n had always been a steady, self-motivated student, the pressure had started pressing in on all sides like a slow tide. Her highlighters were running dry. Her sleep was inconsistent. And she hadn’t smiled — not really — in days.

Oscar had noticed.

So had Lily.

They had heard the small, tired voice from behind her door whenever they checked in. Had seen her rubbing her temples at breakfast, eyes still glazed over from late-night revision. Oscar had even found her dozing off on the couch with her physics notes stuck to her cheek one evening after a study break turned nap.

That night, as Lily stirred pasta in the kitchen and Oscar leaned against the counter with a quiet frown, they exchanged a look.

“She’s going to burn out,” Lily said softly, voice laced with concern.

Oscar nodded. “I keep telling her to take a break, but she won’t listen. Says she doesn’t have time.”

“Then maybe we make the time for her.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Operation Parental Intervention?”

Lily smiled. “Exactly.”

It started small the next morning.

Oscar brought her breakfast in bed — toast, berries, and a soft-boiled egg with a silly little smiley face drawn in sharpie.

Y/n blinked at the tray. “Dad… what’s this?”

He shrugged casually. “Brain fuel. Straight from the Piastri pit crew. You’re the car, exams are the race, and you can’t win if you don’t refuel.”

Y/n laughed softly despite herself. “That was so cheesy.”

“I aim to please.”

Later that afternoon, Lily walked into Y/n’s room with a stack of hot chocolate, fluffy socks, and a candle that smelled like vanilla and old libraries.

“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands. “Five-minute breathing session, followed by a twenty-minute reset walk with your very stylish mum. No negotiation.”

“But I have—”

“Y/n.”

Y/n looked up and saw the gentleness in her mum’s eyes. The kind that didn’t push too hard, just held space. Slowly, she closed her textbook.

“…Fine. But only because I’m starting to smell like exam stress.”

They walked around the neighbourhood, talking about everything but school — their dog barking at leaves, the colour of the sunset, how Lily once fell off a Segway in front of a busload of tourists.

And just like that, some of the weight fell off Y/n’s shoulders.

But the big move came the next evening.

Y/n was hitting a breaking point with her maths exam. Graphs and derivatives blurred together, and nothing made sense. Her hands trembled from too much caffeine. Her chest was tight.

“Stupid curve,” she muttered, eyes burning. “I don’t get it, I just… don’t get it.”

A knock sounded on her door.

Oscar poked his head in. “Hey, I need you for something.”

“Dad, I’m really not—”

“Y/n.”

She sighed, standing reluctantly.

But when she followed him downstairs, she blinked in confusion.

The living room had been transformed.

A blanket fort — a giant one — took over the couch, twinkly lights draped along the top like constellations. A projector lit the wall with her favorite movie’s opening scene. Popcorn sat in a bowl shaped like a racing helmet. On the floor was a handwritten sign:

“NO EXAMS ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT.”

Lily popped her head out from under the fort flap. “Come on in, Professor. Time to shut off that brain.”

Y/n stared, eyes wide. Then she let out a choked laugh.

“You guys are ridiculous.”

Oscar beamed. “And you love it.”

She crawled inside, curling up between them under a mountain of pillows. Her hand found Oscar’s and squeezed.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He squeezed back. “One page at a time, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

That night, after the movie ended and Y/n had fallen asleep against her mum’s shoulder — breathing finally even and calm — Oscar looked down at her peaceful face and smiled.

She’d be okay.

Because she didn’t have to carry the pressure alone.

Not when she had them in her corner, cheering her on — no matter the grade, no matter the result.

Just like he’d always wanted to be for her.

Another piece of work done :)

I'm heading to bed now. I can't wake up upset or anything or I'll miss the bus, since I have school and all.

That's Gang Gang out!!!!

[theclassifiedfan]

HI TOP GUN FIC WRITERS!

So I’ve got some inside knowledge on the workings of Top Gun or more so the military in general (specifically SD military) as I’ve been lucky to work at both Miramar and North Island as well as been deployed on a ship. So thought I’d share for anyone writing their stories and wanting to use it when thinking of ideas or even getting into the writing phase:

DISCLAIMER - I am a civilian and I mostly worked with the marine corps, but I’ve got 13 years with the USMC and 1.5 with USN along with a lifetime of San Diego Navy Brat in me. While I would love to think I’m an expert always feel free to fact check some things.

I’ve made sure all information shared below is public information to not allow for any CUI to be mistakenly released in accordance with OPSEC.

Use what you want & ignore what you don’t want, love reading your stories either way you creative people!

MIRAMAR INFO

Quick History:

Formerly NAS Miramar (est. 1952) and now MCAS Miramar (est. 1997), this is the main hub for Fighter Jet aviation in the San Diego area but strictly Marine Corps Aviation now. Of course some branches touchdown and fly through but there are no active navy squads. This base is relatively close to the water cause it’s San Diego but it’s 4 miles inland so it is land locked and depending on traffic about 30-45 minutes from NASNI (not 4 hours like I read somewhere once). This is the OG Top Gun base, a lot of the places in that original movie are still there but VERY different because it’s been updated quite a bit and the marines own it now.

