Chasing Horizons



Chapter One

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: Really wanted to at least get this first chapter out. Updates to this will be a bit less often than previous installments because I want to make sure Webs We Weave is finished before this tale really takes off. I really hope you all enjoy this one, too.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2AC41dglnM ))

The time: 0920. Stick in one hand and throttle control in the other. The aircraft rattled like it usually does. The tiltrotor MV-22 Osprey had a reputation for rattling your bones as the nacelles transitioned from forward airplane position upward to a more helicopter configuration. The turbulence from twin 38-foot proprotors will do that. Active training flights like that morning are generally carried out in such a way that we take off from an airfield, fly out to sea a bit, then come about to the landing zone for our occupants. Being the highest rank on board, the ball was mine. Despite the troubles others had experienced, I had a lot of love for my bird. I don’t care what the jet pilots say. She may ride like a Model T on an improvised dirt road, but that was part of the appeal.

Adjusting the heading to 085 degrees, the LZ was about a kilometer out. I had already started converting the nacelles and preparing for the touch-and-go. My tactics were a bit unique. Every pilot’s are, I guess. On approach, I made sure to have the nacelles at roughly eighty degrees for a smooth approach. I drifted my heading to 106 degrees, glanced to the port side, caught sight of my nervous co-pilot, banked toward 360 degrees (or triple-zero), and converted the nacelles to ninety in a rather quick motion. My co-pilot, a “butter bar” Second Lieutenant, only came out of flight school a few months ago. He was a kid compared to me and never liked the way I came in for combat landings. Having spent time in combat as an enlisted man, I knew what kind of advantages were needed in an LZ. The maneuver I had performed pointed the aft end in a perpendicular configuration to the direction of the operation zone and kicked up enough dust to give the enlisted personnel we were carrying some cover while they disembarked. The proprotors and exhaust from the nacelles kicked up a decent amount of dust on their own, but my maneuver extended the dust cloud further afield for extra coverage in the direction of engagement. There was hope that someday someone might call it “The Danvers Maneuver”.

Leveling out, I set the bird down on the deck and kept the engines running. “Squeaker, disembark.” I commanded the crew chief in the aft compartment through our radio.

“Aye, sir.” The crew chief confirmed before shutting off his mic and shouting at the marines to disembark the aircraft via the aft ramp.

I turned my head over my left shoulder and watched twenty-four marines file out the aft ramp, each one with a full combat loadout. Sometimes, I miss those days. I started my career just like them, so I understood what they were going through. The Marine Corps hadn’t officially deployed anywhere since we pulled out of Iraq and Afghanistan, but we continuously trained for the eventuality. When the last passenger was offloaded, the crew chief raised the ramp and turned his mic back on. My thumb manipulated the dial that transitioned the nacelles to seventy degrees.

“Kids are clear, sir. We’re good to go.” He stated.

“Copy that, Squeaker. We are RTB. Should get back in time for some chow.” I announced as I manipulated the thrust control lever to get us airborne again.

“Didn’t have breakfast, sir?” My co-pilot finally spoke up.

“Negative on that, Knuckles. Between PT, rubbing elbows with the brass, and kicking the tires, didn’t have the time. Besides, I haven’t had breakfast ‘on time’ since OCS.” I answered.

“Living dangerously by flying ops on an empty stomach, sir.” The crew chief chimed in.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Squeaker.” I smirked as if he could see me.

Camp Pendleton isn’t the largest base in the Corps. It’s not even the largest base in the area. So, getting back wouldn’t take much time. On the approach, I had to mind all the P’s and Q’s. Regardless of what you see in the movies, nobody puts up with any show-boating anywhere near a flight deck. Everything is organized, orderly, and professional. I took my place in the queue and flew my pattern until cleared for landing. My bird was put down gently on the deck in the designated area for our squadron: VMM-164, Knightriders. With the capabilities of the Osprey, I only had to taxi for about fifteen meters before I could perform final checks and shut her down.

My co-pilot, 2nd Lt. Mario “Knuckles” Delaney, and I discussed the checklist while my crew chief, Staff Sergeant Trent “Squeaker” Forbes, reported anything we might have missed. We tend to do more checks than are required because we really love our girl. Squeaker named her “Delilah” after that old song that got stuck in his head from the minute he stood on the yellow footprints aboard the MCRD. He’s a “Hollywood Marine”, meaning he trained at MCRD San Diego, and his long-time girlfriend was back in his hometown in South Dakota. While generally not my chosen genre of music, I approved it because of a fling that fell apart when I went to Quantico. It came over the radio right before I reported for duty and has haunted me since.

Once I dismissed the crew and the maintenance crew took over, I headed to the lockers. Methodically, all the extra gear was removed from helmet to kneeboard. Once I fastened the lock, I was finally free to grab a bite of chow then spend a couple hours doing paperwork. I like flying well enough, but the one guarantee when you move up in ranks is the amount of paperwork just grows exponentially. All part of the job when you wear double silver bars. The fun part about a flight suit as a uniform is that I’m technically wearing less than everyone around me.

Off the flight deck, on went my garrison cover that I always neatly folded into an arm pocket of my flight suit. I also usually wore aviators. I’ve seen Top Gun more than a hundred times like any other pilot. There had even been a few times the squadron had gotten together for a barbeque in the summer and, much to the chagrin of some of the pilots’ wives, we projected the movie onto a really big sheet in someone’s backyard. We had plans to do something similar this summer except we’d be playing the new movie, Top Gun: Maverick. Back to the aviators, I know how cool they look and the mirror confirms it every time I catch a glance. Next up was the gauntlet of salutes on the way to the chow hall to pick up a burrito. Then, another gauntlet of salutes on the way to my office.

Flying is great. As the squadron’s Aviation Maintenance Officer, the paperwork is a mountainous nightmare and could be thrown out all the portholes in existence, but I’d still feel bad about it. Being called “sir” most of the time isn’t the end of the world. The thing I’ll never get used to after starting my career in the enlisted ranks is being saluted.

Belay that. I have a secretary. He’s a Sergeant. That one still gets me.

Every minute I’m not flying just doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m disconnected or something. While eating my burrito, I read maintenance reports and approved scheduled downtime for each bird to make sure they’re all properly maintained. Interestingly, there was a promotion recommendation for one of the mechanics that had caught a hydraulic problem some of the others missed, probably saving the lives of myself and the flight crew. That was a no-brainer sign-off on moving from PFC to Lance Corporal. I would love nothing more than to get away from this paperwork and mingle with the maintenance crew a little. It was nice to know who had my life and the lives of the rest of the crew in their hands. The ability to put a face to the name of the mechanics that kept us from becoming a statistic seemed rather important.

No time today. After finishing my burrito, it was time for a squadron meeting. My mind began to wander because debriefing such a short mission seemed pointless. One of those “this could have been an email” moments. I had to take some notes on the next part as there were orders coming down about a logistics delivery and extraction operation to Twenty-Nine Palms the squadron was going to run in the next few days. After one Marine that deployed to the Pacific in World War II christened it, we all call it ‘Twentynine Stumps’ or just ‘The Stumps’. It’s not a very affectionate nickname, either.

“One last thing, Marines,” Our commanding officer, Lt. Col. Allen Cobb, added at the end of the meeting. “Eyes sharp and ears open, today. Intel says there’s supposed to be some kind of space thing that passes through the Earth. Space Force says ETA could be between 1320 and 1400. I don’t know what to make of it, but be on alert. You’re dismissed.”

We all snapped to attention, chorused an “aye-aye, sir”, then took a single step backward and executed a polished about face like we were all trained before dispersing to our respective duties. My mind wandered as I thought about the addendum. Why was he so casual about it? Things don’t just travel through the Earth, do they? Something tells me that I should have paid more attention in astronomy, but I’m a terrestrial pilot and only really need to know about the stars to navigate at night without any equipment. I could memorize those well enough. What the CO was talking about sounded like a job for Neil Degrasse Tyson, not me. Besides, Space Force was kind of a joke and we were all in on it.

The only thing I could do was get back to my office and take care of the paperwork. Thankfully, it was all indoors so there wasn’t any saluting except from the armed personnel in the administration building. Without a cover, it was a simple wave off and “As you were” from me. I was thankful to get into my office and be left alone for a little while.

Then, a knock came to my door.

“Enter,” I barked a bit more harshly than I probably intended.

A younger marine, around early-20s, with blonde hair and blues entered wearing his utilities. He snapped to attention and identified himself as 2nd Lt. Reece Campbell. He presented a folder, which made me roll my eyes. “Maintenance reports for you, sir.”

“At ease, Lieutenant.” I nodded to the bin on my desk for inbound papers. “Drop them with the rest of them. That all you’ve got for me, Frosty?” I smirked, noting his callsign.

The younger man relaxed a little and placed the folder in the bin as requested. “Not entirely, sir.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” He asked, a little unsure of my response.

“Granted. Spit it, Frosty.”

“I know I’m new to the squadron and all. I just got here three months ago. I’m still learning the ropes, I guess. Any advice you can give me if we deploy in combat? I’ve never been in combat, sir. With everything going on right now, I’m a little worried about it.” He admitted, his voice shaking a little as he did so.

I slowly nodded as he spoke. I’d seen a lot of combat over the years, so I’d forgotten the feelings he was going through at that moment. “Honestly, Frosty, most of us old timers forget what it’s like to deploy for the first time. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five, sir.”

I balked. “Wow. I’d done my first enlistment by the time I was your age. Hell, I’d almost done two.” I shook my head. “Belay that, Frosty. You’re still young and haven’t been in the world that long. I’m not going to lie, combat is no picnic. It’s hell on Earth. Difference is: you’re in the air. You’re not going to look the devil in the eyes like the ground pounders. Your job is to get them to theirs, resupply when needed, and get them home. Lean on your crew chief. They’re the spine of the aircraft and your first line of defense. You’re in the port seat. Who’s to your starboard? Who’s the pilot?”

“First Lieutenant Kelcie Hayes, sir.”

“Princess?!” I smacked my forehead. “Okay, yes, she does know what she’s doing and is a hell of a pilot. If that statement ever leaves this room, I will hang you from the mast by your skivvies. Understood?”

He chuckled. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get to know your pilot. Lean on her and cover her six wherever you can. Keep your head in the game and you’re gonna be fine. I used to work on the old Sea Knights, so I know how to requisition repairs and spare parts. I’ll make sure everybody’s bird is squared away. I may not like the paperwork all that much, but I know how to take care of my marines, good to go?”

