Chasing Horizons



Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER :: This tale is relative to Captain Marvel from the comics, movies, and television from Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. There are some glaring differences, so this is a derivative work rather than straight-up fanfiction.


Author's note: Haven't been feeling great, lately. The newest chapter for Webs We Weave isn't ready. I'm a few chapters ahead on this one. Enjoy, everyone.

In the span of the next few hours, there was an announcement that the base was standing down from General Quarters. Though no one had any idea what had really happened, there was no immediate danger and we didn’t have to be at a heightened level of readiness any longer—not that I was really participating, anyway.

It felt like the doctors were putting me through The Crucible all over again, except without the mud and sleep deprivation. They took a lot of blood samples, but not enough to have much more than a slight fatigue effect on me. A little chow and some fluids cleared that up fairly quickly. The medical imaging was extensive. They did MRIs, CTs (with and without contrast), and more sonograms than I could count. The worst part was the physical testing. I was fine doing the running as I keep myself in very good shape. The problem was the physical exams that reminded me of the MEPS screening, duck walk and all. The absolute worst part was the combination pelvic exam and internal ultrasound. I will never give any woman any lip about pelvic exam complaints ever again.

As bad as the testing was, awaiting the results was the worst. At least I caught a Quantum Leap marathon. I always enjoyed the show as a kid. Diving into the science-fiction jargon and relative silliness of the situations helped to distract my mind a bit. Then, there was an episode where Dr. Samuel Beckett found himself in the body of a woman for the first time, titled “What Price, Gloria?”. That hit a little too close to the current situation, though. Like a good marine, I got through it but it lingered in my mind going forward.

After more than eighteen hours since General Quarters had been called, I was still in the hospital but my results were in. The doctors started with vital statistics. I had shrunk from 5’9” tall to 5’5” tall. My weight had gone from 186 pounds to 142 pounds. My body fat had gone from 13% to 21%. Everything easily aligned with standards expected of a Marine, male or female. Speaking of which, it was confirmed that I was now indeed female. All the parts necessary as well as the musculature and skeletal structure to go with it. They confirmed through genetic testing that I was related to my parents and my sister. Given that my parents never had any children beyond Laura and I, that confirmed my identity scientifically. The last thing they confirmed was something I was fearing ever since looking at the reflection in the mirror: I was now equivalent in biological age to a seventeen or eighteen year old, likely the latter. They chose to go with eighteen so as to keep me as an adult, at least.

Everything was basically a blur after that. They had found out everything they needed to but couldn’t give me any answers as to how or why this had happened to me. They once again left me with daytime television to occupy myself. If they found out everything they wanted to know, why was I still in sick bay? More and more, it was seeming as if the United States government wanted to turn me into a lab specimen so they could find out what kind of “damage” the astronomical event had caused. It’s not unprecedented for a service member to be turned into a pin cushion for government scientists, just disappointing to know it was plausible to still be occurring so many years after the Tuskegee Syphilis Study was finally reported on in the press.

I would find out why they were still keeping me a couple of hours later when the hatch swung open to reveal my commanding officer, Lt. Col. Allen Cobb. Yesterday, he was shorter than me. Today, I discovered that to not be the case when my feet landed on the deck and I snapped to POA. He scoffed and shook his head.

“At ease, Danvers. Christ,” He grumbled while simultaneously reacting to my appearance. He himself looked like James Tolkan from Top Gun but with Danny DeVito’s hairline from his early career.

I relaxed my posture but not so much that I defied the regulations. “Good morning, sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The damn girly voice was still messing with my head.

“I wouldn’t say it was a pleasure, Danvers. Frankly, the whole thing is downright unsat. How are you holding up?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted, Captain. Let me hear your thoughts.”

“Whole thing’s fucking crazy, sir. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to accept that what you’re seeing right now is your Aviation Maintenance Officer. I sure as fuck don’t sound like it, let alone look like it.” I shrugged. “I’m supposed to be a 41 year old and male career Marine, not some little teeny-bopper chick.”

“I understand your position, Captain. I really do. It’s confusing as all hell. The doctors have assured me that all the evidence proves who you are. I’ve got faith in the evidence, Danvers. You and I both have a new reality to contend with.”

“No shit, sir.”

“Captain Rambeau, would you come in, please?” My CO requested and ushered in a young black woman, probably mid-20s, dressed in utilities and her hair secured in a bun. “This is Capt. Malika Rambeau. She flies with the Purple Foxes.”