Their aircraft on base are:

F/A 18 Super Hornet - Very cool, TGM jets

F-35 B&C Lightning - EXTREMELY COOL JETS, these babies are very top secret but are publicly known for their vertical landing capability. Can technically takeoff vertical (but limited in that aspect)

KC-130 Hercules - big support planes used for aerial refueling and other support missions

CH-53E Super Stallion - Awesome Cargo helicopters that move large loads and equipment

MV-22 Osprey - If a plane and a helicopter had a baby! These incredible fixed wings use tilt rotors to vertically take off/land and then tilt those propellers forward for flight (If you haven’t seen one transform check it out they’re amazing). Used for troop transport, special operations, and humanitarian aid.

NAS NORTH ISLAND INFO

Quick History:

Commissioned in 1917 and recognized as the birthplace of Naval Aviation in 1963 it’s a beacon of navy pride. Now, time to mess with some Top Gun Movie canon: this base has never had USN Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor Program (aka Top Gun). Maverick was filmed here, but the program lived on Miramar when it was founded in 1969 and then was relocated to NAS Fallon in 1996 (shoutout Fallon, and they filmed out there BUT Nevada is boring why base their story out there when it could be based here). NASNI is now a master helicopter base, there are no active fighter jet squadrons on north island - but I believe they host them across branches here and there!

Their aircraft on base are:

MH-60 Seahawks - Incredible helicopters that are used in so many missions such as anti-submarine warfare, anti-surface warfare, vertical replenishment, passenger and cargo transfer, and search and rescue capability

V-22 Osprey - the same the Marines use but now being adapted into North Island. Again very cool aircraft with the best (and worst) of both worlds as a fixed wing and a rotary.

Learjet 35 - comfortable transportation aircraft

C-40A Clipper - basically a military 737

NAS LEMOORE

I won’t put too much info in here because I know it’s not the “cool canon movie base” but I will note this is the navy’s west coast Master Jet base since its commission in 1961! It’s in Kings County/Fresno County.

OK NOW LET’S ‘FACT CHECK’

Again take what you want from my ramblings these are just some things I notice in fics that contradict actual military policy and life. But even the movies don’t follow that, so just take these as tools for writing ideas!

Navy = Sailors (Pilots = Naval Aviator)

Marines = Marines

Army = Soldier

Air Force = Airman

Mix these up and someone could get annoyed with you and they’ll often correct you on the spot. Think of the branches like fraternities or sports teams - yes they’re playing the same game but they love to compete against each other. Plus they’re high key frenemies.

There’s a strict dress code on base including in the Gyms

Attire should be conservative and modest, with no revealing clothing, undergarments visible, or items designed for undergarments at all times. For the girls it’s even more rules because of course it is so no mini skirts, no cleavage, no crop tops. Some bases take this more seriously than others and you can get in trouble for it.

In the gym you have to have shirts on at all times, no booty shorts, absolutely no wearing only sports bras, no stringer tank tops and all that jazz.

Beach is fine though cause it’s the beach, and don’t worry I get it people wanna like good in their fics so slay away lol

Fightertown is not an actual town

It’s also not north island, it’s still Miramar. That was the nickname for the base itself so it stayed there with the marines that took it on in 1996. Plus a good way to keep the history of Fightertown united and in its OG place.

You cannot be permanently stationed anywhere in the US Navy.

You go where they want and need you. Some fics talk about the daggers becoming a full time squadron which honestly could happen, as squadrons come and go all the time however from my experience pilots have to move every 2-3 years and the daggers would be changed out. There’s some cases where they can request to “fleet up” to stay in that squadron or even bounce to another squadron and stay in the same spot but that’s a wish that cannot always be granted.

Dating in your squadron has consequences

In the U.S. Navy, while dating another sailor in your unit is generally not prohibited, it could potentially lead to a transfer or other issues if certain conditions are met. There’s a very strict fraternization policy which prohibits relationships that compromise the chain of command, good order, and discipline.

One aviator dating another aviator sounds fine because they’re two officers who tf cares, but there’s a very high chance one of you will be sent away if they feel it risks the unit/squad. Note how I say if they feel, you might be fine with it and it might be you two get along great but if a higher up says no - someone’s gotta go.

Also no officer enlisted, there’s technically ways around this like if they were married before or dating before but in the same command? Forget about it. BIG no. Could be a cute Romeo and Juliet thing forbidden love - this is just talking on the reality of it.

Civilians are not allowed on base

Unless they are directly being escorted on base by a service member or they are a dependent/civilian employee with their own credentials they are not coming on base. Even if they ask nicely and say you know so and so, this has been even tighter since 9/11 but in the past few years it’s gotten much more strict. There are Air Shows on bases which open them to the public but without that there’s pretty much no chance you’re getting on base. If you did then someone is getting their ass beat.

