The yoke jumps for a moment in your hands, and you can feel it. Somewhere, toward the rear of the plane, a thump. Not quite turbulence, not an engine failure, just a brief oscillation at the tail, like someone's jumped. Still, the second officer - can't call them copilots these days - is still asleep, huddled under the blanket he's kept from his time in the Navy. Clear weather, an ordinary flight plan, and for once the cheap coffee isn't too bad at keeping you awake in the dim lights of the 757 cabin.

Thump.

Again, this time closer, and with hiss like something melting, the cabin door swings open. Two figures stride in- camouflaged, insect-like eyes gleaming and striking fear right into the animal part of your brain before you realize they're respirators.

You don't recognize the uniforms.

This isn't good.

Something stings your copilot in the neck, and his breath barely quickens. If you looked down, you would see your fingers tightening on the yoke, your body still following through the motions. Autopilot, you might think, mirthlessly, but the two forms are upon you.

"Captain Strasser?"

It's a man, then, his voice filtered through layers of machinery and chemical grates. A gloved hand clamps you on the shoulder, pressing to your seat. Through the corner of your eye, you see rubber and camouflage shedding to the deck, pale airline-uniform blue peeping from within.

He nods. "It's her."

An aside, not to you. Why does he sound so scared?

"Major Lockwood, USTC." This time to you, letters skewed sideways from reality spilling from his mouth. Even through the mask, you can tell he sees the question in your eyes.

"You can still have children." A catch in his voice breaks off the hushed tones.

"Good ones."

You can see his companion move to your shoulder, and the Major's hands lift you from your seat, thrusting the rubber and respirator at you. Lights blink on the box strapped to his back.

"Before the war," he sighs, and shakes his head.

His companion seats herself at the controls, plucking up your headset from where it's fallen, and you can catch a glimpse of brown hair, just like yours, and a familiar curve of the cheek.

The man grunts, patting the not-you on the shoulder. "She'll get people home to enjoy what time they have left. She'll take good care of your wife, I promise."

That black mask turns to you again, and again, there's a note of desperate sadness in that low, mechanical voice.

"You're not going to be flying much when we're going, Captain."