Prologue: You Can't Take the Sky From Me

Notes:

This is a silly idea that came to me when I was thinking about how AUs of fantasy/sci-fi actions shows are typically mundane. College, coffeeshop, etc., so they typically are very low stakes. I joked about a "Cold War fighter pilot AU" being something you don't typically see, and then Apollo wound up his fastball and beamed me straight in the face with his gift of prophecy and made damn sure the idea wouldn't go away.

So this is a silly idea that I nonetheless intend to take somewhat seriously, because the world needs more lesbian fighter pilots. Set in an AU where the Cold War never ended, where the Soviet Union underwent a political revolution following the Storozhevoy mutiny. The whole cast will appear in good time


The aircraft was a gleaming dagger of polished stainless steel and titanium, resting on the end of the tarmac like a coiled spring. Everything extraneous had been sheared away, from the second seat and console and her mighty rotary cannon, to the tiniest of unneeded bolts. The aircraft hummed beneath her seat as Adora went through the final checklist. The idling turbofans purred as she gripped the control column.

The pressure suit clamped tight against her like a second skin. "Final checks complete, all systems nominal," she said.

The radio crackled in her ears. "Roger. Comrade lieutenant, commencing final countdown. The eyes of the world are upon you.."

No turning back now . The ground crews scurried around below the massive MiG-31M. All this for one last shot to reclaim the time-to-altitude record for the glory of the Soviet Union. It was more like sports than cold war...maybe that's why Adora's heart bounded with exhilaration. Twenty-five tonnes of gleaming metal riding jets of roaring blue-hot fire.

The mission clock ticked up to zero. Every moment might be her last. Another rush, every nerve on fire with laser focus. She pressed the throttles forward and the engines roared. But the plane didn't move. Instead, she strained like a racehorse chomping at the bit, pressed against the gate, waiting for the crack of the starter pistol. The engines reached military power without a hitch, the mighty interceptor strained against her restraints but would not budge.

The final seconds ticked by. Adora pushed the throttles all the way to the firewalls and the torrent of hot gas burst into orange flame, burning hotter and hotter til it resembled two giant acetylene torches.

The mission clock reached zero and the restraining clamps broke away like a gun shot. Unfettered, the MiG bolted forward, smashing Adora into the seatback. For a brief moment, the world seemed to flip, like Adora was on her back racing straight up with another person's weight crushing down on her chest.

The MiG-31 was airborne in seconds, and like she'd rehearsed a hundred times before Adora fought through the tremendous acceleration, pulling up the gear and trimming the plane with the precision of a Swiss watch. Adora followed the carefully calculated mission plan, pulling back into a tight Immelmann the moment the Machmeter hit reached optimal speed. The MiG rocketed upwards, clouds condensing around her nose as the whipcrack of breaking the speed of sound rippled through the aircraft.

Burning like a red comet, the Adora leveled out at just above ten thousand meters, before the mission clock had counted past sixty seconds. Hellbent for leather, Adora continued charging forward, watching the Machmeter count up faster than ever before. The right engine spit out a temperature alarm at the two-minute mark, as the plane pushed past its normal cruise speed of Mach 2.35.

But Adora was born to fly on the razor's edge, and she wouldn't pull back now. Thrust levels were still holding, so she pressed on and on, faster and harder, until the thrill of speed overcame the fear of death. Maybe some other day she'd get to see how fast this beautiful machine could really go. But not today; today they'd be scraping the edge of space. When the plane strained past Mach 2.9, Adora pulled back on the yoke hard, gritting her teeth as the weight of a small car pressed down on her.

When she completed the turn, the plane was more like a rocket than a bird, piercing the clouds and racing up to the heavens suspended on twin columns of blue fire. The blue sky turned black and soon the little twinkling pinpricks of stars filled the windscreen.

The engines flamed out at as the plane lofted above 30,000 meters, and suddenly it was dead quiet in the cockpit. Adora floated against the restraints as the plane crested. It took a delicate touch to keep the machine pointed into the wind in the gossamer-thin air. It reminded Adora of a girl she once knew from the orphanage. Adora's thoughts drifted to those mismatched eyes and her scraggly brown hair. As she inverted the plane, watching the roiling clouds and great expanse of green taiga so far below, Adora wondered what Catra would think of this view.