The Hard Deck is based on the I Bar

While the Hard Deck is fictional (although the set they made which is very real and somewhere locked away on north island) the I Bar is very real! Amazing place and they have someone who’s their version of Penny and has been working there for a very long time that the aviators love along with their other awesome bartenders.

Those rules in the bar are pretty close to the real ones which are:

“He who enters covered here buys the bar a round of cheer” (you aren’t supposed to wear a uniform cover or hat anywhere inside although some places let hats slide not here though they will ring you)

No phones on the bar

No hats/covers on the bar

Don’t touch the planes! It’s in the movie as well but the real bar has authentic donated model planes that they added this rule to make sure they live a long life without being broken.

There’s no official “disrespect a lady or the navy..” but it’s unspoken - the guys in there will call you out and there’s some very high ranking people who go frequently and you don’t want them catching you pulling that in their bar.

Now another new thing is that they can’t “make you pay” anymore so if you violate a rule they’ll ask if you’d like to. That being said they added this rule because of the influx of people wanting to see the bar because of Top Gun but the pilots HATED THIS and you will piss off a lot of aviators for not following their traditions. But if you do pay up? So many new friends lmao

Used to be an officers/aviators only bar, but it’s open for everyone who has access to the base.

North Island is not its own Island

NAS North island is a base located on the island Coronado. It’s a navy heavy island mixed with a lot of very rich people. Houses are not cheap and neither are apartments, so there’s not a high chance you’ll see anyone O4 and below living on the island unless they have roommates or they’re a chief that’s been in the navy for a long time. They’d probably live downtown or off island if they wanted to live alone or TRY to buy a home. (Houses here sell for at least around a milly in most places)

There’s some bars on the island as well including one bar called “Danny’s” which is a well known Navy Seal bar because there’s a Seal Base also located on the island more toward the long strip that connects the island to Imperial Beach.

The Naval Academy is not where pilots are made

I’ve found a few fics where they talk about Bradley going to UVA and then the Naval Academy but the USNA is a college in itself. It’s not typically transfer in type of school because if you go that route you start from the bottom as a freshman.

But to be an aviator you do not need the academy. There’s two other routes to becoming an officer which is ROTC and OCS:

The way I suspect Rooster went is to go to a normal university that has an ROTC program and complete it which leads straight to commissioning right-after graduation.

OR graduate any school like normal and then apply to officer candidacy school (OCS) where if accepted you’ll do an officer version of basic training. Which to be fair if that’s the route he took I’d be pissed at Maverick too because that means completing school in 4 years plus whatever amount of time it takes to apply to OCS with the preference of aviator (which is super compact) and can take anywhere from about a year to multiple vs into the academy and good to go.

Once they complete one of the three and are qualified via testing to be an aviator they’re off to flight schools, of which there are many to come.

(Also you could make it to flight school and get dumped out because of maybe not hitting the mark, or even medical stuff that they missed/skipped before - then get transferred to a different type of officer job)

Gold Star kids - AKA Rooster

Gold star kids are those like Bradley who lost a parent due to death during their service, and they do not get to stay on base once their loved one passes. They’ll have a certain amount of time to find a home then move off to make space for another active duty family. BUT the surviving spouse if they’re civilian usually (I believe) retain their benefits for the rest of their life. Not the kids though they get kicked off healthcare at 21 unless they’re still in school enrolled full time and their parents are more than 50% financially taking care of them. It’s all kind of intense and very sad but it’s true.

Dependants are not all nice

NOTE HOW I SAID NOT ALL. There’s some fantastic people but it’s not all sunny and perfect. I’ve worked in the recreational, support, and retail aspect of military bases and the horror stories I could tell you about certain military dependents. Crazy, some of them are literally insane. But could be used for some interesting dramatic aspects of your stories. I’d put examples but I have too many to name.

Pilots don’t fix their planes

Yes they have to learn the ins and outs of their planes and they’re absolutely tech savvy as well as extremely smart. BUT you will not see a naval aviator working on a plane, they have enlisted sailors who work hard and go through a lot of training/school to do that and they deserve their roses. They’d probably kick their officers ass if they saw them taking a wrench or tool of any type to those planes. Pre flight inspections are different to maintenance. That reminds me…

ENLISTED SAILORS EXIST IN AVIATION

I feel sad that fics/stories leave them out in the workplace. They have really great bonds with pilots because pilots can’t fly without them and put all of their trust into them. The sailors and chiefs are the best in their fields and often are credited for being the ones who teach officers because it’s true - think like this:

An officer commissions to O1 (ensign) after earning a bachelors degree which is on average around 21/22. Depending on how they commissioned they may not have worked any college jobs (some have never worked a job at all) so this is their first job and they are in charge of people plus millions of dollars worth of equipment. That’s not including the 2-3 years it takes to pass flight schools.

Enlisted sailors can start service at 17. They’ve been in their jobs going to schools and mastering their trade for a hot minute. They’d often can be the same age of their officer (let’s say 23 for an aviator who went through flight schools) and have 6 years of service in their belts, they know the game.

