Pained Restraint

The room was in a state of complete disarray, the tension thick enough to suffocate. On the massive live satellite feed dominating the central display, the mountain range north of Hamilton was imploding. Massive plumes of dust and debris erupted into the sky as the surface began to buckle and collapse inward, signaling something catastrophic beneath the earth. The ground quaked even hundreds of miles away, faint tremors reaching the edges of the city.

"Clear all airspace in Quadrants Alpha-6 through Gamma-4!" shouted Commander Kline, slamming his hand against the control console. "We need emergency corridors open NOW!"

Technicians scrambled, relaying orders across multiple frequencies. Pilots in low-orbit and ground crews stationed at nearby runways were abruptly told to stand down and yield. Automated drones redirected to holding patterns, and civilian traffic was rerouted far from the city's northern approach.

"Satellite feed shows the collapse is accelerating," called out a sensor operator, her voice trembling. "Impact radius estimated at five miles and growing. We're running out of time."

Commander Kline turned to his comms officer. "Where's Trottle?"

Icarus was dead asleep, sprawled out on her bunk with her flight helmet resting on the floor beside her. The past week of relentlessness had finally caught up to her, and for the first time in forever, she had allowed herself to crash—both mentally and physically.

Then the klaxon roared.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! The piercing sound of her personal alert system jolted her awake. Before she could even groggily register what was happening, her comms unit lit up, and the face of Commander Kline appeared.

"Trottle!" he barked, his tone leaving no room for grogginess. "Get to your ship NOW! You're wheels up in thirteen minutes!"

"What?!" she croaked, still trying to shake the sleep from her head. "Commander, I just—"

"The mountain's collapsing! SABER-1 might still be in there, and we don't have time to argue! Your Thunderbird's prepped. MOVE!" The feed cut off abruptly, leaving her staring at the blinking comms unit.

Adrenaline kicked in as Icarus sprang out of bed, heart pounding. She shoved herself into her flight suit with record speed, muttering curses under her breath.

"Thirteen minutes? Are you kidding me?!" she growled, slamming her feet into her boots and yanking on her gloves. She grabbed her helmet, nearly tripping over the scattered contents of her quarters as she sprinted for the hangar.

By the time she reached the bay, ground crews were already swarming her Thunderbird. The ship sat like a coiled predator, its sleek but reinforced olive-green exterior shimmering under the floodlights. VTOL thrusters hummed with a low whine as they powered up, and the air smelled of burning fuel and hot metal.

A technician jogged up to her as she climbed the ramp. "Captain Trottle! We've got auxiliary power running to shave off launch time. You'll be airborne in ten minutes flat!"

"Make it eight!" she snapped, bolting for the cockpit. She slammed her helmet onto her head and strapped in, her fingers flying over the controls. The dashboard lit up with rows of glowing readouts, each one screaming urgency.

The comms chatter in her ear was a cacophony of voices, all blending into one massive storm of orders and updates.

"Runway clear for Thunderbird VTOL-019."

"Satellite confirms surface collapse now at six miles. Core instability detected."

"ETA to full collapse: 15 minutes. I repeat: 15 minutes."

Icarus clenched her teeth as she slammed her fist against the startup controls, igniting the Thunderbird's engines with a deafening roar. The entire ship vibrated as the systems came to life, and she felt the reassuring pull of power beneath her.

"Trottle, this is Commander Kline," the comm crackled. "Your flight path is clear. Find him, and bring him home."

She let out a shaky breath, her hands tightening around the controls. "Copy that. Wheels up in ninety seconds."

As the Thunderbird lifted off the ground, the entire hangar seemed to tremble with the force of its engines. Technicians and ground crews shielded their faces from the wind as the massive ship ascended, its VTOL thrusters tilting for forward flight.

The Thunderbird shot into the night sky, its reinforced plating gleaming against the faint light of the collapsing mountain range. Icarus's HUD filled with telemetry data, the looming mountain growing closer with every passing second. Her heart pounded as she pushed the ship to its limits, the engines screaming as they burned through fuel to cut her ETA as much as possible.

"Hold on, Elfy," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm coming for you."

The Thunderbird screamed through the air, its engines pushed to the brink of their design limits. Icarus hunched over the controls, her knuckles white from the force with which she gripped them. Her eyes darted across the cockpit displays in a frantic dance, searching for any spare ounce of power, any overlooked system she could reroute to thrust. The hull groaned in protest under the punishing speeds, vibrations shaking the cockpit until her teeth rattled.

"Come on, come on," she muttered under her breath, running a shaky hand over the console, scanning the luminous readouts for an opening. The main engines burned hot and bright, the temperature gauges edging dangerously close to the red. She glanced at her reflection in the canopy—her wide, tired eyes brimming with tears of frustration and fear.

Five days. That's how long it would normally take her to reach the site if she followed the recommended safe parameters. But that was impossible, unthinkable. She couldn't wait that long. He couldn't wait that long.

Her breath caught in her throat at the mere thought of it. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she keyed in a series of override commands, funneling auxiliary power from life support redundancies, environmental stabilizers—anything she could risk—into the engines.

"Warning: Oxygen recycling at 60% capacity. Atmospheric stabilizers—deactivated."