He gave me a small smile. “Yea, good to know you’ve got my six out there, sir.”

“Always, Lieutenant. Always.”

Suddenly, my eyes started to fog over as if I pulled a high-G maneuver a bit too quickly. I could feel my body impact a couple things on the way down while Lt. Campbell screamed for a corpsman.

What seemed like only a moment later, I woke up to the General Quarters alarm. The lieutenant, a corpsman, and my sergeant were hovering over me. I barked at them to get to their positions. Everybody started scrambling, including me. Grabbing my cover, I started heading for the hatch. That action was interrupted by a call hitting the phone in my office. Executing a messy about-face, I reentered the office and picked up the phone.

“Captain Samuel Danvers, VMM-164 Aviation Maintenance Officer, go ahead,” I answered.

It was my commanding officer. “Danvers, we’re on lockdown. That event hit like an EMP. I need you to get down to the flight deck and make sure the birds are good to go.”

“Aye, sir. We’ll check electrical systems. Anything further, sir?”

“Are you having electrical issues in your office?”

My eyes darted to the overhead. “Negative, sir. Good to go here. I can’t speak to the last few moments, though. I went down in my office. It felt like G-LOC, sir.”

“When you’re finished on the flight line, report to the med bay.”

“Aye, sir. You’ll have a sitrep soon on both concerns. Over and out.” The receiver was returned to the cradle and I resumed my dash to the flight deck.

The entire base was running around in organized chaos. It seemed par for the course during a General Quarters call. Getting out of the building was half the battle. Once I did get out, it was a matter of crossing a road, curving around the control tower to the north, and past Hanger 6 to the flight line. Some of the pilots were out near their birds in full gear shouting things at the maintenance crew. Others were not in flight gear, but still having a go at the maintenance guys. I pulled aside the first person in a flight suit I came across. Spinning the guy around, I learned it wasn’t a guy at all. I read the patch on her chest.

“Staff Sergeant, I need a sitrep,” I commanded.

She shook her head for half a second. “Unknown, sir. We were engaged in post-flight and routine maintenance. We lost all on-board electronics on every bird, sir. I confirmed it with six different teams. Don’t know the cause, sir.”

“Earth got hit by an unexplained astronomical phenomenon, Staff Sergeant. Intel says it created an EMP-like effect. Let’s go through the checklist for the onboard electronics on every single aircraft in the squadron. Spread the word.” I rationalized.

She nodded quickly. “Aye, sir.” Her eyes suddenly widened rather dramatically. “Sir, you look like you’ve got some St. Elmo’s Fire going on, but it’s yellow.”

My eyebrows squeezed together. “What? St. Elmo’s Fire is blue or purple…” When my eyes caught sight of my arm, more than half of it was engulfed in some kind of yellow light phenomenon that arced across the surface—just like St. Elmo’s Fire can do on various surfaces. “What the… ?”

“Yea, that’s a copy on the Whiskey–Tango–Foxtrot, sir.” She agreed.

“Why are you still here, Staff Sergeant? We’ve got several $84 million investments to assess and make sure they haven’t been turned into paperweights!”

She squeaked as she leapt into action. Meanwhile, I called out for the corpsman as I continued watching the phenomenon creep up my arm and a shiver ran up my spine. It took about a minute for a corpsman to actually make his way over to me. One look at me and he nearly fell over backwards. By that time, both arms as well as both legs and my entire torso seemed to be engulfed in the phenomenon. At the same time, my hands and half my upper arms seemed to glow with an eerie inner light that lit up my arteries, veins, and skin. I’d never seen anything like it… except in that one movie trailer from 2019. ‘It can’t be. That’s my mind playing tricks. Right?,’ I thought.

“By all means, Corpsman, sit on your ass and gawk.” I barked at the stunned Navy kid.

“What do you expect me to do, sir?” He nervously asked.

“I don’t know, maybe assess me medically and help me rationalize that I’m not losing my ever-loving mind?!” I threw my hands down and balled them into fists.

In hindsight, not the best laid plan. The moment I threw down my fisted hands, I was somehow launched skyward about thirty meters. The moment I released my fists in surprise, gravity was in charge again. I landed in a cart with various logistics supplies and lost consciousness. I must have knocked my head on something.

There was no real way to know how long I was out. My eyes slowly opened up and the first thing I saw was those supposed sound-dampening overhead tiles and harsh, fluorescent light. My eyes quickly closed again and I let out a groan. At least, I thought I did. The lung mechanics, trachea mechanics, and vibrations were all familiar. It’s the sound that wasn’t. The sound that came out was smooth and pitched far higher than anything I’ve been able to accomplish since puberty. It sounded like one of my nieces.

My eyes were instantly open again and I sat up quicker than a recruit getting grilled by a drill instructor for the first time. In doing so, I felt like I was being strangled by a tube. A not-so-epic battle ensued between me and a plastic oxygen tube. That’s when I noticed the hair. Even when I was younger, my hair was always in a neat, short style. My dad was career Air Force, so he was never going to put up with any “long-haired hippies” in his house; his daughter was excluded from the metric. That was always fine with me because I didn’t like the idea of long hair anyway. Somewhere between the flight deck and the Battle of the Tube, my hair had grown out below my shoulders and may have reached the middle of my back. It was straight as an arrow and had an evolution of brown at the roots which slowly transitioned into a red toward the tips. I knew I had auburn hair like my sister, but I’ve never seen the red tint very much because it manifests more when the hair is longer. The hair wasn’t the only surprise.

Under the hospital gown, there appeared to be some sort of protrusion from my chest. Lifting the neckline of the gown, I confirmed there were in fact two of them with my dog tags nestled between them. As if on instinct, an unfamiliar hand darted under the hospital gown and moved directly to my crotch. What the hand found there was something I’d only ever experienced second hand. It’s what the hand didn’t find there that alarmed me even more. I’m not the type of marine or aviator that lives life according to the dictates of the little marine in their trousers, but I’ve been literally attached to the thing for forty-one years. Not finding it in my crotch was like hearing a battle buddy just died.

I started frantically removing any and all medical implements anywhere on my body. Having won the Battle of the Tube, that was the first thing to get discarded. From the clamp they put on your finger to even the IV, I started trying to remove everything. In my heightened emotional state, that yellow St. Elmo’s Fire started dancing over my skin starting at the hands. I hadn’t been paying attention to the alarms going off as I took off the clamp and various diodes.

A young black woman in a full khaki uniform burst into the room. She wore a stethoscope around her neck. My frantic eyes landed on the single silver bar on her collar then moved toward her eyes. I knew she was Navy, evidenced by the full khaki uniform and the fact that the Marine Corps doesn’t have a medical MOS. The single silver bar denoted she was a Lieutenant Junior Grade because the Navy had to be weird like that. She was definitely a nurse because she was an officer. Corpsmen are generally enlisted.

“The hell are you doin’, Marine?” She scolded me almost instantly.

“Freaking the fuck out! What’s it look like?” The voice of a teenage girl erupted from my throat. At least she sounded pissed off and confused. “What the fuck happened and why do I sound like I’m auditioning for the inevitable remake of Clueless?!”

The nurse rolled her eyes and started hitting buttons. “Gimme a minute and we’ll work it out.” She glanced over at my hands. “That yellow shit ain’t gonna hurt me, is it?”

“How the hell should I know?!”

When the alarms were handled, she turned back to me. “At ease, Marine! You need to lock it the fuck up and handle yourself! Do you know where you are?”

My brain recognized the authority. In the vicinity of a sick bay, doctors and nurses trump the chain of command. They are the authority on deck. I straightened up and stopped trying to detach everything. The IV was spared the carnage. I spoke matter-of-factly, “Aboard MCAS Camp Pendleton unless I’ve been carried away to a black site while unconscious.”

She smirked. “No aliens here, Captain. Though, you have been moved a little south to the hospital rather than the 22 Area Branch Clinic.”

I turned and raised an eyebrow at her. “Why am I at the hospital and not the clinic?”

“We have better diagnostics tools at our disposal down here to determine what exactly happened. So far, we’ve taken a little blood and a basic physical examination.” She reported.

“And what have you discovered so far?”

She grabbed the clipboard at the foot of the gurney and glanced at it. “It says here that your blood type matches that on your dog tags and we’ve done a full genetic screening, results pending. Externally, you appear to be a young female. Other than that, we’ll have to wait for more tests.” She dropped the clipboard and looked back at me. “I know it ain’t the news you’re lookin’ for but that’s all we’ve got. We’re still under General Quarters, so a lot of people are diverted elsewhere.”

“Still under General Quarters? What time is it?” I wondered.

She checked the watch on her wrist. “Just after 1500. I suggest you settle in and try to catch something on TV. You’re gonna be here for a minute.”

Grumbling unfamiliar sounds, I plopped back down on the pillows. “I’m on the Binnacle List, then? Yay me.”

Turning to leave, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Marines…”

She left me to my thoughts in that small hospital room. It wasn’t even equipped with a head, so I’d have to locate one in the passageway should I need it later. My eyes scanned my surroundings, cataloguing them. There was a single gurney in the center of the room with me in it. A curtain with a rail was next to the gurney for a privacy screen. There was a hatch, the only entrance or exit. A single small television was bolted to the bulkhead. No porthole. The fact that the room was roughly the approximate size of a standard jail cell didn’t escape my notice, either. With reservations, I turned on the television and started channel surfing. I relearned why I do not like basic cable.

After a while, I needed to make a head call. So, it was time to locate the thing. Getting off the gurney was easy enough but there was a symphony of unfamiliar sensations every time I moved. Pushing all that to the back of my mind for the moment, I focused on my self-imposed mission: Operation Head Call. Opening the hatch, I poked my head out into the passageway. Yup, looked like any other hospital. I looked to my left and right looking for the blue sign with the stick figures on it. To my left about twenty meters down, I saw the sign reading “All Gender Bathroom” with the figure for male, female, and handicapped person on the sign. That meant there’d only be one shitter, sink, and maybe a mirror.

The mission was a “go”. I emerged from the hatch and started down the passageway. A couple of nurses and corpsmen passed and didn’t give me so much as a second glance. I made it to the head with zero opposition. Opening the hatch, slipping in, closing it, and securing the lock, I was inside. Phase 1 complete. My eyes landed on the shitter, then bounced between it and whatever lay beneath the hospital gown I was wearing. With intense trepidation, I advanced on the porcelain adversary and inadvertently lifted the gown at the precipice of the shitter. Bad move. I got a full view of everything going on from the belly button down and it was not okay. Dropping the gown, groaning like one of my nieces, and sitting down, it would seem there were going to be some casualties on this mission.