The best leaders I’ve met in the military know how to be that leader while also learning from their sailors. That bond of trust both ways is crucial for success.

Some ships have WiFi

But it can be limited, it also can get turned off for any reason at any time if it means keeping the ship safe. So could they text and call/FaceTime? On a carrier for sure UNLESS they’re in need of turning it off for a while. Super great for sailors to stay connected honestly wish they’d had that when my dad was in.

Call signs often are not a cool brag

Usually it’s from a time you fucked up and now it’s stuck with you so everyone can have a laugh. You can’t change it and you can’t pick one yourself. That’s not to say that can’t be from cool moments but the ones I’ve met it’s been from funny moments with their squad.

I think the only way it could get changed is if it was really bad like one you couldn’t say in front of an admiral without getting in trouble. I think they usually change those to ‘redacted’ or try to make it an abbreviation so it’s not immediately obvious it’s a fucked up nick name. The ones from back in the day were super messed up. Or maybe you ranked up high enough to change it cause who’s going to tell a Captain what they can or can’t do.

ADDED FACT CHECKS:

It’s Naval Air Station (NAS) North Island NOT Navy Air Force Base/Station North Island/North Island Air Force Base/Air Force Naval Base

Two different branches completely. I do understand why people would put this and this is not me attacking people but I would very much suggest not combing the two because a naval aviator is capable of something Air Force pilots aren’t:

Landing a plane/helicopter on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

They train like crazy to have this skill and let me tell you landing on that thing is no easy feat. Naval Aviators (and Marines they get qualified in this too!) deserve that hype because the risk that takes comes from so many people in a plane and on deck to succeed in? INSANE. I’ve been in Tower (primary flight control or ‘pri-fly’ for short) and there’s so much that goes into this process including collaborating with the people driving the ship. I wasn’t even in an active combat zone so idk how this legends do it with people shooting at them.

All love Air Force Pilots, they could probably be trained to do it - however they aren’t soooo… FLY NAVY 😈

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Oh man that was A LOT of info. If you’re reading this? How’d you make it this far? Also hope it helped in someway or another to spark some ideas. I’ve debated writing some kind of story haven’t gotten the courage up but YOU ALL ARE AND YOU ARE AMAZING AT IT!

[wistsandmagic]

No Way Out (Brother I Let You Down)

Welp. I finally caved in to one of the plot bunnies @keferon 's Mecha AU keeps putting in my brain. So here, have some Swindle and Vortex ANGST.

(under the cut because it's over 2k words)

It was the middle of the night. The lights in the hangar were dimmed, the sounds of the skeleton crew that worked as night shift far away in the mechanics’ sector, not on the hangar floor. The mecha stood still in their refuel bays, waiting on the next time the Quintessons attacked, when the alarms would blare and the hangar would become a frantic cacophony of activity.

For now though, things were quiet. Still.

Lonely.

Swindle walked silently across the catwalk strung between the mecha, the smell of oil and gear lubricant seeping into his nose like an old friend's aftershave. He didn't smell that often enough nowadays. Sometimes he missed it.

Sometimes, he thought, turning at a path junction to walk down to one particular mecha's bay, one that towered over everything else in the hangar. Sometimes he just missed the people that the smell accompanied.

No one would have ever guessed that he and Vortex had been close friends. They fought like cats and dogs, always sniping at each other, yelling and picking at each other until Onslaught had to break them up before things got too physical. They'd both ended up in medbay more than once after a fight hadn't been broken up quickly enough. They were the youngest of the group, after all, and so close in age that fights seemed almost inevitable.

Swindle had thought of Vortex as the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother. When he didn't come back from that ill-fated mission...

The former pilot stopped in front of the giant mecha in the bay, the faint hint of old blood adding itself to the scents mingling in his nose. Vortex's mecha always smelled vaguely bloody, though since that young medic-turned-pilot, First Aid, had taken over, things weren't as strong. Swindle thought that might be a good thing. Maybe.

He wasn't one to really believe in ghosts, not in the way people meant. A spirit that haunted the living? Seemed improbable. Ghosts were the memories that lingered when you stared at the things the dead had left behind. The scents that once followed them suddenly wafting through the air, the feel of a missing presence, an ache that never went away. That was a 'ghost'.

But when Swindle stared at the red visor of Vortex's mech – it would always be Vortex's mech to him, no matter who piloted it or for how long – it was all too easy to imagine the other kind of ghost. All too easy to give in to the superstitions surrounding this mecha, to believe that a malevolent spirit haunted it, for all it seemed to at least like First Aid. One pilot it didn't want to kill.  

The visor stared back blankly, and Swindle caught sight of his own reflection, warped and twisted by the thick, bullet-proof plexiglass. Somehow the warped reflection felt more like it was the real him than the him that existed in his own skin, at that moment. All of the stress, the heaviness, the days of lying through his teeth and pretending he cared less than he did, that all he was in things for was the money, that the pilots that came back to base maimed and traumatized didn't matter to him as long as the program got the money needed, that his best friend who couldn't even remember that he was Swindle's best friend was laying in a hospital bed, half of his body burned and his mind in tatters didn't matter beyond his ability to bring in investors...

