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You arrived at the squadron forty minutes early. Not because you needed to, but because staying home any longer would've meant pacing your apartment until you exhausted every possible version of today in your head. Hours earlier, you had gotten dressed unusually early, left long before you had to, and slipped past the guard post before the morning rush, seeking refuge in the squadron's briefing room coffee bar simply to escape your own four walls. You let the morning unfold there, downing three bitter shots of espresso while turning your thoughts over all the same. Your lucky jet fuel, you always called it. Not because it resembled aviation fuel in the slightest, but because drinking it made you feel strangely synchronized with the speed angels you'd dreamed of piloting ever since you could remember. You'd even convinced yourself it brought you good luck. A convenient excuse to overcaffeinate yourself perhaps. But after barely sleeping the night before, today felt like the one morning you could justify it.

This wasn't your first day in the military. Those nerves had come and gone long ago. You'd already survived officer training, basic flight training, advanced jet training, countless examinations, simulators, and check rides. You already wore your wings. You already knew how to fly! But this... this was something else entirely... this was the Formal Training Unit. F T U . The point at which you stopped being a pilot in general and started learning how to become a fighter pilot on your aircraft type. The next year would determine whether you earned a place in an operational squadron or washed out trying.

But that caffeine rush was doing nothing to soothe you now. As you now stood waiting, anticipating the unfolding of the biggest day of your career so far, your new flight suit still felt too crisp against your skin. Your helmet bag rested against your leg gripped just a little tighter than necessary, while your mind burned through possibilities far faster than the forty minutes left on the clock. The faint smell of fresh Nomex and brand new flight gloves still clung to your gear, untouched by the lingering scent of jet fuel, warm avionics, sun soaked tarmac, and countless hours on the flight line that you longed for it to carry one day.

When the briefing room doors were finally unlocked, it gradually filled with all of the trainees, including you. Some exchanged stories about previous postings. Others compared logbook hours or quietly speculated about which Instructor Pilot they'd be assigned to. Along one wall a handful of instructor pilots spoke among themselves with the relaxed confidence of people who had shepherded countless students through this very course before. Their flight suits looked comfortably lived in, patches softened by years of wear, and they carried themselves with the quiet ease of people for whom strapping into a fighter had long since become routine.

At precisely the scheduled time the room settled. The Chief Flying Instructor stepped to the front. He welcomed everyone to the course before introducing the training staff: operations officers, simulator instructors, intelligence personnel, maintenance liaison officers, and finally the instructor pilots who would be responsible for turning qualified military aviators into operational fighter pilots.

One by one the instructors were introduced. Some acknowledged the room with a simple nod and others offered polite smiles. A few were already scrolling through encrypted flight tablets, reviewing the day's schedule with barely a glance toward the room. Then, "Qualified Flying Instructor Hans Joachim Marseille." So the rumours had been true. Former demonstration pilot. One of the squadron's most naturally gifted stick-and-rudder pilots. The kind of aviator who seemed capable of understanding exactly what an aircraft needed before he ever laid a hand on the controls. The kind who flew as though the aircraft had become an extension of himself. Known for recovering situations other pilots would've written off. Uncompromising in the air. Meticulous in the debrief room. Demanding to the point that earning a single word of praise from him reportedly meant more than pages of commendations from anyone else. The sort of instructor whose standards weren't simply high, they quietly became everyone else's benchmark.

When his name was called, your eyes found him almost involuntarily. His flight suit was zipped only halfway to the collar, revealing the dark moisture wicking undershirt beneath. His squadron patch sat neatly above one sleeve, his name patch over his chest. H. J. Marseille.

Everything about him looked regulation. Almost. His hair was a touch longer than most fighter pilots wore theirs, just enough to brush the upper edge of what regulations would probably tolerate. It was immaculately kept nonetheless. Swept back with effortless precision as though even his slight disregard for convention had somehow been perfectly disciplined.

He acknowledged the room with an easy smile that balanced quiet confidence, impeccable professionalism, and the faintest trace of playful amusement as though he genuinely enjoyed teaching but had already accepted that none of you would make his job particularly easy.