Private First Class Peter Johnson, killed in action.

Sitting with my legs spread just a little bit, the act of relieving myself was standard procedure. All I had to do was relax myself as per usual. Once the stream started, everything worked itself out. Not wanting to think about the biological mechanics of it all, I quickly stood once the stream stopped. I immediately regretted it. Now, I know why my sister could never stand being without toilet paper when we were young. Grabbing a few squares and having zero idea what I was doing, I made the effort to clean myself up. It was as awkward and disturbing as one might think. Phase 2 complete.

Staff Sergeant Holden Fass, killed in action.

Finished with that whole mess, I moved to the sink to wash my hands. I’m not a barbarian. At first, I avoided eye contact with the mirror. It would be inevitable, though. I was equal parts curious and completely terrified to find out what the mirror would tell me. Taking my time to wash my incredibly unfamiliar and seemingly tiny hands, it was the moment of truth. Time to suck it up. In a swift motion, I lifted my head to see what the mirror had to tell me. Reflecting back at me was the form of a child in a hospital gown. She seemed to be about the same age as my niece, Hannah. Though, bore a lot of similarities to my sister, Laura. I randomly remembered what my sister looked like going to Prom her senior year. The girl in the mirror didn’t look much different from that. The hospital gown hinted at the form beneath but didn’t reveal very much at all except that I had roughly the same muscle definition in the same places. Almost nothing of the forty-one year old man I had been at reveille this morning reflected back at me. In its place, the mirror seemed to be applying those gender swap and age regression filters I’ve heard about. The hair was indeed down to about the middle of the back. The only thing that really seemed to be absolutely familiar were the particular shade of blue eyes I’ve had my whole life. They were always a lot like my mom’s eyes.

Lieutenant Eckard Charles, killed in action.

Letting out a very long sigh, I turned to the hatch and left the head. My head was hanging and my eyes focused on the spotted linoleum of the deck. Operation Head Call had been a success, but there were some participants that weren’t coming home. Returning to the hospital room, I settled onto the gurney once again to numb my brain with daytime television. The next several hours were not going to be something I was at all looking forward to.

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.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sq-v18O93lE ))

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.

Chasing Horizons



Chapter Three

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. This almost didn't get posted, today.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_m-BjrxmgI ))

The next three weeks were a logistical nightmare. I procured three short-sleeve khaki shirts, two pairs of service trousers, a service cover, three sets of MCCUUs, three white shirts, three green shirts, three warm-weather combat boots, two pairs of oxfords, two garrison covers, and an assortment of PT gear. Replacing an entire wardrobe is a real pain in the ass, especially if that wardrobe is primarily professional uniforms worn on a near daily basis. While things like the PT gear were “unisex”, I couldn’t just wear what I already had because my entire stature had shrunk. Everything had to be brand new. I also had to be fitted for and put in a requisition for a new flight suit as well as a helmet. Nothing fit anymore. The most painstaking of all of them was my Dress Blues. I had to be measured meticulously and the alterations would take forever to finish.

Thankfully, all I had to do was go down to the MCX and grab some PT gear off the rack. Service uniforms were the same story, but with the added steps of pinning on all the adornments. It only took a few days to get my utilities with patches in the proper places. I already had the subdued rank pins. The next hurdle was my flight gear, so I couldn’t touch my aircraft for two weeks until that came in. The last to arrive were my Dress Blues. I also grabbed the friggin’ neck tab women have to wear and a Service Alpha coat, just in case. All that fussing over uniforms didn’t allow any time for civilian attire, not that I was ready for that anyway. Once I had my flight gear, I was ready to resume my duties in the squadron.

Only one problem with that: psychological evaluation. Within a day of being discharged from the hospital, a psychotherapist showed up at my BOQ wanting to talk. While the doctors had poked, prodded, and evaluated me at the hospital, the psychotherapist wanted to do the same to my brain. I’ve never been “in therapy” before. Never needed it. The order for a psych eval probably came from someone higher up the food chain than Lt. Col. Cobb. With the therapist showing up and sporadic inquiry from medical personnel, I was starting to smell a rotting fish. I played along, but reinforced the notion that I was mentally and physically capable of continuing my job.

Not only did I have to chat with the therapist practically every day, but I also had to check in with sick bay every other day and I had to work with the Squadron Sergeant Major. Dealing with the therapist was exhausting enough. Getting blood drawn so often, I was drinking a lot more water. With the Sgt. Maj., I had to go to an enclosed facility and basically run the Physical Fitness Test every three days. By week two, I was running the Combat Fitness Test as well. Only once a week, but still a lot. We usually only have to do the CFT once a year. I was noticing eyeballs on me that were attempting to remain clandestine but failed miserably.

The therapist knew I was holding back a great deal. I’m a guarded person that compartmentalizes a lot of things. I had to learn a lot of that compartmentalization after being deployed in combat so many times. I don’t really “do” emotions all that much. At least, not the deep ones she was trying to get out of me.

The Squadron Sgt. Maj. and I, however, had a rapport from the beginning. He already knew how deeply I respected him. He was as annoyed as I was over the insistence that I run the physical tests so often. To be honest, they were a bit different. I wasn’t just breezing through them like nothing. It was readily apparent that this new body was taking some getting used to and its capabilities needed to be evaluated by not just the Sgt. Maj. but by me as well. I need to know I could count on my body and my mind… and so did DARPA, apparently.

Three men in lab coats hooked me up with those little diode things they stick to various parts of your body and had me doing some crazy things. First, they had me run for as long as I thought I could. To my amazement, I’d made it somewhere in the vicinity of twenty miles before I got tired of going in circles. I wasn’t fatigued, either. Next, they had me run an indoor obstacle course as many times as I thought I could. I did that about thirty times. Next, they put me in a room with an assortment of weights and asked me to lift whatever I could. I lifted all of them with no problem. Logically, I knew they were champion weightlifting caliber but they felt like lifting paper. Seeing this, they parked an Amphibious Combat Vehicle near the indoor facility they were using and politely asked me to lift it. Initially, I scoffed knowing those things weighed more than thirty tons. They insisted. I did my best… and lifted it over my head. Granted, it was a challenge to do so, but the fact I could lift thirty-five tons over my head was definitely something I couldn’t do before I found myself in the hospital.

The last test they put me through was a breach and clear exercise. Again, it was all indoors. They had built a facsimile of a small city block, gave me a paintball gun, didn’t allow me to wear combat gear, and asked me to clear the block. I stood at the starting point in my utilities, cover included because I was armed. Even before the buzzer signalling the start of the exercise sounded, I somehow knew there were sixteen hostiles I would have to eliminate and their exact locations. Having done several breach and clears in Afghanistan and Iraq, I knew one should really only ever attempt such an operation with a minimum four-man fire team. Executing this exercise by myself was unfamiliar territory.

The buzzer sounded and I lifted my weapon into position before advancing. I did do a perimeter scan like I was trained even though I knew no one was in a position to flank me. As I moved along, I quietly vocalized commands we would typically use like “stack up” before setting myself into a tactical position at the hatch. Being right handed, that meant the Point position on the left side of the hatch. The first target was to the left of the hatch, but I checked the right side and passageway forward anyway. One pop from the paintball gun and “tango down” meant I took out the first target. The paint splattered right in the middle of his forehead. I qualified Expert in rifle quals all the way back in recruit training and have recertified several times since. One shot, one kill. Oorah.

Foothold secured, I quickly and methodically moved through the one-story, five room building that was my first ingress point. Knowing exactly where everyone was made this process a lot easier and I actually moved faster than I ever did back when I was an enlisted marine. Three more targets in the building were eliminated. Opting for the high ground, I used the ladder well to the roof of the first building to take out a sniper and two sets of two-man patrols—all headshots. There was a plywood “bridge” from the roof of the first building to the three-story second building. Opting for a top-down approach, I cleared each room and floor by taking out five more targets. Three left. All outside. They were all positioned relatively far from my position, I had to wait for just the right moment to strike. Eventually, all three were domed with paintballs. Seconds after the final target was eliminated, the lights brightened all around me. Exercise complete. Sixteen targets, sixteen rounds.

The participants who had been my targets grumbled about the likelihood of forehead bruises, but were good sports about it. The DARPA boys in the lab coats said nothing other than to excuse me. The whole situation did not feel right. Taking full advantage of the dismissal, I took my leave and headed back to my quarters. The least annoying thing was the increased MP presence aboard the base. I knew I was being subjected to a heightened level of scrutiny and being watched around the clock. My quarters was the only place on the whole base where I had a modicum of privacy.

Finally, the day came that I could report to my CO. All of my uniforms had been meticulously collected and adorned as necessary. After doing my PT solo, I showered and dressed in my Service Alpha uniform, opting for the garrison cover versus the bulky barracks cover. It absolutely floored me when Rambeau told me women were permitted to wear the short-sleeved or long-sleeved khaki shirt with the coat. Men are only permitted to wear the long-sleeved khaki shirt. I opted for the short-sleeved shirt because it’s southern California in May. I had my hair trimmed the day prior so everything was as perfect as I could make it. I would arrive at the office of my commanding officer at precisely 0600. As per customs and courtesies, I would not remove my cover until I had fully reported in with my commanding officer. Beyond the core values, those things were a marine’s bread and butter.

Checking my watch—which was also a new purchase—to time everything properly, I knocked politely on Lt. Col. Allen Cobb’s hatch at 0600. A moment later, he responded with “enter” to usher me inside. Ceremony took over when I opened the hatch. My movements were sharp and crisp from a little over two decades of refinement. He sat behind his desk looking over something on his computer screen while dressed in Service Charlies. In front of his desk, I snapped to POA and saluted.

“Captain Samuel Danvers reporting as ordered, sir. I have procured all requisite uniforms necessary to perform my duties to the squadron, sir.” My voice still sounded alien, even after a month in this state, but it still carried professionalism.

“At ease, Captain.” He ordered calmly. I lowered my salute and adopted a parade rest stance while he continued talking. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, Danvers. First…” He tore his focus away from the screen, stood, and approached me to inspect my uniform. His gaze was very meticulous, making sure everything was not only in place but in its proper place. “Your uniform is squared away expertly, Danvers. I didn’t expect anything less from you. Capt. Rambeau seems to have been quite the guide for you.”