It was too much. It was just...too much.

"H...hey," he managed, flinching at how much his own voice cracked. Where was the smarmy car-salesman he pretended at being? The smooth operator, the con man? "...Vortex, if...if you're in there, buddy, y'mind? I just..." Tears pricked at the corners of Swindle's eyes, startling him and making him put a hand to his face. Man, he was losing it, wasn't he? "I...I just needed..."

Before he knew it, Swindle found himself slumping to the catwalk floor, his back to Vortex's mech. Knew that if the ghost stories were true, that might not be a good idea, but he'd always trusted his friend. His brother. Saw no reason to stop now. "I miss you, y'know that?" He murmured, trying to stem the flow of tears without letting his voice hitch. "The entire...the entire program's shit. I know we knew that already, but...Vee, it's got so much worse. And here I am...actively promoting the damn thing 'cause we have no other choice. " ...he hadn't called Vortex 'Vee' in years. It was usually "Tex"; that was what Vortex had preferred. Swindle was the only one that could ever get away with calling him Vee without getting punched, even so. Swindle had reserved it for special occasions, knowing he held privilege. Now seemed like as good a time as any. Vortex wasn't there any longer to half-heartedly gripe at him for the affectionate diminutive.

That didn't make it better.

Swindle leaned his head back until it thunked against the catwalk railing, letting him stare up from behind his rose-tinted glasses toward the ceiling, heedless of the tears streaming down his face. "I dunno what to do to stop it, Vee. You were always the one c-coming up with the harebrained schemes that somehow worked. You always were smarter than I am, just damn crazy. We worked so good together, like brothers, you 'n me." He laughed mirthlessly, a shaking hand coming up to cover his face as he sobbed, unable to stop himself. "...though guess I'm probably the crazy one now, h-huh. Talkin' to your mech like somehow you c-can hear me through it. Like you're gonna act like my crazy older brother again and somehow tell me this's all gonna work out in the end, and I'm not a heartless monster for doin' this, goin' along with this shit."

He didn't pay attention to the faint nudging at his side at first, figuring it was just the edge of the railing digging into his ribs. When the touch became more insistant, however, he looked down, blinking away tears. Only to stare dumbly at the very large fingertip pressed ever so gently against his side. His breath caught, and for a moment Swindle couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, because that was the hand of Vortex's mech, his index finger pressed almost lovingly to Swindle's side, rubbing up and down very slightly now that Swindle was actively paying attention. Almost as if it were trying to comfort him.

Dashing tears from his eyes with the back of one hand, Swindle switched his attention from the massive finger at his side to the head of the mech beside him, expecting to see First Aid curled up inside the cockpit controlling things. But no, the cockpit was empty, the faint lights inside just enough to let him see through the visor before everything flared to life, the visor turning bright and opaque as the mech's head turned slowly to look directly at Swindle.

He'd spent years pretending there was no such thing as ghosts, hating that Vortex's mech killed pilots, but refusing to believe it was anything other than glitches. To say otherwise would be having to say that something of his friend, his brother, still lingered, and Swindle couldn't help him. Now, though, he couldn't deny it. He could feel Vortex there, staring at him through the mech, through that red visor so much like Vortex's own remembered helmet. He blinked as the sound of soft static filled the air, a mechanical text-to-speech voice whispering through the speakers embedded in the mech's head. "Swindler, c'mon now. You never were one for tears, little bro."

If...if Vortex intended that to stop Swindle from crying, it had the exact opposite effect. Sure, the voice was mechanical, it sounded off, but that was still, somehow, Vortex's voice, and Swindle hadn't heard it outside of old recordings for far too long. He shakily got to his feet, one hand covering his mouth to muffle himself while the other scrabbled frantically for Vortex's finger, any and all fears about the rogue mecha deciding to crush him into paste fleeing from his mind in his desperation to have some part of Vee touching him. Only Vortex ever called him "Swindler". Only Vortex ever called him little bro.

"A...are you really in there, Vee?" Even to Swindle's own ears he sounded pathetic. Not like himself at all. It was the stress. It had to be the stress. That was the only explanation.Maybe he was crazy. Maybe watching Blurr almost die was the final straw that broke him, and now he was headed for the looney bin as soon as someone found him. Damn. But hearing Vortex's voice, even distorted by machinery, coming from his mech, broke something inside Swindle's soul, and grief came pouring out whether he wanted it to or not.

Again that soft static, again that voice. "In the figurative flesh, Swindler." Somehow it even managed to retain Vortex's characteristic croon, the way he only spoke to those he actually liked, not the bitten-off snark of those he tolerated, or the open hiss to those he actively hated. Vortex carefully raised his hand over the railing, making Swindle step back a pace, and lowered a couple of his fingers, beckoning carefully. "C'mere. Can't hug you, know you need it, but c'mere anyway." Swindle should have thought twice. Every protocol to do with Vortex – the mech, not the long-dead person – screamed about caution and wariness. But this was Vortex. The person, not the mech. Crazy, full of bloodlust, stay out of his way on the battlefield, don't make him hate you, sure, but above all else he was Swindle's mech partner, his brother, his friend closer than a brother. The one who always had his back on and off the battlefield, in ways Onslaught never could.