I nodded toward the woman then turned my eyes back to my CO. “We’ve met, sir. Sporadically.”

“Good. She’s gonna be on your wing for the next few weeks. Given the changes you’ve experienced, you’ll need to update your uniform. You are female, now, and will adhere to female regulations. You will reflect well on this squadron, starting with your uniform. Am I understood?”

His words may as well have been a knife digging into me and twisting. I started to object by grumbling, but reluctantly agreed. “Yes, sir. You’re understood. I object, but I will follow orders.”

He tapped me on the shoulder. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome, Marine. We’ll figure this out and maybe get you back to your old self. Get yourself squared away. You’ve got liberty until your uniforms get finished. I’ve already put in a rush at the shop.”

As he left, Rambeau and I snapped to POA until he exited the hatch. Once he did, we both relaxed. Being of equal rank helped.

“Well, that was awkward as fuck. You good, Danvers?” She asked.

“Fuck no. Fucking necktabs, skirts, and shiny heels? The old man’s delusional if he thinks I’ll be caught dead in any of it.” My voice did its best to growl, which only came out as some kind of juvenile, rebellious gurgle.

She shrugged at me. “Well, you’re in luck. You can still wear utilities with your sleeves rolled up like any other Marine. On the plus side, you can wear your Charlies which don’t need a necktab and you don’t even have to tuck in the khaki shirt.”

“I actually like tucking in my shirts. It gives a nice, clean line from neck to crotch.” I grumbled.

To my petulance, she responded, “Danvers, I wanted to avoid being the asshole, but you gotta lock it up and work with me here. I don’t wanna be doing this either. It’s fucking weird.”

“What even is the task you’ve been assigned, Rambeau?”

“It’s my job to educate you on the regs for women and make sure you adhere to them. First thing you have to learn is the bun.”

“What?! Absolutely not. How short can I have my hair?”

She actually stopped. “Well… basically a pixie cut. It’s got to fade into a minimum one-quarter-inch length to a maximum of one inch about two inches from your hairline starting at the nape of the neck, which is roughly the top of your ears. That’s regs for short hair, at least.”

“Pixie cut? Why not a high-and-tight?”

She frowned at me. “Ask the uniform board yourself. I’ll fly you to 8th & I myself just to watch them tear you a new asshole. We’re women. We gotta look like women. Can’t look like the men.”

I rolled my eyes. “The cover and dress blues jacket are basically the men’s style.”

“I know and I still hate it. I voted against that unnecessary change to the female uniform. The reasoning was a heap of Bravo Sierra. This is about the hair, though.”

“So… we’re talking like… Liza Minnelli kind of hairstyle?”

Raising her eyebrows, she bobbed her head around for a short moment. “More or less. While it has been found to be true that you are Capt. Samuel Danvers, you’re not going to be treated the same way you were when you looked like you did at PT yesterday. Like Lt. Col. Cobb said, until we can find out what happened and whether or not it can be reversed, you’re stuck like this. We all have to make do. You’ve still got your rank and the authority that comes with it, but you have to know people are going to treat you differently. You have to eat a giant slice of humble pie and deal with it. Neither one of us makes the rules here.”

I plopped down on the gurney while simultaneously letting out a sigh. “I don’t like it but you’ve got a point. We can’t keep pretending like this…” I motioned to my body. “...never happened, as much as I would desperately like to.”

“Good to go. Let me have a word with the nurse so they can process your sick bay discharge, then I can run over to the MCX while that’s processing.” She suggested.

“Why the MCX?”

“You don’t actually think anyone’s going to let you walk around here without proper underwear, do you?”

Smacking my forehead, I dramatically collapsed onto the gurney. “Do it before I have too much time to think about it.”

She laughed as she scurried out the hatch. I was left to ponder what she really meant by “proper underwear”. My eyes turned back to the Quantum Leap marathon so my brain could turn off and not think about it. I had to change the channel when the episode where Sam leaps into a beauty queen came up. Though I could relate to the visual juxtaposition, I was trying to numb my brain and not let it think about such things. The deduction that if I had to be here any longer my brain might melt and drip out of my nostrils came to me just before Capt. Rambeau returned. She threw a bag at me and simply told me to “put it on” before darting back out the hatch. In the bag, I found a package of Haynes cotton panties, two sports bras, and a plain white T-shirt.

