The operations center pulses with the blue glow of digital maps and flight displays. Matt stands with his back straight, hands splayed across the edge of the console, his eyes reflecting videos as they scroll across the screen. He feels a prickle at the back of his neck before he hears the familiar footsteps -- Zach is entering the room, and Matt's fingers tense against the metal edge of the console, an unconscious defense mechanism.
"Running the Henderson scenario again?" Zach asks, voice casual but threaded with an undercurrent that Matt recognizes all too well. The question isn't actually a question.
Matt doesn't turn around immediately. "Three times already. Still finding optimal approach vectors for the eastern corridor."
The operations center hums around them -- a half dozen other officers at their stations, headsets on, voices a low murmur of technical jargon and confirmations. The air conditioning blows cold and steady, fighting against the heat generated by the banks of computers and display screens that line the walls. Above them, the mission clock counts down to the next training exercise, red numerals marching steadily toward zero.
"Mind if I take a look?" Zach doesn't wait for permission, sliding into the space next to Matt, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. The proximity is deliberate -- a subtle invasion of territory.
Matt shifts slightly, reclaiming an inch of space. "Be my guest."
Zach's fingers dance across the touchscreen, dragging waypoints and adjusting flight paths with quick, precise movements. Matt watches, eyes narrowed, as Zach manipulates the scenario Matt has spent hours refining. Each tap carries an implied criticism.
"Your approach on zone four leaves the us exposed to ground fire for nearly forty seconds," Zach says, voice neutral but laden with satisfaction. "If you come in from the northwest instead..." He traces a new route on the screen, flight paths reorganizing themselves under his touch.
Matt feels a warmth rising in his neck, an uncomfortable heat that he recognizes as pride wounded. He takes a controlled breath. "Northwest approach adds an extra twelve miles of flight time. Fuel constraints become the primary vulnerability."
The operations officer two stations over glances their way, then quickly returns to her own work. Everyone in the room knows the dance these two are engaged in -- a choreography of expertise and one-upmanship that has become as much a part of the base as the runway lights.
Matt studies the formation, looking for flaws, finding none he can immediately identify. "Interesting approach. But unorthodox."
"Unorthodox wins wars," Zach replies, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Predictability gets you shot down."
Matt's jaw tightens imperceptibly. He reaches past Zach to access the simulation controls, deliberately close enough that Zach has to lean back slightly. "Let's see how it performs then." His fingers tap the execution command, and the scenario plays out on the main screen, aircraft icons moving along the newly plotted course.
The room quiets slightly as other officers glance up at the simulation. Matt is aware of the audience, aware that this has become another round in their ongoing competition. The silence magnifies the soft beeps and electronic hums of the equipment.
The simulation completes, results flashing on the screen: mission objectives achieved, simulated casualties zero, fuel reserves at landing: 12%. Two percentage points better than Matt's original plan.
"Not bad," Matt concedes, the words feeling like gravel in his mouth.
Zach's posture shifts subtly -- chest forward, shoulders back, the stance of a victor trying not to appear too victorious. "Just a different perspective."
Captain Rivera approaches from across the room, tablet in hand. "Good work on that simulation, gentlemen. Zach, that formation adjustment was creative. We'll incorporate it into tomorrow's briefing." She looks between them. "The quarterly pilot rankings just came in. Thought you both might want to see them." She hands the tablet to Matt first -- a small gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by either man.
Matt scrolls through the document, face impassive despite the surge of satisfaction he feels. He passes the tablet to Zach without comment, but allows his eyes to linger just long enough to witness Zach's reaction.
Zach's face remains composed, but Matt catches the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. Matt is still number one in the squadron rankings, Zach at number two -- by a margin of just three points.
"Tight scores," Captain Rivera observes neutrally. "You two keep pushing each other. Good for the whole squadron." She takes back the tablet and returns to her station, leaving them in the wake of the unspoken competition.
"Congratulations," Zach says, the word perfectly polite and somehow still an affront.
"Thanks." Matt turns back to the mission console. "Those three points are just statistical noise."
"Of course." Zach leans against the console, arms crossed. "Though I notice your night terrain navigation scores are slipping. Down two points from last quarter."
Matt's finger pauses mid-tap. The observation lands exactly where Zach intended -- on the raw nerve of Matt's one weak area. "Working on it," he replies, keeping his voice level. "Though I'm not sure anyone's matched my time on the canyon run simulation."
"Not yet." Zach stretches, a casual movement that somehow manages to display confidence. "But I've been putting in some extra simulator hours. Getting close to your record."
Matt adjusts the trajectory of a missile intercept on the screen, his mind half on the task and half on calculating when he can next book simulator time. "Records are made to be broken."