He stepped into Vortex's hand without hesitation, trembling hands coming down to help hold himself steady as Vortex's fingers and thumb gripped him in a hold too gentle to come from a mech's default pilotless programming. He saw the visor open, and before he knew it he was deposited gently inside, warm air that smelled vaguely of vanilla – had First Aid hung an air freshener somewhere? – already wafting through the cockpit.

The speakers crackled to life. "Find a seat, little bro." Cabling hissed out of hidden apertures, operating oddly like hands and arms as they found Swindle, pulled him in closer to the emergency jumpseat off to the side of the pilot's seat, designed for maintenance and a place to stretch if trapped in the cockpit for too long, pulling it out from the wall and ushering Swindle to sit. Like Vortex knew Swindle couldn't bring himself to sit in the pilot's seat of a mech that didn't belong to him, that still belonged to Vortex, even if First Aid was 'sharing' it now.

"Vee..." "Hush." The voice was rough, kindness having always been oddly difficult for Vortex to manage, always making him sound like he was angry at himself for daring to show any kind of humanity. That was the case now, of course. Death hadn't changed some things. A lot of things. Still, Vortex's cabling wrapped gently around Swindle once he sat, draping over his shoulders and snaking across his lap like one of Vortex's annoying full-body hugs that had always been so good simply because of their rarity, even if he had to be drunk to give them. The thought made Swindle want to tear up all over again, grief and stress radiating off of him even as he reached out to brush over one of the cables, feeling unseen eyes watching him as he did his best to gather himself, unable to feel any fear for the faint malevolent presence that surrounded him, because he knew that malevolence wasn't directed at him. It never had been."I...you didn't come back," Swindle whispered, swallowing to try and keep his voice steady. "You died, Vee, and everything else went to hell after. It's only gotten worse now, and I...I didn't...I didn't even know you were still in here. You died."

"Yeah, I died. But. Still here, little bro. Got me a good pilot now that I like, finally, but I'm still here." Vortex's voice softened a little, in ways that would make almost anyone who knew him before his death stare at him like he'd lost even more of his marbles. Nobody ever really got to see this side of him other than the one pilot in their group who was younger than him; Swindle had been the only one to deserve the softness he was capable of, and even then only in secret. "Can't get rid of me that easily. I still got your back, y'know?" The cables wrapped around Swindle tightened slightly, reiterating Vortex's point and enclosing him in just that little bit of security. A hug from his dead friend, who was not entirely dead, and always closer to being more than even a brother would have been.

"Okay Swindler. Let's talk, you'n me. Let's come up with a plan. I'm here, little bro." "Always will be."

[usafphantom2]

North American B-45 Tornado early US jet bomber has distinction of being first operational jet bomber to enter service with USAF as well as to be refueled in midair. also adopted by RAF and operated from bases in UK and used to overfly the Soviet Union on intel-related missions.

@CcibChris via X

[alex99achapterthree]

A 336th Fighter Squadron F-15E Strike Eagle refuels from a 916th Aerial Refueling Wing KC-46 Pegasus.

On the Pegasus, there is no longer a boom operator in a pod back in the tail looking out the window at the aircraft that he (or she) refuels. The "boomer" now sits up front with the rest of the crew, tending the operation on video screens. Probably a more comfortable arrangement, but no more awesome photos taken out the back, sadly.

——————————–—

A99a

Amazed by what you learned today?

Imagine what you’ll know tomorrow!

[dangerousthingobservation]

An F-15E Strike Eagle assigned to the 335th Expeditionary Fighter Squadron conducts aerial refueling operations in the U.S. Air Forces Central area of responsibility, June 22, 2022. U.S. Air Force photo by Master Sgt. Matthew Plew

[therocketeer0501]

Emptiness Machine

Transformers X Mech Pilot AU

Author notes: (Wowza I didn’t expect such a positive reaction to my nonsense! Here is a blurb to test the waters. See what y’all think! Let me know if you want more. 👀)

TW: (needle mentioned briefly, mention of alcohol to describe a feeling, reader cusses a little bit.)

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you only half hear the blaring alarm. You stare at the ceiling for moment, trying to get your brain to wake up enough to process the announcement over the loudspeaker.

“Decepticon activity coordinates delta seven, bearing nine. Threat level Magenta. Pilot SERAPHIM to the launch bay.”

The words repeated as the red overhead lights flashed. No one could sleep through this, you thought as you rolled out of your cot. Feet hitting the cold floor you let your training take over. Autopilot was the only way to operate on days like this. Despite not being out late or having anything to drink the night before, you felt hungover and woozy. The Energon micro-infusions you and the other pilots received must be to blame. Donning your pilot gear and clicking your mask into place you finally start to feel whole again. Being outside of your mech felt like hell. Exposed like a nerve and vulnerable. Feeling so small, you shake your head trying to figure out how you ever lived without that soul connection to your machinery.