“Thank you, sir. Capt. Rambeau was an invaluable source of knowledge, sir.”

He nodded, finishing his inspection. “Good. Have a seat, Danvers. We’ve got a lot to discuss this morning.” He rounded his desk again to sit in his own chair whilst I complied. He let out a sigh before speaking. “Seems we’ve hit a squall, Captain. The storm is raging. There’s no good news today, I’m afraid. For starters, you’re medically grounded. Indefinitely.”

“Honestly, sir, given the multiple batteries of testing I’ve endured the last three weeks, I’m not surprised. Hurt, but not surprised.”

“It’s not fun for me, either. I’ve got one bird that can’t move off the tarmac because the pilot had a freak coincidence happen to them.” He growled and rubbed his temple. “That’s not the worst of it. I submitted the papers for your promotion when we returned from leave after the OEF-HOA. You’ve been denied the selection board. They’re not going to give you your gold leaf, Danvers.”

“What? We deployed to Africa and spent six months out there, which delayed my promotion, now this? They sat on their hands for almost five months just to deny it? That’s bullshit, sir.” I almost growled.

“Right there with you, Danvers. You’re not going to like the ‘why’, either.” Again, he let out a sigh. “The reason my superiors have given me as to why you’re not getting your promotion to Major is because there’s been a MEB initiated concerning your case.”

“Medical Evaluation Board? For me?”

“Yes. Commenced last week. They’re going to recommend you retire, Danvers.”

The color drained from my face. “Retirement? It’s not in my career plan to do that for another seven years, sir.”

“That doesn’t matter now, Captain. They’re going to force it on you. Executive Order 14183 dictates that they do. I don’t understand why it’s coming into play because you’re not transgender. You just rolled some bad cosmic dice, that’s all.”

More color drained from my face. “You’re telling me that their justification for shoving a retirement down my throat is because they don’t like trans people? All due respect to you, sir, but that’s the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“I agree, Danvers, but it’s still happening. We’ve already lost a few marines aboard as it is. Worse is that there’s no guidance from Quantico, so I’m not even sure what channels I have to fight this for you.” He opened a drawer, searched for a moment, and pulled out a gray 3x5 card before handing it to me. “I know you can’t make any calls right now, but put that in a pocket or your oxfords. She worked as a Junior Associate at my wife’s firm for about a year out of law school. I hear she’s as tough as any marine without serving a day in her life.”

Glancing at the card, it read: Jocelyn Hogarth, Attorney at Law. I found my uniform lacking in pockets, so I stuffed the card into the bottom of a shoe. “A lawyer, sir? What’s your play?”

“Do you expect the JAG to have your six to appeal a bad retirement call? No, Captain. You’re going to want to talk to her sooner rather than later. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” I sighed. “So, how quickly are they going to fuck me over, sir? Is there going to be lube involved?”

“I don’t expect them to be gentle because it’s your first time, Captain. This administration is building a reputation for brutality. I’d expect your papers to come to you soon.” He leaned back in his chair and looked like he wanted to throw in the towel right then and there. “They’re going to make me read the order to you and do the shotty ceremony right here in this office. You don’t deserve that, Danvers. You deserve full honors and a full dress ceremony for the service you’ve given your country over the past twenty-three years. My hands are tied and I hate it.”

“Sentiments noted, sir. For what it’s worth, thank you.” I breathed out quickly. “Does that mean the pile of shit that’s been dumped in my lap this morning is complete, sir?”

“It is, Danvers. Sorry it’s such a big one.” He sighed heavily. “You’re expected to conduct your duties, sans touching the stick of your bird—”

“Delilah.” I interjected. “Her name’s Delilah.” I don’t know why, but tears started building in my eyes. The only thing I did know is that I’d probably never fly her again.

He nodded. “Sans touching Delilah’s stick because you’re grounded, you will go between your office, the hangar bay, the flight line, the chow hall, the MCX, the barber shop or salon, and your BOQ but nowhere else. Is that clear, Captain?”

“Crystal clear, sir.” The first tear rolled down my cheek. “Permission to go about my day, sir?”

He nodded firmly and spoke somberly. “Permission granted.” He slipped a piece of paper across the desk toward me. “Bring those orders to your AAMO. You’re dismissed, Captain.”

I stood, snapped to the POA, and saluted. “Aye-aye, sir.” I first took the piece of paper, then stepped back, executed an about face, and exited through the hatch.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that much shit to be dropped in my lap before 0700. Feeling the need for a cup of coffee, I stopped in at Starbucks before the daily maintenance meeting. I was not a fan of the way some of the men around me were looking at me. Frankly, it made my skin crawl. After the news this morning, the last thing I needed was an excuse to knock someone’s teeth in. Taking my coffee, I made a tactical retreat out of the building.

Getting back to the hangars, I wanted to slip in unnoticed but that was never going to happen. First, nobody wears Service Alphas anywhere near the flight line. Second, there were many glances toward my rank insignia followed by looks of confusion. Cover sitting on my lap and coffee in hand, I sat near the back of the room and watched how my AAMO picked up the slack in my absence. He’d been my wingman for a couple of years and was good at his job. My faith in him was confirmed as he reviewed the issues with each aircraft. The enlisted mechanics and technicians, the backbone of the squadron, were well engaged and treated him with all the respect they would show me. He didn’t come from a mechanic background like I had, but he knew his stuff. He was holding his own.

In the middle of the meeting, my warrant officer, CWO3 Louis Bagley, approached me. He was a good guy that I got along with really well. I came up working on the CH-46 while he was a CH-53 guy. He didn’t have that with the other officers in the squadron. They weren’t old mustangs like me.

He whispered politely but firmly to me. “With all due respect, ma’am, who are you and what are you doing in my squadron maintenance meeting?”

I smirked. “Steady, Gunner. The coveralls are the same color. Just working with a different set of tools. We’ve got bigger birds to get airborne. Understood?” There was hope my mechanic lingo would spark recognition in him.

His eyes shot wide open. “Captain Danvers?”

“With some un-field-approved airframe modifications, pretty much.” I groaned. “Can’t complain about the sheet metal work, but I am not cleared for this aircraft.”

He let out a laugh, which halted the meeting. The AAMO turned his attention to us. “What is so funny you’re interrupting, Gunner?” He blinked at me, noticed my senior rank, and shouted. “Attention on deck!”

The entire room jumped to the POA, causing me to stand up while rolling my eyes. “As you were, Marines. I was merely trying to observe.”

The enlisted sat back down while my AAMO looked at me with confusion. “What is your purpose on this deck, ma’am?”

I trudged to the front of the room, coffee and cover in hand. “Merely trying to watch how you’ve been handling the maintenance of this squadron while I was on liberty and bring myself up to speed, Lieutenant.”

His eyes widened at the realization. “Captain Danvers?” With that question, the rest of the room’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is that really you?”

The room was abuzz with reactions as I handed the piece of paper to my AAMO. “Orders from Lt. Col. Cobb, I suspect. I didn’t read it.”

He unfolded the paper and then read through it while the room’s buzz continued for another minute or so more. When he was finished, he raised his eyes to meet my own. “It is from Lt. Col. Cobb. He states plainly that the person who presented me with this communique is, in fact, Captain Samuel Danvers. It says that he is not at liberty to discuss the situation and leaves the explanation in your hands, sir—er, ma’am—er, what do we call you?”

“Hopefully, not late for chow.” I shrugged while the room chuckled. Taking a spot behind the podium that seemed to be taller than I remember, but I could still see and speak over it. “Lock it up, Marines.” Everyone stopped talking. “From this moment forward, refer to me as ‘sir’ or ‘Captain Danvers’ as you always have, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The entire room chorused.

Letting out a sigh, I considered the best way to describe to a bunch of MV-22 Osprey mechanics and technicians the weight of what had happened to me. I needed to convey the severity of what had happened to me and what was likely going to happen to me in the future. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this: I took multiple bird strikes in heavy fog. One of the proprotors was damaged beyond repair and I had to order a new one. There was extensive damage to the port nacelle. We’re not just talking cosmetic, here. We’re talking structural integrity. After the bird strikes, enemy fire struck my aft elevator. It took some doing, but I landed her on the deck just fine. My bird has been pulled off the flight line and into the hangar. She’s leaking oil and hydraulic fluid all over the deck. She is to be grounded for an indefinite amount of time. She may end up being decommissioned and sent to the boneyard.” Taking a deep breath. “The Knightriders have the best mechanics and technicians in the fleet, but I don’t know if even you guys can save her.” After giving a moment’s pause for the news to sink in, I looked at my AAMO and stepped away from the podium. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

That was all I had to say. My people had a good idea of what was going on. I was back from liberty, but things were definitely not up to specs.

For two weeks more, I served as the Aviation Maintenance Officer for the Marine Medium Tiltrotor Squadron 164, the Knightriders. I bounced between utilities and Service Charlies, depending on the day. I avoided glancing at the flight line because I couldn’t look at the aircraft with my name under the starboard cockpit porthole without feeling the loss. If the squadron performed flight ops, there was always one bird left on the flight line. I spent most of those days in my office.

My commanding officer called me to his office on Friday, 6 June 2025. I was ordered to be in full Service Alpha uniform. He said I could invite some people. I asked my co-pilot, my crew chief, and Capt. Rambeau to join me. My family members were in the midwest and I couldn’t burden them with this on short notice. I complied with the order and reported in, no matter how much I disagreed with what was about to occur. My case had gone through the MEB and IPEB process and I was being forced to retire by technicality. It was my so-called “medical retirement”. For everything to go through and be finalized in a month was blindingly fast. I wasn’t even offered a PEBLO.

Lt. Col. Allen Cobb presided over my retirement ceremony like a champion. We all hated being there and he made it known that he disagreed with the order. He got angrier with each sentence of the retirement order he read aloud. The range of emotions flowing through me were too many to mention accurately. It was readily apparent that the entire process was politically motivated. Lt. Col. Cobb handed me my certificate, retirement lapel pin, and retirement flag. There was no letter of appreciation from the President, as might be customary—not that I wanted it, regardless. My CO made an inspiring statement about my twenty-three years of dedicated service and recounted my history. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room, including his. When it was my turn to speak, I thanked my CO and asked him to thank the men and women of my squadron for me. I only made one request: to see Delilah one last time. He granted it without hesitation. Tears flowed down my face as I accepted his final salute and concluded the ceremony.