"That they are." Zach straightens up. "Speaking of which, I hear Colonel Williams is considering one of us for the tactical leadership course at Nellis next month. Only one slot available."
The information drops between them like a live grenade. The course is prestigious, a fast-track to advancement, a mark of exceptional skill and potential. Matt had heard rumors, but nothing concrete until now.
"Where'd you hear that?" Matt asks, trying to sound only mildly interested.
"Major Davis mentioned it yesterday." Zach picks up a stylus from the console and twirls it between his fingers. "Said they're looking at the top performers in the squadron. Performance metrics, leadership potential, the whole package."
Matt nods, processing this. Williams has always been fair, evaluating pilots on their merits rather than personality. But Matt knows the colonel respects innovation, values pilots who think outside the box -- Zach's specialty.
"May the best man win, then," Matt says, meeting Zach's eyes directly for the first time since he entered the room.
Zach holds the gaze, neither of them blinking. "Always does, doesn't he?"
Around them, the operations center continues its rhythmic functions -- officers speaking into headsets, screens updating with new information, the mission clock counting down. But between them, in the narrow space where their rivalry exists, time seems suspended. Two predators sizing each other up, recognizing in each other both threat and motivation.
Zach finally breaks the standoff, glancing at his watch. "Briefing in twenty. I should prepare." He pushes away from the console and moves toward the door, then pauses. "Your scenario was solid, by the way. I just made it better."
Matt watches him go, feeling the familiar mixture of irritation and respect that Zach always evokes. His attention returns to the mission display, the blue glow illuminating his features as he considers Zach's modifications to his plan, already thinking of improvements, already planning how to stay one step ahead.
Their rivalry hangs in the air like the static charge before lightning strikes, invisible but powerful, shaping their actions, driving them both to excellence even as it divides them. Matt's fingers move across the screen, adjusting, perfecting, competing -- even when Zach isn't there to witness it.
The break room sits at the end of an abandoned corridor, a relic from when this wing of the base housed twice as many personnel. Matt leans back in the vinyl chair, coffee cooling in the mug between his palms, savoring the rare moment of solitude away from the constant scrutiny of the operations center. The overhead lights buzz with a dull electrical pulse that seems to match the fatigue throbbing behind his eyes. He doesn't look up when the door opens -- somehow, he already knows who it is.
"Hiding out?" Zach asks, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room. He lets the door swing shut behind him, the sound of its closing a soft, definitive click.
Matt shrugs, taking a sip of coffee grown tepid. "Just needed a minute. Headache."
"Those displays will do that to you." Zach crosses to the ancient coffee maker in the corner, his back to Matt as he pours himself a cup. "I found this place my second week here. Not many people know about it anymore."
"It's quiet," Matt says, watching as Zach turns and takes the seat opposite him. The table between them is small, institutional beige, scarred with decades of coffee rings and idle scratches from bored pilots waiting for weather to clear.
Zach settles into his chair, adjusting his posture until he seems perfectly comfortable, perfectly at ease. "You ever notice how the sound in here is different? The way the machinery hum is just... consistent."
Matt hadn't noticed until Zach mentions it, but now he can't un-hear it--the steady, mechanical drone emanating from somewhere in the walls or ceiling. Not unpleasant, just... present.
"Ventilation system," Matt says. "Old model. They updated everything in the main areas."
"Listen to it for a moment." Zach's voice drops slightly, matching the pitch of the hum. "It's almost soothing once you focus on it. Regular. Predictable."
Matt's brow furrows, but he finds himself listening to the sound, separating it from the relative silence of the room. It does have a certain rhythm to it. Regular. Predictable. His eyes drift to the wall behind Zach.
"Better than the chaos in ops," Zach continues, his words measured, evenly spaced. "In here, you can actually think. Clear your mind. Focus on what matters."
Matt nods, the movement feeling slightly delayed, as if there's a lag between his intention and his body's response. The coffee mug in his hands has become an anchor, warm and solid. He should respond to Zach, but the effort of formulating words suddenly seems unnecessarily complex.
"You're tired," Zach observes, not a question but a statement of fact. "Been pushing yourself hard. Always do. Staying at the top takes so much energy." His fingers tap a slow rhythm on the table, matching the cadence of his speech. "Sometimes it's good to just... relax. Let go of that constant vigilance for a few minutes."
"Mmm," Matt manages, blinking slowly. The overhead light seems both brighter and somehow more distant than before.
"Your eyes are feeling heavy," Zach says, his voice now a gentle current. "That's natural after staring at screens all day. It feels good to let them rest occasionally. To let them close when they need to."