You grab your communicator, linking it to your headset and running out the door. Hallways bustled and noise reverberated through the massive metal building as soldiers and Autobots alike made their way around the base. You dodged around giant peds, apologizing when you almost knock right into Hound. The bot putting up his hands and giving a startled whoa as you bolt towards the hangar doors. This was home. The metallic smell of oil and energon hit you as you ran up the ramp to your mech. She was beautiful. Orange and teal accents over ivory plating. The wing and eye insignia on her shoulder alongside tally marks of all the victories you had won. Her optics offline and her lines hooked up to refuel, she looked lifeless. An empty machine.

You smiled remembering the first time you had met a Cybertronian. They were appalled to learn that the mechs they fought alongside weren’t Cybertronian, but were in fact piloted by humans. The bots now compared you to a spark within your mech, your consciousness becoming that of the metal behemoth you piloted. You yelled a greeting to your launch officer as he walked through the protocols and commands before helping you into the chest of your mech. Settling yourself into the gel seat made just for you, you feel the sting of the needle inserted into the back of your neck. Your eyes roll back and the familiar sensation of falling tugs at your limbs. The micro amounts of energon in your bloodstream prickle as your nerves switch to feeling cold.

Optics coming online and flickering as your consciousness links up with your mech. Your servos twitch, testing your movement slowly via the launch officer’s commands. Rolling your shoulders as the energy lines disconnect and the link is complete. The HUD is always a bit disorienting, vitals and stats crowding your vision as it adjusts. The tiny body your consciousness left is nestled snug in your chest. You reach for your weapon where it was leaned, charging next to the bay. A familiar voice to your right makes you turn.

“Ready there Sera?” Your vocal apparatus crackles to life as you reply.

“Had to get my bearings Bee. Consciousness transfer never gets easier.” Energy thrums through your lines and you feel whole once more. You worked alongside the Bumblebee as a fellow scout. Your mech being a lighter class helped with the stealth aspect of intelligence gathering. Most of the other pilots were male, making you one of the few female pilots to survive the initial testing. You felt proud of your accomplishments since the war for energon began.

“What is our mark.” You ask following the yellow bot out onto the launchpad. A ground bridge was already open and humming ominously. He had an alt mode but you didn’t, your mech not able to transform. Using a ground bridge was the only way to get your mech anywhere far away fast. It wasn’t your favorite way of travel, personally you favored the jump jets your mech was equipped with. Something about soaring through the sky was the most liberating feeling you had ever experienced.

“We’ve got a high level threat. At least three cons attacked one of our mines in Australia. I heard Shockwave had some dangerous experiment. We’ve gotta do some reconnaissance before we go take it back.” He smirked before shoving at your shoulder making you stumble a bit. “Try to keep up this time.” You smile at him as he disappears into the swirling light. Something about this mission seemed off. Everyone seemed a little too stoic for this to be a routine take back. Shrugging off the seed of doubt you lift your ion cannon and mount it to your shoulder. Calibrating your weapons and getting ready for whatever fresh hell awaited you.

[theangrycomet-art]

TFA: Ariel/Elita 1's Squadron, Team Orthia

I fell down the wiki rabbit hole last night and now I have these.

Everyone's heights are off/going to change in the future because I wasn't sure on everyone's alts when I was first drawing out the line up.

I mostly just wanted to get ideas down on paper.

Edit: Updated Designs

COMMISSIONS OPEN

Transcript of my Handwriting Plus Other Lore:

Nothing here’s set in stone I just wrote down ideas/compiled thoughts as they came to me.

edit: Changed Lancer’s Profile Info to match new ideas I have

TFA: Sheild of Solus

Operation: Failsafe

Purpose: To sabotage any and all Decipticon efforts of gaining any headway in this war. First, start off with the infiltrators, next, hit them where it hurts.

After discovering a spy had infiltrated their ranks, Alpha Trion took it upon himself to assemble a team to sabotage any Decipticon efforts to gain a foothold on Cybertron, hoping that they would be able to counter any threats on Cybertron.

Ariel/Elita-1

Commander and the Leader

High-ranking member of the Elite Guard

Alpha Trion’s inside eyes

Alt Mode: Cybertronian Heavy Duty Truck -> Monster Truck

Special Upgrade: Classified

Good-Morningstar Mace: Morning star with detachable head

Laser Kusarigama: This weighted chain serves Elita well when she needs to tie up the enemy (or retrieve your teammate as her gravity fluctuates again)

Tidbit: One of the few of the Elite Guard to not have gone to the Academy, Elita rose through the ranks through her skill and ingenuity, despite other’s misgivings. A bit rough around the edges, she is always there for her fellow bots. When her former mentor requested her aid in his mission, she had no hesitation joining. (It helped that it got her away from her more tiresome coworkers)  

Chromia

Second in Command

Recon Specialist, Infiltrator

Former Intelligence Officer; she retired when she was not allowed to investigate Highbrows abrupt disappearance and opened a private investigator business.