That was the moment Captain Samuel Ethan Danvers, USMC, truly died.

First, I removed the hospital gown and did everything I could to avoid looking at my nude form. Opening the package of panties, I pulled out the first available pair. They were gray with a white waistband and pulled them up my legs. They fit fine. Grabbing the gray sports bra, I mulled over exactly how to get it on. One side was bigger than the other, so I deduced that must be the way it goes on. The idea was to put it on like a tank top and it turned into a battle. It wasn’t as treacherous as the Battle of the Tube, but likely the same combat theater. I really had no desire to touch the fleshy mounts atop my chest, but getting the bra into a comfortable position involved fumbling with them a bit. Then I had to liberate all that hair from confinement. Once adjusted, it fit fine. I pulled on the only familiar piece of clothing: the white t-shirt. When all that was in place, I went for my “patient’s belongings” bag to pull out my desert tan flight suit, boot socks, and warm weather combat boots. The socks fit okay, but nothing else did. When everything was on, I felt like a child playing “dress up” in their father’s clothes. I stowed the seemingly gigantic watch I usually wore into a random pocket because there was no way that was going to fit in a satisfactory manner.

Capt. Rambeau entered along with the nurse tasked with taking out my IV and handing me my hospital discharge papers. I didn’t give the discharge papers a second glance. No part of me wanted to think about all the things that were now different about me. Thankfully, Rambeau waited until after the nurse left and we were making our way out of the hospital to speak with me.

“So, it’s ‘Vegas’, huh?” She tried to spark conversation.

I raised an eyebrow in her general direction. “And… how did you know?”

“Lt. Col. Cobb brought me up to speed. Didn’t think we had enough rapport to talk about it until now. Just to confirm, it’s ‘Vegas’, right?”

“Yea. Vegas. Unlike a lot of the young bucks going around sharing their night ops, I don’t talk about my personal life. It’s complicated. I leave it at that. So, they said ‘What happens with Vegas stays with Vegas’ and it turned into my callsign.” I stated plainly in the disturbing voice that was now mine.

She nodded and chuckled. “Eh, there’s worse callsigns. Mine is ‘Breaker’. My first simulator flight in Corpus Christi was a disaster. I step in and start going through the pre-flight. I go to switch on the engines and the whole thing shuts down, threatening to erupt in flames. I was fine in the cockpit, but the gimbal outside was throwing sparks. Nobody knows what caused it to this day. It was like I tripped the wrong breaker, hence the name.”

I let out a healthy chuckle. “Oh, that’s a rough one.”

She shrugged. “There have been worse callsigns than that one. I heard about some Gunnery Sergeant that became a rescue swimmer. She was on a call with some Navy brass and her CoC. She said something that sounded like ‘ma-weenie’ to everybody but her. They call her ‘Vienna’.”

The laughter could not be contained. “Oh, I bet her CAG loves that origin story.”

She led me to her car and we both climbed in. She started it up and began driving. For a moment, I wondered why she didn’t ask me where I lived. When she pulled into the MCX, I knew why she didn’t. She had been given orders to get me squared away and that’s what she intended to do. I lost track of how many things she had me trying on in the fitting rooms. When it was all done, I had a full set of MCCUUs and Service Charlies that fit my new frame and were within regs for me. At the end of it, I put on a fresh pair of socks, some utilities trousers, bloused said trousers, a khaki web belt, green t-shirt, tucked in said t-shirt, put on better fitting combats, rolled the sleeves of the blouse, and slipped said blouse over everything. We ordered two additional sets while commissioning the chest patches. I added two covers for good measure. After that, we ordered one officer’s service cover and bought two full uniform sets to comply with Service Charlie regulations. I already had all the rank pins as well as my ribbons and badges, so getting more would be unnecessary. With one over-stuffed garment bag, we made our way out the hatch.

Before we could truly leave, we ran into a Staff Sergeant who seemed to have a chip on her shoulder. She came right up to me and laid into me about being out of regs. I had no name tapes, branch tapes, nor rank insignia—which is exactly what would make her think I was a recruit. The main reason for the grilling? My hair.

Rambeau stepped between us. “You had better stand down, Staff Sergeant! You’re talking to a decorated Marine officer and aviator, not a recruit!”