Alarms blared through the cockpit, and lights flashed violently on the overhead panel. She gritted her teeth, jabbing the klaxon shut with a furious stab of her finger.

"Yes, yes, I know," she hissed. "But I have no choice."

Her gaze flicked to the chrono readout, mocking her with each tick of the digital display. Five days might as well have been five centuries. The edges of her vision blurred with unshed tears, but she blinked them away. There was no time to break down. She'd do that later—if there was a later.

She jerked the throttle forward again, the engines roaring louder, the shriek so high-pitched it made her bones vibrate. Another alarm screamed to life, warning her that the reactors were redlining. A lesser pilot would've backed off, but she slapped the override again, her face set in steely resolve.

"Hang on," she whispered, as if hoping her words might reach him through the void of distance. "I'm coming, Elfy. Don't you dare give up."

The hull rattled violently, a sickening lurch throwing her forward in her seat. Outside, the horizon warped with the speed. Wind shear battered the Thunderbird, but she coaxed it onward, keystroke after keystroke rebalancing what minimal power reserves remained.

The tears in her eyes finally spilled over, and she clenched her jaw to keep from sobbing outright. The oxygen in the cockpit felt thinner with each passing minute, her head starting to swim. But she couldn't slow down, wouldn't slow down, not as long as there was a chance he was out there, alive, and waiting.

Another fresh wave of tears blurred her vision, and she crushed them away with the back of her glove. "No," she whispered. "Focus. Fly."

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, fueled by adrenaline and raw desperation. The thought of failing him—of being too late—threatened to unravel her. She refused to let it. Instead, she channeled every ounce of fear and pain into her piloting, her hands dancing expertly across the controls, pushing the Thunderbird to speeds that would terrify most.

Time was her enemy, the unrelenting clock ticking down in her HUD. She could almost feel its countdown strangling her hopes, second by second.

But still, she flew. And prayed. And cried.

"I'm on my way," she breathed, voice trembling, "just hold on a little longer…"

Her eyes flicked to the console one last time, verifying her suicidal route, confirming she'd shaved days—days—off the flight. The engines howled in protest, but she drove them harder. She'd sleep when she crashed or when he was safe, whichever came first.

No matter what it cost her, she would not let five days stand between her and the man who'd never failed humanity—and who sure as hell wasn't going to fail her now.

Icarus gritted her teeth so hard she thought they might crack, tears blurring her vision as she stared at the blazing engine readouts. With trembling hands, she forced herself to ease off the throttle, rerouting power back to life support and stabilizer systems that she'd nearly starved to feed the engines.

"You can't do this," she told herself, her breath hitching as sobs wracked her body. "You can't fry the engines or you'll never make it to him at all."

Yet every cell in her body screamed at her to push harder—to shave hours, minutes, even seconds off the journey. To fling caution to the wind and burn the Thunderbird's engines in one final, glorious burst. She could feel it in her chest: a visceral, desperate plea to cut the flight from five days to four-and-a-half, four, anything shorter.

But she knew better. She'd seen what happens when a pilot redlines a ship's systems too recklessly. Images of metal shearing apart in midair, a cockpit spiraling down in flames—her cockpit—filled her mind. And in those twisted fragments of imagination, she saw Eilífr vanish in a haze of smoke and molten slag, unreachable, unknowable, forever lost.

That thought was more horrifying than anything else. More horrifying than risking her own life.

Tears splattered the console, and she slapped a trembling hand over her mouth to stifle the ragged sob that tore from her throat. "Elfy…" she whispered, her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

A chime sounded, alerting her that life support levels were finally within safe parameters again. She fought the urge to slam the overrides a second time. The logic was clear: if the ship died, they both would. There would be no rescue, no triumphant last-minute arrival. Just a puff of flames and the silent black of doom.

"Focus," she commanded herself, her voice thick with tears. The autopilot beeped as she keyed in a more sustainable flight plan, the engines ratcheting down from the shrieking whine of near-suicide speeds to something that could—barely—be called reasonable.

Her throat burned from crying. Her head pounded with exhaustion, and yet she couldn't stop the tears. They kept coming, hot and relentless. She stared at the dull gray readouts that promised safety at the cost of time. Five days. The very number made her want to scream.

She sniffed back her tears, forcibly blinking away the haze that coated her vision. "I'm sorry, Elfy," she whispered, feeling each word resonate with guilt. "I'll get there as fast as I can, I swear."

Even in her haze of grief, she clutched the throttle, pushing it just a fraction beyond recommended levels. Not enough to blow the engines—just enough to ease her desperate heart. It was the only compromise she could allow herself: a dangerous dance between reason and raw emotion.

Another sob tore from her, and she let herself cry harder for a moment, her forehead pressed against the console. The whir of the Thunderbird surrounded her, protective, reassuring—if only barely. She had to believe it would be enough. That she was enough.

"Stay alive," she murmured, voice cracking with each syllable. "Just stay alive until I get there."

Her tears blurred the cockpit lights again, but she gripped the controls until her knuckles whitened, resolute in her heartbreak. And as the Thunderbird sailed through the distant skies, all she could do was cling to that grim determination—because it was all she had left.