After the ceremony, he only told me one thing: call the lawyer.

Returning to my quarters, I knew I had ten days to clear out but I wouldn’t need it. Everything I owned fit into my seabag and a duffel bag. I donated everything else to the Pendleton Community Service Fund. Maybe a fresh enlisted Marine would receive my television, gaming console, and computer with all the furniture as well as what few civilian clothes I had lying about. I didn’t have any need for any of it. Having no civilian clothes that fit, I simply wore my PT clothes, bomber jacket with a few morale patches sewn onto its surface, and some go-fasters. By the time everything was packed up and all the calls were made for donations, the sun had set. I put my seabag and duffel in the back of my Toyota 4Runner TRD Pro and headed for the parking lot next to the tarmac.

Speaking with the MPs on the deck, I was granted access to the flight deck. I knew her tail number by heart. She was a little deep in the lineup. I stopped short of her stern and just let my eyes wander over the details of the aircraft: the 38-foot proprotors that can fold for carrier ops, the nacelles housing the 1,200hp Rolls Royce engines, the wings that can twist for a compact profile aboard carriers, the pear-shaped fuselage with all its quirks, and the rear hatch. Walking around to the starboard side revealed the Crew Chief hatch with Squeaker’s name on the fuselage next to it. Finally, I came to the cockpit portholes. Under the starboard side was my name and rank, Capt. Samuel Danvers. Under the forward porthole was my callsign, “Vegas”. I got choked up and tears formed. I lay my hand on the fuselage and caressed my bird. The likelihood I’d never see her again weighed heavy on my heart.

“Be a good girl, Delilah.” I spoke aloud, choking back sobs. “Treat your next pilot just as well as you did me. We went through some shit, you and I, but you always got me home. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see you again. I’ll miss you.”

My hand remained on the fuselage while tears rolled down my face and sobs escaped my lips. I can’t remember ever crying like that before. I even walked off the flight deck still crying. I looked back no less than three times. I climbed into my truck and sat in the dark crying for an amount of time impossible to calculate.

Chasing Horizons



Chapter Four

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: To those hoping to see a chapter of Webs We Weave this week, I sincerely apologize. I hadn't written a single word of it until last night. My wife and I got COVID and have been summarily incapacitated for over a week. Part of me is really glad I have chapters of Chasing Horizons in reserve so that people get something to read this week. Thanks for understanding, everyone.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzEYQLANWgo ))

Go, go, gadget Google. I found what I believed to be the nearest full service truck stop with a rain room and chow hall with 24-hour parking, then followed the GPS there. The “near” part was entirely subjective. Technically, there was a spot closer to the base but it was all the way down toward the Mexican border. Instead, I opted for one just outside the vast expanse that is Los Angeles, California. This “Roadside Oasis” was just the sort of locale I would use as a forward operating post while I figured out what I was going to do with myself.

In the entirety of my adult life, I’d never lived anywhere but on a military base. It was the singles barracks as an enlisted rank and then BOQs when I was commissioned. I never needed anything else and I was stowing away a nest egg for when I retired after 30 years of service. With some mature investing, I was officially a millionaire. Barely. Still, I wouldn’t want for much when it came to money, but I had nowhere to go. I had no time to prepare anything. I was adrift at sea with a broken rudder. The oars were washed away in the storm that broke the rudder.

Parking in the lot to the side of the main building, I let out a sigh. I pulled out my dogtags from under the PT sweater and looked them over. They bore my name, blood type, social security number, branch of service, my gas mask size, and my religious affiliation. All critical information should I have ever been med-evac’d and unconscious. A melancholy chuckle escaped my lips because the gas mask size was likely incorrect now. Next, I pulled my wallet out of the right pocket of the leather bomber jacket I wore. Inside, I had my CAC, California Driver’s License, and the USID that had been issued to me as part of my retirement. The two I’d acquired just after we’d returned from deployment after Christmas last year had my photo as I knew myself to be. The USID had been issued in the last few days as part of the separation process. That picture was me as I appear now, with the collar of the khaki shirt and my rank pins showing. No cover was on my head because the photo was taken indoors. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the juxtaposition between the two images of myself. The most jarring was the word “retired” at the top of the USID.

Frustrated and hungry, I put everything back in place and resolved to scan the building for something satisfactory to throw down my gullet. Walking along the sidewalk, there were a couple stares. Ignoring them, I headed inside to find out this place wasn’t the kind of place I was looking for. “Large-lot gas station with room for semi tractor-trailers” isn’t what I was looking for when seeking full-service truck stops. All they had here was a lot of crap and standard fried food from the freezers. I also asked if they allowed overnight parking and the answer was a stern “NO”. The decision to take my business elsewhere was expedient.

Climbing back into my SUV, I queued up the search again. This time, I opted to check the photos before deciding. I’d have to travel further into the “Inland Empire” but there was an international airport nearby that I could take advantage of should I choose to do so. I chose the site carefully. The Petro in Ontario was the winning candidate. It had a Popeye’s and you can’t go wrong with their fried chicken. GPS set, I made my way to Ontario. It was over an hour drive away, so I tried to get comfortable and turn on some music. The truck enabled some phone functions through a cord. It’s a 5th Gen 4Runner. The newer 6th Gen that just came out that year had full wireless setups, but I had decided to keep my 2022. I had bought it to celebrate my 20th Anniversary of active duty service. It was starting to feel like a premature celebration.

My melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing through the JBL speakers. Tapping a button on the steering wheel, I answered, “Hello?”

“Are you supposed to be Sam’s lady for the night? Where’s Sam? How do you have his phone?” The gruff male voice on the other end of the phone wondered.

I knew immediately who the voice belonged to. He was a long time friend. “Dizzy, it’s a long story. I’m not sleeping with Sam. I am Sam.”

“Bullshit. Stop fuckin’ with me. Where’s Sam?”

My growl was not nearly as imposing as I would have liked it to be. “Dammit, Corporal, I didn’t pull your ass out of the suck after that IED to have my honor questioned!”

He hesitated. Back in 2004, we were both with the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit and deployed to Afghanistan. He had just gotten his Corporal rank before we deployed. We were there to establish Forward Operating Base Ripley and found out the hard way that insurgents don’t play nice. Cpl. Diego “Dizzy” Ramirez was one of only two marines to be injured by IEDs in the whole unit. He was only a little older than me at the time. I was still a Lance Corporal. While the others reacted to the ambush, I pulled him away from the engagement zone and into cover near the corpsman for immediate first aid. When the smoke cleared, we would med-evac him as soon as possible. It took time for the CH-46 to get to us. He lost both legs.

“How the fuck do you know about that?” He asked sternly.

“I was the Lance Corporal that pulled you back to the Corpsman,” I answered just as sternly. “I took a week of leave to visit you in Walter Reed when we got back stateside.”

He let out an audible sigh. “I’m gonna say that I tentatively believe you. What happened?”

“I’m not going to say over an unsecured cellular network, Dizzy. What I will say is that I’ve been forced into retirement.” I exhaled hard.

“Whoa, what?! No shit?! Does it have something to do with the voice I’m hearing right now?”

“Unfortunately, it does. Pursuant to Executive Order 14183, I have been forced into a medical retirement by the Secretary of Defense.”

“Oh, fuck… did you even get a stand-down or anything? Usually, they grant you leave for at least a few days, right?”

“There’s no process for leave before a medical retirement, Dizzy. You should know this.”

“The WWR gave me three days in DC to check out the sights. Once I got out, I crashed with my mom for a minute. You got anywhere to go? Maybe your folks?”

I scoffed. “Go back to Dayton?! You kidding me?! Colonel ‘Dick’ Danvers would boot me out on my expanded ass quicker than you can say ‘devil dog’! That’s not gonna happen.”

He laughed. “Okay, you might be Sam. He’s the only one that liberally calls his dad ‘Dick’.”

“As opposed to ‘Ranger Rick’, you mean? Fucker went Air Force and thinks he’s a hard ass.”

He laughed even harder. “Right… What about your sister? Wouldn’t she put you up?”

“Laura?” I shook my head as if he could see me while changing lanes to give some room for a semi to get on the freeway. “She might, but she’s got her, Chris, and the three girls. They’ve got a cute family vibe going on. I wouldn’t want to impose, y’know? Besides, the hell am I gonna do in suburban Chicago?”

I could almost hear him nod. “That’s fair. Stupid, but fair. What’s your plan?”

I shrugged. “Best I’ve got is to pull into a truck stop, grab some chow, fold down the seats, pull out a blanket or two, and sit there for tonight. I’ll figure out my next steps in the morning.” I let out a sigh. “I sailed into a storm, Dizzy. My oars are gone and my rudder’s broken. Compass is stuck and the GPS is down.”

He could hear the tone in my voice. “Look, Danvers, why don’t you come into the city? I run a community center in Boyle Heights. I built a couple of apartments on the top floor of a three-story building. You can bunk here until you find something better. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll think about it. I don’t wanna impose…”

“Oh, lock it the fuck up, Marine. You need a rack. I’ve got one. We don’t leave anyone behind. That includes you. Semper Fi.”

“Oorah. Let me get some chow and perform an anal-cranial loopback, first.”

“Fair enough. I’ll stay up on watch until you get here. I wanna hear the story of why you sound like some 4th Battalion recruit, though.”

“They decommissioned that two years ago, Dizzy. I’ll see you around Balls.” I hung up and let out a long sigh.

Classic rock from the ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s, and ‘00s poured out of the speakers and rumbled through the cabin for the rest of the journey to the truck stop. I’ve always been criticized for my “dad rock” tastes, but today’s music just doesn’t compare to AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Ozzy Osbourn, Metallica, the Beastie Boys, or Twisted Sister. Some bands come close, like the Emo and New Metal Era of the ‘00s, but still don’t totally compare. Linkin Park and Nickelback are about the only bands I’d include among “the greats”. Speaking of which, “Burn it to the Ground” came through the speakers just as I was pulling into the truck stop. Bad timing, I guess.

I haven’t been to too many truck stops in my past. However, this Petro had to be one of the nicer ones. Its facade was caked in stucco with a white, green, and red stripe paint job. Inside was much cleaner than I expected. Truck stops are for the working guys that aren’t afraid to get a little dirty. The little building on the far west side of the gigantic truck parking lot would be the last thing I would think to be this clean. I’ll give the credit where it’s due: the place was squared away like a Marine platoon had been through and prepared it for an inspection. There was a big convenience store, apparel shop, nice restaurant, a laundromat, and showering facilities. It looked like a great place to relax a little after a long day of hauling freight.