She snapped to the POA the moment she caught Breaker’s rank on her collar. “Apologies, ma’am! Didn’t recognize her, ma’am! My argument still stands that she is out of uniform, ma’am!”

‘Oh, fuck… I’m gonna get called ‘ma’am’, now!’ My brain whimpered.

“You can drop the shouting, Staff Sergeant. This isn’t recruit training. At ease.” Breaker sighed. “We are well aware that Captain Danvers is out of uniform. You’re right to call it out. We’re getting everything squared away. There are unusual circumstances and it’ll be a couple of days before everything is final. Is that clear?”

The SSgt. stood before us at Parade Rest. “Crystal clear, ma’am.” Her eyes landed on me. “Apologies for the grilling, ma’am.”

‘And there it is.’ My eyes rolled simply hearing the honorific. “No harm done. Carry on, Staff Sergeant.”

The SSgt. nodded. “Aye, ma’am. By your leave, ladies.” She turned to her left and continued on into the store.

Yea, I don’t think that’s ever going to not be weird for me. We exited the MCX and climbed into her car once more, my uniforms stowed on a hanger in the back seat area. Again, she didn’t ask where I was living. All we did was cross a major road and stop at a salon. A part of me started to brighten up at the idea of getting all this hair off of me.

Once we were inside, it was foreign territory. Until that moment, I’d never set foot in those fancy salons women tend to go to. Barber shops around base were perfectly fitting for me. The place was decorated better than any barber shop and smelled like expensive hair products. The people were active but calm. There were four staff members and a few patrons, both military and civilian. Rambeau spoke to the staff while I took a seat in the reception area. It was stated that the salon doesn’t do “walk-ins”. Rambeau sweet-talked the staff and actually set up a compromise, which led to us sitting in the lobby for over an hour and a half. There was a kind of style sheet—basically a bunch of photos of past work in a binder—but most of those were long hair that had been curled or colored in some way. Rambeau brought me a couple of magazine-style booklets with various hairstyles inside. I kept insisting that I just wanted a cut as close to male regs as I could possibly get. I didn’t know how all that hair had grown out of my head like it did. I just knew I wanted it gone.

Looking through the booklets, Rambeau guided me to all the styles that might comply with regulations. To my brain, the shortest buzz-style cuts made all the women featured in the photos look like lesbians. I don’t necessarily have an issue with lesbians in general, but I tend to prefer women who look a little more feminine than that. Before that day, I had no idea what constituted a “pixie cut”, either. After looking through those magazine photos, all the women looked like they were auditioning to play Peter Pan. They looked like children to me. I grew more frustrated with each page. Given the visage I saw in the mirror, neither the buzz cuts nor pixie cuts felt right. Logically, I knew these styles were more practical and wouldn’t get messed up by a cover or my flight helmet. Something just ate away at the back of my mind that I still don’t understand.

I let out a cute-sounding growl and tossed the magazine onto the table in the middle of the waiting area. “None of these feel right. They just look wrong, somehow.”

“Hold fast, Marine. We’ll find something. We just have to keep looking.” Rambeau tried to pacify me.

“You remember Lt. Col. Sarah MacKenzie?” I asked, making a deep reference she may not understand.

She balked and raised an eyebrow at me. “You mean ‘Mac’ from JAG? I do… my dad actually liked that show more than me. Why?”

“She had a good look, right? Cool, confident, feminine, and practical. Some people complained, but it was always within regs—which is saying something for a television show in the ‘90s.”

Rambeau seemed to blush a little. “I think she’s one of the reasons I joined The Corps. She was badass. You want a more feminine, mid-length cut like hers? Are you ill?”

My eyes landed on her and my face morphed to convey how serious I was. “I’m a career Marine, Breaker. For just shy of twenty-three years, I’ve dedicated my life to The Corps. I’m used to not making a whole lot of personal decisions. My commanding officer asked me to improvise, adapt, and overcome as well as reflect well on my squadron. As much as I know I want to get as close to male regs as I possibly can, I can’t see how doing so accomplishes the mission. I think all the buzz-style and pixie cuts look friggin’ unsat. I do not believe they would work. Something like what Catherine Bell wore in her tenure as ‘Mac’ makes sense in my mind. I wouldn’t have to learn how to do a bun and it would look fine under a cover or flight helmet. Maybe the bottom should sit at or just below my jawline?”

She blinked rapidly at me. “That’s not something I expected out of you, Vegas. Good to go. We’ll get you set up with ‘The Mac’.”