The rest of the flight, from engine restart to landing, was uneventful. All downhill from breaking the world time-to-altitude record. The congratulations coming over the hissing helmet speaker just went in one ear and out the other. She flew with rapt concentration until the wheels finally came to a complete stop on the tarmac, when she could finally pop the canopy, tear of the space helmet and let the cool north winds blow through her blonde hair.

Adora barely had time to enjoy the champagne before she got news of her transfer. From test pilot's protegé back to the line of duty. At least she could still fly.


Catra stormed through the halls of the headquarters. She stopped when she reached her destination, she stopped for a moment to straighten her khaki duty uniform. Then knocked on her commanding officer's door quite vigorously. When no answer came promptly, she knocked again, until she heard a grunting "come".

Catra gave a lazy salute and stood at attention in front of his desk.

"Lieutenant Ekaterina Aliyevna Tsoi," said the pale, gaunt man behind the desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We usually just go by call-signs, comrade-colonel," said Catra, trying to hide her annoyance.

"When I know you well enough, perhaps I will call you by that name."

"Anyway, it's about my assignment. I'm fully qualified to fly the MiG-31. I've completed all the qualifications, I was top of my class. Why am I stuck flying shotgun?"

Lieutenant Colonel Hektor Kurov stood, straightening his uniform. He seemed every bit the model, by-the-book officer his reputation suggested. "Lieutenant, this ambition is unseemly in an officer of the PVO. The truth is I have no idea why you've been assigned as RIO. All that I care about is that you do your job and prove that you're worthy to wear that uniform. Will that be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Good. We all have our role to play in the defense of the rodina. You're probably thinking it's because you're not Russian enough."

Catra tired-and failed-to hide the twitch in her face.

"Struck a nerve, I see." Kurov was breathing down her neck now, but she dared not flinch again. "I do not care what other officers thought of you, your character or your abilities. My only consideration is that when the time comes, you will give your one hundred percent...and more. That you and the pilot you fly with will take your aircraft to the edge and beyond, and die if necessary for the defense of the Soviet Union. Do I make myself clear, comrade lieutenant?"

"Crystal."

"Perfect. You're dismissed, lieutenant."

In truth, it didn't go quite as bad as Catra had feared. She'd had worse first impressions with officers. She still bristled as she rushed back towards the barracks. The 54th Guards Fighter Aviation Regiment-PVO was a prestigious posting, and as her hackles started to smooth she started to wonder why it was making her so angry. She hated to admit it, but she was her own worst enemy.

While the heraldry might have remained, in truth it was basically a new unit being built from scratch and it showed . The base was a flurry of chaos. Half the facilities were unfinished, loads of equipment was still on the edge of the tarmac, and everywhere she turned there were skittish, baby-faced conscripts in her way.

Back to sipping hot black tea while reading manuals, because right now this was a fighter regiment without any fighters. She let out a little giggle, relishing in her new pilot having to sit and spin with her. Grounded together , she thought, as her thoughts turned back to the orphanage. But that was the past now. Eyes on the horizon.

They were supposed to bunk together on base, the pilot/navigator team. A new experiment to boost cooperation and esprit de corps among young, unmarried pilots. Nice idea in theory. Catra just didn't expect to see a familiar face in the middle of unpacking in her cozy little shack.

Catra would recognize that silly blonde hair-poof and ponytail anywhere. In shock she dropped her armload of papers. "Ana-Anastasia," she squeaked out.

The blonde jumped at the sudden intrusion. " Yo-moyo !" she cried out, "You startled me! Oh wow...this is awkward. I...I didn't think I'd run into you here."

"You think-you think you can run off and then just drop right back into my life again, Anastasia?" Catra said, the heat rising in her cheeks.

"You only ever call me that when you're angry with me, Ekaterina."

Catra scoffed, "And you only call me that when you're patronizing me."

"Look, I'm sorry. When you stopped writing...I thought I'd never see you again. But," Adora takes a hopeful look around, "I guess if you're bunking here too, it means we're flying together."

Ugh, that damn smile, the one that always made it impossible to stay mad at her. But some hurts cannot be fixed by a simple 'sorry.' But maybe...maybe this was for the best. Catra allowed herself that small hope.