The looks I got, though, were downright predatory. Parking across from the main entrance, the walk to the front door garnered a few glances. Once inside, it was worse. A few guys turned to look and/or gawk. It made my skin crawl. I could smell the restaurant and my stomach growled. Without a word, my feet carried me toward the chow my stomach desperately wanted. Problem: I was three minutes too late for food from the Iron Skillet. I’d have to see what the hot box had in store. Thankfully, it had a decent selection. One double cheeseburger with lettuce and tomato order later, I was sitting in a dining area near the game room. With my back to the bulkhead, I could watch the area around me easily. It took a lot to ignore the stares from the older men taking a break from the road. One that seemed to be a little older than me and have a permanent scowl tattooed on his face was watching me from the middle of the room. In the middle of trying to eat my burger, he finally stood up and approached me.

“Do you know what stolen valor is, young lady?!” He growled and nearly spat on me.

I rolled my eyes and swallowed the chow in my mouth before speaking. “I’m aware. What do you want?”

“Ain’t no way in hell your little ass is a Knightrider or that you’ve been part of the 22 MEU! Maybe I should call your unit! Think I’ve got an AWOL reward comin’ my way!”

I rolled my eyes. He’d seen the morale patches on my bomber jacket and started making assumptions. Without looking at him, I set my half-eaten burger down and wiped my hands with a napkin. “Did you serve?”

“You bet your ass I did! Marine Corps all the way! You’re a disgrace having that EGA on your sweatpants!”

“Did you go to recruit training in San Diego or Parris Island? What battalion?”

“I was a Hollywood Marine. First Battalion. So what?”

“What rank were you when you got out?”

“Lance Corporal. And?”

Now, I was mad. I narrowed my eyes and furrowed my brow, then stood up. It didn’t matter that I was half a head shorter than him. I started yelling like the best Drill Instructor that ever molded a Fourth Battalion platoon into Marines. “Firstly, they’re PT trousers! Secondly, I didn’t serve my country for twenty-three mother-fucking years, deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan TWICE, bust my ass through college while maintaining ancient-ass aircraft, get a degree, ace OCS, get through three and a half years of flight training, and earn my place as an Aviation Maintenance Officer so some lazy, fat-ass Lance Corporal could try to get in my face about ‘stolen valor’ at a truck stop in Nowheresville, California!” He started backing up. I thought it was my commanding presence, but it was in fact that yellow glowing thing that started to engulf my body. “You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Captain’, Lance Corporal! Do you understand me?!”

His eyes were as big as serving platters. He kept backing up as I advanced. “Y-yes, s-sir… a-any th-thing you s-say, s-sir.”

The glow intensified. “Good to go! Now, carry on and get the fuck out of my face so I can eat my chow in peace!”

He didn’t answer further, merely turned and ran. Moron wouldn’t have lasted an hour in a combat zone. I could feel the eyes of another trucker in the vicinity staring at me. My head snapped in his direction. “You have anything to say, old man?!”

The man who was probably in his mid-50s quickly shook his head. It didn’t occur to me that he had also chosen a seat with his back to the bulkhead. “No, ma’am. Not about that. I know they say that women glow sometimes, but you’re literally glowing right now. I don’t want no trouble. I’m just lettin’ ya know.”

That snapped me out of my rage. I looked down at my hand to see it glowing with the yellow St. Elmo’s Fire sort of thing I’d been seeing on it sporadically since that day on the tarmac. The internals of my hand were glowing with the yellow-red light that put the cardiovascular system of my hands on full display. Shaking my head, I took some quick breaths and regained my bearing. After a few moments, the effects soon went away and I was breathing normally. Stabilizing my breathing and regaining my bearing, I glanced at the older trucker.

“Sorry about that, sir.” I apologized. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

He chuckled. “‘Sir’ my ass. I work for a livin’.” He waved off the mistake with his hand. “Don’t worry your pretty head over it. You had every right to give that boy what-for. Just be careful of the collateral damage, eh?”

“Copy that, sir. Again, I’m sorry.”

“You said you served twenty-three years? Something happen?”

“I’m really not at liberty to discuss it, but… yes. Something happened. Completely out of my control and they forced me into retirement. Happened this afternoon.”

The older man winced. “Ouch. Sorry to hear that. Wound’s still fresh, huh? No wonder your fuse is a little short. You’ll land on your feet, though. Somehow, you Marines always do.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, sir.”

He smiled. “One grunt to another? I didn’t see nothin’.” He stood and left the area.

It’s only then that I noticed his cap. He was an Army veteran from the Operation Desert Storm days. I called out to him. “What was your rank, Soldier?”

He turned for only a moment. “Staff Sergeant.” He turned away from me again and I noticed his limp.

It’s likely he was a combat veteran. I instantly regretted disrespecting him as I went back to my cheeseburger and rethinking my life choices.

With everything going on, I was a veritable tinder box. I would really need to find somewhere to do a self sitrep. There’d been a few times in my life when I was this dangerous a powder keg. One of those times was the day Dizzy lost his legs. I distinctly remember throwing a fit as soon as the chopper casevac’d him and screaming, “He better live, goddamn it! So help me, he better live or the almighty himself will feel the wrath of this devil dog!”

I was barely 20. Cut me some slack.

Finished with the burger, I disposed of the packaging and ignored the predatory glances toward my aft while making it back toward my truck. To have a little time to collect my thoughts, I started converting the cab into a makeshift campsite. My truck was somewhat unique. To create a flat surface for cargo/sleeping, I’d have to first pull up the “butt part” of the seat and let it roll forward, creating the “headboard”. Then, the headrest would roll forward. One button later and the seat back finally could fold forward, creating that flat surface. It was a pretty neat little trick. Doing that with both sides of the split seating created a pretty big area for sleeping, even with my seabag and duffel joining me. I pulled one of two big, fluffy comforters and folded it to create a pseudo mattress. I’d use the other to cover up with. My duffel, filled primarily with clothing, would make a suitable pillow for the time being.

Before I could settle in for the night, two things prevented me from climbing in and getting some sleep: one, the talk I had with Dizzy earlier; two, something more… elusive. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I knew something was wrong. A long, thick, midnight blue van with no windows besides the driver, passenger, and windshield rolled into the parking lot and chose a berthing on the far side of the lot. Cargo van, but something didn’t sit right with me about it. The decision was made to discreetly watch the van for a few minutes. As with the test back on base, I somehow knew there were several people inside that van: driver, passenger, and six in the back. Three were hostiles. At the time, I didn’t know how I could possibly know that.

After a few moments, one male and one female emerged from the rear door of the van. The sliding side panel door quickly shut behind them. He had short hair and a goatee while wearing a denim jacket, t-shirt, jeans, and some kind of boots. She was dressed in very short shorts, a tank top, and heels. Her hair and makeup were done up in a fancier style than her clothes would suggest. The male and female walked toward the store but he never let go of her arm. I took off my bomber jacket and PT sweater, leaving just a plain green t-shirt, PT trousers, and my go-fasters.

Following them indoors, they went directly to the nearest restroom. The female was practically shoved inside and angrily told to hurry up. The male never left the bulkhead near the hatch for the women’s room. Playing it cool, I grabbed a bag of chips I didn’t want and a soda I might drink later before going to the counter. Quietly, I told the man behind the counter to call 9-1-1. At first, he scoffed, but once I said something about the female being a prisoner of some kind, he did make the call. I didn’t buy anything I’d picked up. Instead, I made my way over to the restroom and used my current facade to my advantage to try gaining access to the same women’s restroom. The guy stopped me just outside.

“Occupied,” He growled, putting himself between me and the hatch.

“It’s a multi-stall bathroom. More than one person can piss in there.” I answered before advancing a step.

Again, he tried to impede me. This time, he played his card. He had a semi-automatic pistol in the pocket of his jacket. A Glock, which was incredibly stereotypical. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, bitch! I said it’s occupied!”

Let’s get one thing straight: sure, the Marine Corps does have hand-to-hand instruction in recruit training and occasionally among combat units, but it does not live up to the hype. To be clear: a ten year old with a green belt in Tae Kwon Do has more hand-to-hand combat expertise than what a marine learns from MCMAP training. In order to be decent in hand-to-hand combat, it’s almost implied that a marine should seek outside training unless they’re Force Recon, MARSOC, or something equally as badass. I had done none of those things, so I only had the basic-level instruction from twenty years ago to draw upon. One thing we were taught in a hostile hand-to-hand scenario: get in and kill them before they have a chance to hurt you. So, that’s what I did. I advanced on him without a second thought, plowed into him with a knee to the groin, and slammed him against the wall. Though, I may have hit him too hard. I don’t know about internal injuries but the drywall behind him turned into a spiderweb from the impact. At least he dropped the firearm.

Relieving him of his weapon, I picked it up and checked it over. It was not well maintained, there was a round in the chamber, and the 15-round magazine was full. Weapon in hand, I rushed into the restroom to find the female. I could hear her crying in the handicap stall.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” I asked from the outer side of the hatch. An attempt was made to have it sound authoritative and in control, but who can do that with the soft, high sound of a teenage female voice?

“How’d you get past the guy outside?” She sounded genuinely afraid.

“Kneed him in the balls and slammed him against the wall. How else?” I rolled my eyes. I need intel, not twenty questions. “How many of you are in that van?”

She got quiet for a second, then swallowed hard. “There’s four other girls and two other guys.”

“Good to go. Ma’am, it would be best if you stayed here until the police arrived. Just to confirm: I know you’re a victim of something. I’m just not 100% sure what.”

She choked back a sob. “I’m seventeen. They took me when I was walking home from school. They’ve done… so many things to us… they turned us into whores…” She cried harder.

My heart sank. “You’re the victim of human trafficking.” I let out a quick breath, resolving that intervention was not only necessary but a moral imperative. “Very well. Stay here, please.”

“What are you going to do? They have guns!”

“I’m gonna improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

Without another word, I moved out of the restroom. Checking in with the employee at the counter, he was on the phone with the local 9-1-1 operator. I told him to inform the police that it was a human trafficking situation and they should also call in EMTs. I had the pistol in my hand but the muzzle was pointed at the deck. When I finished speaking with him, though, I moved quickly out of the building. There was a lot of distance to cover between the entrance and the van. I tucked the pistol into the waistband of my trousers in the small of my back. There was no need to show my hand. They didn’t know I’d be coming for them, so maintaining the element of surprise was key to the not-plan I was thinking of.