A decision had been made. I didn’t know at the time whether it was the right decision or not, but it felt right for the moment. My eyes wandered to the television. It was on a news channel that I watched just to pass the time. Before long, a stylist did approach us. She seemed to be somewhere in age between Rambeau and what I looked like, now. I don’t remember her name. She had a kind smile and really great hair. That much I remember. What surprised me was when she actually stated “We’ll get you squared away” and “Take off your blouse” like any other person in the Department of the Navy. Our first stop was some chairs that leaned back I had seen some other women get their hair washed in. She was fairly chatty, too.

She asked my name and I simply answered “Sam”. She asked me where I was from and I answered that I grew up on Wright-Patterson Air Force Base where my father served in Dayton, Ohio. My parents still live there—not on base but in Dayton itself. She asked what I did in The Corps and I answered that I was an Osprey pilot at the MCAS a little north. She wondered why an officer with hair as long as mine hadn't secured it in a sock bun like so many others. My brain was saying that divulging too much to this civilian might reveal something classified, so I made up some story that sounded plausible.

One thing has to be said, though: I haven’t had anyone else wash my hair since my mother stopped bathing me as a child. There’s a certain surreal aspect to having another human being washing your hair and scrubbing your scalp. It’s got a zen quality to it. I can’t explain the sensation any other way. The experience was over sooner than I may have liked, but I was then escorted to the chair. The stylist asked me if I wanted to donate the nearly foot-long piece of hair she was about to cut off to a charity known for creating wigs for childhood cancer patients, Locks of Love. I agreed without hesitation. Finally, the actual cut was underway.

My eyes remained closed through the entire process. Everything going on around my head was a new experience. As soon as the ponytail for donation was cut free, my head felt quite a bit lighter. It was followed by pulls and snips all around my head. The process took place over the course of about half an hour, I think. The scissors went away when the blow dryer was utilized. All at once, the utensils were put down and the stylist tapped my shoulders.

“Open your eyes, sleeping beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone request a similar hairstyle to ‘Mac’ but I think I did her justice. What do you think?” She wondered.

Opening my eyes, the mirror before me showed something that hit me hard. When the stylist pulled away the big black bib, the sight before me was something I never thought I’d see. The person staring back at me looked a lot like my sister might have looked if she had enlisted right out of high school like I had. The only exception would be the eyes. Those steely blues are mine. Laura’s are green. The hair, though, seemed to be pulled out of an episode of JAG and updated for 2025. There was a shape and form to it that screamed “Female Marine” back in my face. It fell to one-quarter inch below my jaw, as I had requested. It looked really good, but felt incredibly weird.

Thanks were extended to the stylist and she was paid for her work. I collected my blouse from Rambeau before we exited the establishment. Once outside, I pulled my cover out of the leg pocket of my utilities and slipped it on for the first time. I had to tuck a little hair behind my ears to make everything look professional, but at least I was now within regs—sans the patches that needed to be sewn on. We climbed into Rambeau’s car and she finally asked me where I was living.

We soon arrived at the apartment building that I called home, my BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters). Rambeau was surprised to learn I was in the BOQs and not in a nice house with a family, given how old I was. I don’t like talking about that. I’m a bachelor and have been for my entire career. Would I have liked to get married and have a family someday? Sure. Doesn’t everybody? There were reasons I was still a bachelor and I wasn’t ready to debrief Rambeau on the topic.

She stuck to me like glue while removing the uniforms from the back seat and carrying them into the building. I still had my wallet and keys, so getting into my one-bedroom wasn’t a hurdle. Rambeau spent the next hour teaching me the placement of my gold flight wings, ribbon bars, and marksmanship badges. Rank insignia on the collar and cover were standard, as was the EGA on the cover—which is the exact EGA my Senior Drill Instructor bestowed upon me at the conclusion of The Crucible. I noticed the different shape of the female garrison cover versus the male one. It hurt to salvage the rank pins, flight wings ribbon bars, rifle badge, pistol badge, and EGA from my male uniform to put them on the female uniform. When the work was finished, I had at least one uniform that was fully regulation compliant. Shoving all my male uniforms to the back of the closet, one lone female uniform hung in the fore of the closet. With the light hitting the closet, it seemed to illuminate the uniform in some kind of prophetic manner.

That’s the moment I knew my life would never be the same again.