Falcon Llewellyn worked on the repairs on his Valkyrie class fighter, the bright torch moving carefully across the piece of the wing. Across the bay, the others were doing the same, each focused on their task. Overnight, the patrols had been in four-hour shifts, and the rest hours had been mandated. It had been bittersweet for Falcon – he wasn’t sure sitting at a station was in his near future. The one they had found was a former flight commander and was a name he was aware of – if only for the accelerated retirement of the man. Ethan Wilder was one of those you could never be sure of the truth in the tales told about him. Falcon wasn’t sure what to believe, but he was thankful to be back with his West Wing crew.

He finished his repair work, glancing across the deck at the lone figure of Phoebe Avant as she worked on the impulse engines for her fighter. She’d taken a hit in yesterday’s scramble, which had required a few hours in the hospital on the station. He slipped off his gloves, snagging a towel as he approached her. He looked up at his pilot as she tweaked the engine. Her head turned as if sensing his eyes on her. “Wing Commander Falcon.”

He climbed up and sat beside her, eyeballing her work. “Ensign Avant. Something wrong with your impulse engines?” He noticed her eyes were looking everywhere but at him.

Her weak attempt at a smile preceded her reply, “It gave me fits while maneuvering yesterday. Took it apart – there was some wiring and connection issues.” She returned to her work for a few minutes. Falcon remained, lounging on the top of the fighter in silence, observing her and the rest of his wing. She stopped her work, facing him with her eyes locking with his, “You’re here to check on me. I’m fine.” Her eyes were intense, which Falcon was used to seeing. Phoebe was a twin; her brother, Nicolas, was West 7 in the squadron. He was far more in touch with his feelings than she was, Falcon had found in the early days of their assignment.

“You say you’re fine, Phoebe. Hell, you can think it.” He returned the direct stare, “But do you know it? Do you feel it? Or is there something in there that’s not quite making sense?” She’d earned her callsign, ‘Grit,’ because she had a nasty habit of bearing down and carrying the heaviest load – pushing her physical and mental self to extremes. Her track record was a mixed bag.

A long sigh escaped her lips, and her eyes darted away from his and to the ceiling. “I don’t know what happened. I know what the recorder shows, and the details make sense…but I was flying and then…I was waking up in sickbay.” He watched her swallow hard and her hands gripping the tools she held. “I do not like losing control. The universe makes sense when I know what’s going on. And for four minutes yesterday, I didn’t know what was going on.” Her eyes found his again. “I don’t know what that means for me, Falcon. I don’t know.”

He leaned in. “It’s normal. Sometimes the inertial dampeners can’t keep up; sometimes the weapons fire hits just the right way to send things spinning. Given how we landed – a few of us probably woke up in our cockpits after crashing into the side of the bay,” he pointed out several impact points in the walls where the fighters had run up against in their chaotic landing the day before. “You got shook up, Phoebe. You’ve been at this for…what, six months? Every time we go out there, you’ll learn something else about yourself when it comes to your fighter. You’ll learn how to avoid it the next time. You’ll adapt. You’ll get better at it.” He leaned back out, “Your test results out of Starfleet Academy were not a fluke. You can do things with a fighter that not many others can…don’t let one moment of invented guilt ruin it.”

She frowned, “You speak from experience, Fal…sir?” There was a look of expectation plastered across her face.

He smiled, “We’re our own worst enemies, ensign. Early in my career, I took the failures and the mistakes hard. Like, a dog eating his own shit hard.” He shook his head as the faint memories faded in and out of his head. “Every screw-up piled on…and I couldn’t do anything right because I believed I was shit at what I did. It did not help that I started as a cocky flyboy who didn’t think his shit stank…and then it did…really bad.”

The frown remained on Avant’s face, “Sounds like you were a miserable smelling bastard…sir.”

His smile broadened with a chuckle, “You are accurate. You sound like you’ve met a few of me at the academy.” Her face reddened. “Well, some of them are OK. Most of us are just miserable smelling bastards. Either we wash out, someone washes us out…or grabs us by the uniform…and washes the stupidity out.”

Avant laughed and then covered her mouth at the outburst, mumbling a “Sowwy” through her fingers.

He let a sly smile cross his lips. “It’s funny now, but at the time, it hurt like hell. That crazy wing commander saw something in me worth saving.” He turned his attention back to her, “I didn’t request you and the rest of these folks for shits and giggles, Ensign Avant. I saw something in each of you worth bringing aboard. Don’t let the stuff you learn become a guilt trip you give yourself. Learn it, apply it, and get your ass back out there to fight another day.” He sat back. “You think you can do that?”

She hesitantly smiled. “I’ll try, sir.”

He stood, “A wise man once said – do or do not, there is no try. In West Wing, we don’t know the word try. We just do it.” He started down the ladder but stopped when the red alert klaxon sounded. “Get your engines back together…sounds like we will be applying what I just taught you.”

He dropped to the deck, shouting, “All pilots to fighters – let’s get launch ready!”