To my chagrin, the general parking lot outside the building was actually illuminated fairly well. Keeping my cool, I strolled over to my truck which was at the edge of the well-lit lot. Ducking around the body of the truck, I moved toward the shadows in an effort to use the concealment to my advantage. There was no light over the van, which made sense given their activities. It also worked according to my idea. Keeping low, I approached the rear of the van and pulled the pistol from my waistband. Watching the sideview for any indication of what was happening in the cab, I rounded the passenger side and slowly crept toward the door. Taking a breath to solidify the plan in my head, it seemed the best course of action to incapacitate the man in the passenger side and raise the pistol at the driver.

Quietly, I tested the door. Not locked. Stupid. Quickly pulling on the handle was a mistake. The thing broke off in my hand. My mind raced. How the heck was I going to get the door open if I’d just broken the handle? The question was answered for me when the passenger opened it and scrambled out of the vehicle. Also stupid. The pistol was in my right hand. I swung that around to smack him in the face. A “crunch” sound emanated from his face. I may have broken his nose. At the very least, it sent him to the deck holding his face and crying out. Incapacitation achieved, however sloppy the execution.

Turning into the cab of the van, I leveled the pistol toward the driver… who wasn’t present. The sight of the weapon did cause the girls in the back to shriek, though. The driver side door was open and I didn’t see the driver rounding the front. Turning toward the rear, I moved to stack up near the tail lights. Like an idiot, the guy stormed around the vehicle, not even bothering to use any cover. As he came around the vehicle, I tore the weapon from his hands and delivered a front kick to his pelvis. He fell over like a boiled sausage.

Leveling the firearm at his head, I growled the best I could. “I can hit a bullseye at 25 yards with a standard issue SIG Sauer. I’d advise you to stay down unless you want to test my marksmanship with a Glock at less than one yard.”

His only response was to cry out and writhe in pain. Situational awareness and that sense in the back of my mind told me that the hostile situation had been neutralized. They weren’t going to try attacking me any time soon. I decided to place the submachine gun in the passenger seat and only then noticed it was a Skorpion. Then, I searched Mr. Broken Nose for weapons, finding another Glock and Skorpion on him, and placed those on the passenger seat. The driver didn’t have another weapon. I secured the pistol I was carrying back in the waistband of my PT trousers after switching on the safety. Finally, I opened the sliding door to reveal the other four females inside. To my horror, they looked way too young to be out at this hour of night wearing the wardrobe they had on.

“What in the Jeffrey Epstein nightmare is going on here?” I asked the girls huddled against the rear double doors. My demeanor softened toward these young women—girls, really. “Hey, whoa, it’s okay, ladies. I’m here to hurt the guys holding you. Not you personally. Your friend is safe. She’s in the head in the building.” I shook my head to remind myself I was speaking to civilians. “Sorry, in the bathroom.”

“Did you get stabbed?” One girl shrieked, pointing at me.

I raised an eyebrow in confusion. “No. None of them even touched me.”

Still riding the adrenaline, a second spoke up. “No, she’s not stabbed. Shark Week just started, that’s all.”

Still confused, my voice actually rose in pitch a few steps. “Shark Week?”

Feeling a little more secure, the four started climbing out of the van with the second speaker rolling her eyes. “Your period, moron. Did you grow up in one of those fundie camps or something? Come with us, Army Girl. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

“I’m a Marine.” Then I looked down at the crotch of my trousers. Sure enough, blood stain. “Mother fuckin’ WHAT?!”

Chasing Horizons



Chapter Five

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: Thanks for sticking with me through the COVID debacle, everyone.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEWjoZ_dUME ))

The carnage was next level. The captives who helped me out informed me it was likely I’d been “leaking” for nearly an hour. One of them offered to get me some clothes and I sent her to my truck to grab my duffel. Inside was a fresh pair of underwear and PT trousers. Another grabbed some pads from the store with a little cash I had in my wallet. The others helped me get the clothes off and clean up. I learned a fun fact: you rinse blood out of clothing with cold water more effectively. The cleanup took a few minutes and reminded me of some battlefield injuries. These girls were as nonchalant about it as any combat hardened veteran. For a group of girls who less than half an hour ago were cowering in the back of a van, they were quite fearless when assisting me.

Everything was cleaned up just in time for the police to arrive on the scene. The first thing I did was surrender the firearm I’d liberated from the first guy I’d taken down. The fact that I was armed did alarm the officers, who promptly raised their own weapons. The de-escalation tactics I learned serving in Iraq actually came in rather handy. I had to reassure them that I didn’t have a weapon of my own before they’d allow me to access my vehicle to surrender my identification. Once I did present ID, there was a whole dog-and-pony show of them trying to determine whether or not my documents were valid. I hadn’t anticipated that, but the MPs at Pendleton had my six. Between my California license, USID, dog tags, and confirmation from the watch at Camp Pendleton, they were able to verify that my documents were not fraudulent.

With that finished, I ran them through a detailed series of events with visual aids as we walked the property. Years of flight training and mission debriefs had taught me to remember details and relay them in an accurate manner. It also helped establish my credibility as a veteran to the officers. The EMTs arrived moments after the police and began treating the injuries I’d caused as well as checking up on the victims. The police would be on the scene for hours after that, collecting evidence.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait that long. After giving my statement and wishing the girls well, I settled into the driver’s seat of my truck. Waking up my phone greeted me with a new text message and three missed calls from Dizzy. The text message was the address of the community center in Boyle Heights. Google stated it would take about forty-five minutes to reach it if I maintained the speed limit. Feasibly, it could be done in half the time if CHP were nowhere to be found. It being just after 2300 made that a possibility. Rolling my eyes, I called Dizzy back.

“What the shit? Why the MIA?” He emphasized his disapproval.

“Some shit went down, okay? Semper Gumby.” I responded.

“You were supposed to grab chow, skate, and get here. What’s the sitrep?”

I started the truck, put it in reverse, did my three-point, and maneuvered back to the interstate. “Don’t worry about it. Ran into some Schmuckatellis and handled shit. I’ll tell you about it later. I’m oscar mike. ETA: twenty minutes to half an hour. Why are you so worked up, Diz?”

“The City of Angels is anything but, Sam. With the way you sound, right now, I can only imagine what you look like. It’s worse than being deployed to Iraq in some places, especially for a cute little thing with nice T&A.”

“Hey! Whoa! Back the fuck off with that shit! I want no further talk about this fuselage, understood? I rescued some girls in the thick of human trafficking and beat the shit out of the guys that held them captive, okay?!”

“Good initiative, bad judgement. You better hope those guys don’t press charges. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Captain. I’ll see you when you get here.”

Why the hell was he being so overbearingly protective and, dare I say, condescending? It’s the topic that occupied the entirety of thoughts in my brain as I drove down I-10 toward the heart of Los Angeles. Whoever called New York “the city that never sleeps” has never seen the LA Basin in the middle of the night with lights as far as the eye can see. I was not surprised to see more traffic volume around me as I got closer to the downtown corridor. There’s not a person on the planet that has lived in a major city and not wondered where all the people in the cars on the road were going so late at night. My route was taking me to a familiar face. The mystery was the kind of stuff that could keep someone up at night. My thoughts wandered back to trying to answer why Dizzy was acting so strange.

Taking the exit on North Soto Street, I turned left as directed and found myself finally in the neighborhood. Though, in Los Angeles, there’s not much difference in the neighborhoods unless you’re talking about Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Rodeo Drive, or Sunset Boulevard. All the same style houses and all the same style businesses. The only real difference was the socio-economic status of the inhabitants. The standout to me was an older gas station with a mechanic’s bay attached and the three-story, half-football-field size building that my GPS was leading me to. The sign on the front façade read “Boyle Heights Latino and Indigenous Community Center”. A single light above the entrance was illuminated on the exterior. There were a few lights seeping through a couple of windows on the second and third floors.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the robotic female voice of my GPS reported.

I rolled my eyes and then scanned the area for somewhere to park my truck. Thankfully, there was a small lot for about fifteen vehicles on the east side of the building. Navigating the truck, I pulled into one of several open spots that wasn’t labeled for disabled parking. The truck was shut down and I grabbed my phone, considering my options. With a sigh, I resolved that coming here was the best thing I had going. I’ve never second-guessed myself this much. Up to now, everything had been predetermined and planned months in advance before I got any orders to do anything. Now, I was on my own to figure out life. To say this was an uncomfortable situation would be putting things lightly. I would have to lock it up and figure it out.

In my go-fasters, PT trousers, undershirt, and bomber jacket with all my morale patches, I resolved to just get inside and see what Dizzy had in store. Having deployed into combat zones so many times, I could practically sleep anywhere. It doesn’t matter to me if it was the back of my truck or the ground somewhere. Generally, fluffy beds most civilians enjoy feel strange. Walking to the entrance, I dialed Dizzy’s number and put the phone to my ear. On impulse, I checked the door – which was, of course, locked. After a couple of rings, Dizzy picked up.

“Hey, Sam. You here?” He wondered.

“Yea, I’m at the front door. I don’t know why I thought it would be unlocked, but I tried anyway.” I admitted.

He chuckled. “Yea, it ain’t gonna be unlocked at night in this neighborhood, hermano. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The line disconnected, prompting me to shrug and stuff my phone in the waist pocket of my jacket. For a few moments, I stood at the door with my eyes downward. The door finally opened to reveal a Hispanic man with a little extra weight in a wheelchair that appeared to be just a year older than me. Well… older than I used to be. His eyes widened the moment he took in my appearance. He squinted when he looked at me.

“Sam?”

Letting out a sigh, I nodded. “Who the fuck else would call you at zero-dark-thirty saying they were on your doorstep?”

He chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many.” He continued to take in my appearance and glance over the morale patches on my jacket. “I’d know that jacket and some of those patches anywhere. I’ve got a few of them, myself.” His eyes finally found their way to mine. “Geezus, Sam. What happened to you?”

My entire face slumped at his question. “If I knew, we’d both be as rich as Lucas Lowen. Something about some space shit that I don’t have clearance for. Can I come in or are you going to gawk at me all night?”