The introductions continued. Course objectives. Academic requirements. Simulator blocks. Emergency procedures. The rhythm of the next twelve months. You were issued an encrypted flight tablet preloaded with the course syllabus, local operating procedures, emergency checklists, aircraft systems manuals, simulator schedules, and training publications. There would be classroom instruction before anyone touched an aircraft, simulator sorties before live flights, and countless evaluations before you were trusted to operate with increasing independence.

Eventually came the instructor assignments. The Chief Flying Instructor read them aloud one by one. Each trainee paired with a primary Instructor Pilot who would oversee most of their progress throughout the course, while reminding everyone that they would also fly with other instructor pilots and check pilots as training advanced. Then your name, followed by, "...Primary QFI: H. J. Marseille."

For reasons you refused to examine too closely, your heartbeat stumbled. The formal introductions between instructors and trainees were brief. A handshake. Names. Previous aircraft. Flying hours. Nothing remotely personal.

When your turn came, Marseille greeted you with the same courteous professionalism he offered everyone else. His handshake was firm, his tone even, and after a few routine questions about your training background, he thanked you and moved on to the next trainee without another glance.

Oddly...that came as a relief. He hadn't noticed the careful effort it took to keep your breathing steady. He hadn't seen how rigidly you were standing. He hadn't realised how intimidated you already were.

The rest of the morning disappeared into briefings on safety culture, local airspace procedures, sortie planning, flight line etiquette, and simulator scheduling. You listened carefully, took meticulous notes, and still couldn't shake the awareness that this was the beginning of the year you'd been imagining for so long.

By the afternoon the briefing concluded. People began filtering into the corridor, chatting quietly as they made their way toward equipment issue and familiarisation tours. You were almost through the doorway yourself when Marseille finally looked at you again. And for the briefest heartbeat you felt thoroughly scrutinised. Not suspiciously, but with the practiced precision of someone whose profession depended upon reading people as carefully as he read aircraft. His eyes moved with quiet efficiency, lingering nowhere and yet seeming to miss nothing. The immaculate press of your flight suit. The polished leather of your boots. The way your shoulders were held just a fraction too rigidly. The almost imperceptible tightening of your grip around the helmet bag resting against your leg. Your breathing is disciplined but just a little too measured to be completely natural.

It was almost certainly routine. The subconscious assessment of an experienced Instructor Pilot committing another trainee to memory before months of flying together. Yet beneath those remarkably sharp eyes it felt impossible not to wonder whether he could see straight through every carefully rehearsed layer of composure you'd spent the entire morning constructing.

Then just as unexpectedly the scrutiny dissolved. Nothing about his posture changed. Nothing about those piercing eyes softened. And yet his expression did. A smile appeared with such effortless warmth that it transformed his face entirely, gentle enough to contradict the keen intelligence and analysis in his gaze without diminishing it. The sort of smile that reached his eyes a heartbeat later. Quietly disarming everything they'd made you feel only moments before.

As your newly assigned Instructor Pilot offered you the same courteous farewell he'd no doubt given countless trainees before you, he inclined his head ever so slightly, "Auf Wiedersehen." Two perfectly ordinary words, professional and courteous, but so reassuring. Spoken with the easy confidence of a man who had likely uttered them at the end of a hundred first briefings, never imagining that this particular goodbye would linger in one trainee's mind long after everyone else had forgotten it.

Before you could decide whether you'd imagined any of it, Marseille turned, exchanged a few quiet words with another instructor, and disappeared into the corridor with the rest of the training staff. As he passed, the air briefly carried the scent of cedar, bitter cocoa, and the faintest suggestion of smoke, before it dissolved into the room once more. It should have been utterly forgettable. But instead, for reasons you couldn't begin to explain your memory preserved it with almost embarrassing precision. You remained standing in the doorway for only a few seconds, but long enough for a mildly embarrassing realisation to settle over you. Somewhere beneath all your carefully maintained professionalism, you'd been quietly hoping to leave a stronger impression. Instead you'd been treated exactly as you should have been. Another trainee beginning another course. Another name on another roster. Objectively there was nothing disappointing about that. In fact it was precisely what professionalism demanded. So why did it sting?...

You looked down at the sleek flight tablet tucked beneath your arm, its dark screen reflecting the fluorescent lights, then toward the empty corridor where he'd disappeared. For reasons you couldn't begin to justify you found yourself wanting more than a polite farewell. From one particular Instructor Pilot.