Alt Mode: Cybertronian Trike -> Trike (like Harley-Davidson Tri Glide Ultra)

Special Upgrade: Lockpick: with enough time she can pick any lock and hack into any systems with the extensions in her servos. However, this can takes a lot of her processing power and leaves her vulnerable.

Laser Sabre: Good for clashing blades and slipping between the seams of an enemy’s armor

Tidbit: Despite her worrying over her teammates, Chromia has a habit of diving helm first into her work with little disregard for herself, whether that be forgetting to refuel and recharge or tempting fate with more self-sacrificial tendencies. She’s been working on it, but bad habits die hard…

Novastar

Search and Rescue, Transportation and Retrieval

Served in the tail-end of the Great War

Worked previously in Search and Rescue with her partners Inferno and Red Alert

Through this line of work, she developed extensive connections.

AltMode: Cybertronian Truck -> Narrowbed Truck

Special Upgrade: Furnace: Nova is able to generate massive bursts of flame, and she has refined the practice into an art. The flames on her head are no only an aesthetic choice, but an outlet for the excess heat she generates. These are easily extinguished; a fact Inferno took great joy in abusing the damn firetruck bot.

Blowtorch: During her time in field during the Great War, Nova lost her left servo to a Decpticon when retrieving soldiers from behind enemy lines. She had it replaced with a blowtorch prothesis that allows her to pinpoint flames to temperatures that can cut through even the toughest of materials- temperatures that otherwise would melt her frames

Tidbit: Novastar has been trying to locate Inferno, who has recently gone MIA after responding to an off-planet distress beacon with a new recruit with little to no luck. She is hoping the new job title will grant her greater resources to expand her search.

Greenlight

Engineer

“The Miracle Worker”

A student of WheelJack’s

Greenlight’s inventions can be brilliantly or devastating (or if she’s lucky) both. She tends to get attached to her devices, however, and gets rather despondent when they are broken or do not work as intended.

Aloof, she doesn’t see the need to waste much time with small talk. It requires a bot with a lot of patience (and ability to pester) to get her to come out of her shell

Alt Mode: Cybertronian Offroader

Special Upgrade: Tasers: Though not a combat bot, Greenlight saw fit to mod herself out with some decent defense. The tasers stored in her arms can generate enough volts of electricity that can through bots thrice her size flat on their backs.

Boom Cannon: A weapon still in its testing phases, she has been building it up from stolen Decepticon specs in her free time.

Tidbit: If asked, Greenlight will say that she agreed to sign up to get out of community service for accidentally demoing a perfectly good lab with one of her inventions. While partly true, a larger part of why she joined was because she didn’t want Lancer doing this alone.

Lancer [Edited]

Researcher

Unofficial Medic

Student of Perceptor

Alt Mode: n/a, missing T-Cog

Special Upgrade: FlipScreen: her “skirt” doubles as computers, monitor and keyboard included. This grants her access to ALL of her files and more importantly allows her to run any necessary scans, analysis, or algorithms she needs when or wherever she needs. It is also a bold fashion statement

BackPack Variety Hour: She has a variety of “backpacks” each serving different purposes, though if you ask anyone but Lancer they all look identical. Despite their incredible weight, she carries them with ease.

Backup Generator: Via the generator on her back, she could keep a city fully powered without straining her spark. Most of this energy goes into the powering the extra processors she has stored in her “skirt”

Star Splitter: a powerful laser spear, though she more often then not uses it for pole vaulting than actual combat

Tidbit: Lancer has been a researcher for the Autobots for longer than many bots have been alive, mostly regarding projects Ultra Magnus would rather not go public. Despite the JetTwins being by far the most successful of these endeavors, Lancer quit shortly after. When Alpha Trion offered her a more savory research position with Twam Orthia she was quick to accept and get out from Ultra Magnus’ thumb.

Moonracer

Sharpshooter/Sniper

“Best in the Whole Galaxy!”

Graduated top of her classes at the Autobot Academy but has struggled to keep a longterm position due to her impulsive behavior, with her last job being messenger-bot for Security.

Alt Mode: Cybertron Compact Car -> Vector W8

Special Upgrade: Internal Gravity Manipulator: As labelled on the tin, she has the ability to shift her gravity, decreasing AND increasing. Typically, she uses this to “float” or “moon walk”. The change in gravity can be extended to objects she comes into direct contact, but maintaining it drains her very quickly.

Velicotron Build: Speedster Though not as fast as the infamous Blurr, Moonracer is incredibly quick both as a bot and her alt form. Combine this with her gravity-defying abilities leads to some devastating results.

Custom Ion Pistols: Dual pistols that can combine into her sniper rifle.

Tidbit: Moonracer is a good bot with a good head on her shoulders. She will always do what she thinks is right- but she tends to jump the gun on things which gets her into trouble. With inexperience comes naivety, but how is she supposed to learn anything if nobody gives her a chance to do anything?  

Individual Shots