He jerked into action and put his wheelchair in reverse. “Yea, sorry. It’s just…” He stopped once there was sufficient space for me to enter. “This is pretty weird, Sam.”

Crossing the threshold and closing the door behind me, I let out a sigh. “Yea. Tell me about it. I just had some victims of human trafficking teach me how to use a friggin’ maxi pad and found out what ‘shark week’ means.”

His hand shot to his forehead and he smoothed the hair on the top of his head. He quickly exhaled in solidarity. “Oh, that’s one hell of a goat rope, buddy.”

My eyes wandered over the dimly lit space. The entrance room reminded me of a bar without the alcohol and counter. There were couches that had seen some use lining the walls, a few stools, a pool table, and a fifty-inch flatscreen sitting atop a coffee table. A couple of the walls had archways that led into other areas. My voice came across tired and so over all the shit I’d already been through, “No shit.” My eyes returned to his. “Can you show me where I’m bunking so I can grab my gear and hit the rack? It’s been a long day full of all the worst things in life.”

“Feeling like you’re on an op that some butter bar dropped several balls and you don’t have adequate intel?” Dizzy wondered.

“Something like that.” I almost whispered.

He slowly nodded. Without another word, he led me through the “chill” space, through an archway into what I can only describe as a small dining room, down a corridor, and into an elevator. We didn’t share any words in the small metal box as we moved up to the third floor. Dizzy led the way into the corridor once the elevator doors opened again. A few doors down, he pulled a key off his keyring and put in the lock. He opened the door and ushered me inside. The room before me may as well have been a hotel room. There was a full size bed, a minifridge, a single long chest of drawers, a small-ish flat screen television on a mount bolted into the bulkhead, and a microwave. There was an attached and enclosed head with toilet, sink, counter, and bath/shower combo. Once he pointed out the amenities, he handed me the key.

“Keep that for now. I’ve got a copy in my office but that’s for your use.” He instructed me.

The small piece of metal barely registered to my exhausted mind. “Yea. Thanks, Dizzy.”

We both shuffled out of the room. “I changed the linens a couple hours ago. You should be good to go. Anything comes up, let me know.” Out in the corridor, he spun around to face me. “Get some rack time, Marine. We’ll talk in the morning.”

With a nod, I slipped the key into my jacket and opted for the stairs while he took the elevator again. With just a sea bag and a duffel, it didn’t take me long to get all my things up into the room. Finally alone once more, I locked the hatch and gazed about the space while removing my jacket. This space would be good enough for the time being. I slipped out of the go-fasters and set them over near the hatch. Falling onto the bed, I was asleep in no time at all.

The next morning, I arose with the sun. To me, that was “sleeping in”. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered changing out of the clothes from the night before. The blood seeping out of me had other ideas. The bedding looked like a field hospital cot after the patient was moved to a more advanced medical center and had lost some blood. I was down to my final pair of PT trousers. Letting the trousers and underwear sit in the sink to “soak”, I changed into a fresh pair of both and affixed a pad into my skivvies. Shoving my feet into my go-fasters and letting out a huff did little to quell my irritation over that morning’s events. I exited the room and, eventually, the building itself.

Nobody in the building had been awake. Beginning with the PT that I’d been doing for so long, the morning evolved into a run that served two purposes. The first was of course the exercise I usually benefit from. The second was neighborhood recon. I got a lay of the land as I memorized landmarks so I could actually find the community center again. The problem was the wolf whistles and cat calls. I’d never experienced anything like that before in my life and they were absolutely relentless. I tried everything to ignore them but that just seemed to be received as encouragement. Every part of my mind wanted to be removed from this curvy-ass girly body and put back into the forty-something man body it used to be in. Every fiber of my being hated the predatory looks and lewd flirtations.

After a run that was far shorter than I would have liked, I returned to the community center building ready to tear the balls off of any man that would dare look at me in an unsatisfactory manner. The jury’s still deliberating whether it was hormonally motivated or simply the events along my route. I was barely sweating when opening the door. Inside, a few people had gathered. Dizzy was behind a desk near the entrance. A young woman in her late teens was blowing steam off a fresh cup of coffee. What I interpreted to be a young man lounged on one of the sofas facing the television. A few others were scattered about reading, working on a laptop, or doom scrolling on their phones.

Dizzy looked up from the desk with his “customer service” face on. “Welcome to the…” He stopped as soon as he recognized me. “Oh, hey, Sam. How was PT?”

I growled under my breath. “Unsat. Couldn’t get my full run in.”

He quickly wheeled from behind the desk. “You feelin’ okay? Why couldn’t you do your run?”

My eyebrows scrunched together and my whole face looked as if I was about to start screaming. Instead, I answered quietly. “If another male looks at me or tries to get my attention in a manner that isn’t filled with the utmost respect, I’m going to give them a nice bowtie using their own scrotum.”

The girl with the coffee nearly spilled it as she did something akin to a spit take, then chuckled. Even Dizzy chuckled.

The guy from the couch spoke up. “First time getting cat-called, sweetheart?”

My hands balled into fists and I started advancing on him. Every part of me wanted to punch him in his smug face. What I didn’t notice was my hands and upper arms doing that inner glow thing where you see my veins through almost transparent skin. Dizzy blocked my path very quickly.

“Whoa! Sam!” He then noticed my hands. “¡Mierda! What’s with your hands, man?!”

The eyes of the girl with the coffee shot wide open. “Holy fuck…”

The guy on the couch just scoffed at me.

Dizzy’s stalling tactic worked. I wasn’t going to barrel overtop of him in his wheelchair just to get to the asshat on the couch. He had succeeded in grabbing my attention and I looked down at my hands. As I calmed down, the light dimmed and they returned to normal. There were still many questions about what was really happening to me. I didn’t understand any of these manifestations and there’s a likelihood that someone could get hurt.

“Is that why you got early retirement?” Dizzy snapped me out of my thoughts.

“No. They kicked me out because I turned into this!” I gestured wildly at my body in the shrill voice I’d been bestowed. “They gave me the boot because of that anti-trans military service executive order. That’s it.”

“You’ve got powers, it seems.” The girl with the coffee noted as she sat down on a couch against the far wall. “Are you trans?”

“Of course not! I am…” I gulped back some feelings. “...was a very content 41-year-old man.”

“You got problems with trans people, Koyaanisqatsi?”

Anger flashed on my face once more. “No, I don’t. The US Government does, all the sudden.”

“You only just learned that?”

Dizzy shook his head at me. “Sam, that’s just Rowan. They thrive on chaos. Pay them no heed, okay?”

My head shook for a second. “They?”

The girl with the coffee stood and moved over to me. “Yea, we’re not even sure Rowan’s got the aforementioned scrotum to make a bowtie out of.” She presented a hand. It was only then that I noticed the twin braids hanging from each side of her head. “I’m Bidzii, by the way. Most people around here just call me ‘Busy’ because they can’t pronounce the Diné.”

“Sam.” I stated while I shook her hand out of politeness. Rowan said something in a language I clearly didn’t understand and Bidzii responded in kind. “I take it you’re both Native?”

Bidzii nodded. “Pretty much. I speak Diné, which your colonizer ass might call ‘Navajo’. My grandpa was a ‘Wind Talker’ in World War II. We’re not sure what nation or tribe Rowan belongs to but they speak a shocking number of indigenous languages from all over the southwest.”

“I speak the language of my people. I have many people.” Rowan shrugged.

Everything was starting to feel a little overwhelming. I’m not even sure what gestures I made, but I gestured to convey I’d rather be left alone. “Look, you guys seem fine and all, but I’m gonna hit the head and stand in the rain for a few minutes.”

As I made my way out of the room, I could hear Dizzy translating my military vernacular. They understood I was going upstairs to take a shower. Once back in the room I was so graciously granted, I stood in the shower and washed away the sweat and grime from the morning. I also had to change the freakin’ maxi pad. If I ever get back to myself, I’ll never make fun of anyone menstruating ever again. The bleeding was bad enough. Add in the sensation of your insides tearing apart and reforming every few seconds and it turns into an absolute nightmare.

The reality that I was now completely out of clean PT trousers hit me pretty hard. My mind was searching for what to do next. Idle time during the day wasn’t something I was accustomed to. Though, with it being a weekend, it was more common than during the week. I was already missing my video games. I could use a distraction. However, a random thought came to my mind. I searched my belongings for that card Lt. Col. Cobb had given me. It was a simple, white business card with three lines of text on it: Jocelyn Hogarth, Delgado & Stone LLP, Los Angeles, CA. On the back, there was just a phone number.

With the chance of getting my life and career back, my phone was quickly scooped up and the number dialed. I waited for each ring. One… two… three… four… and then the voicemail message. I really should have known that attorneys are paid enough to not work weekends. My message was simply my name, phone number, and asking for an in-person consultation. It was all I could do for the time being.

At the foot of the bed, I sat and alternated between glancing at my phone and taking in my surroundings. The room generally felt like a hotel room from the 1990s, even if the architecture signaled original construction was probably the late 1940s or early 1950s. There was wallpaper that had a faded yellow color with some kind of flowers and vines on it. The molding around the room was cheap but added a little class. The carpet had seen its best days about thirty years ago. The only things younger than a few years were the fridge, microwave, and television. The bedding on the Queen size bed was nice and fluffy, but the bed seemed huge. It made my new size and shape that much more obvious. Besides, “fluffy” makes me feel weird. Not really much room for that kind of luxury on base for somebody like me who was used to the bare minimum.

The quiet was the most unnerving. There was traffic noise outside dampened by the insulation. There were no sounds of aircraft in this part of town. All the airports were far to the west. Back on base, the only time it was close to this quiet would have been after nightfall, but even then there would still be some aircraft noise. Here, there was almost nothing. All my senses were telling me something was about to happen. Some emergency could emerge at any moment. Thoughts bubbled to the surface of my conscious mind.

It was approaching mid-morning on the 7th of June, 2025. Back in garrison, I’d have done PT with the rest of the squadron first thing in the morning, then moved on to chow. After eating, I’d have gone to my office to check reports. I’d take those reports to the hangar bay to confirm things with the Master Gunnery Sergeant and each unit NCO. If nothing major was needed, I’d probably excuse the maintenance crews for liberty by lunch. After grabbing some chow myself, I’d get back to my BOQ and do a bit of gaming in the afternoon. After more chow then more gaming, I’d hit the rack before starting it all again the next day.

It wasn’t just my career that was gone. It was my routine. It was my sense of purpose. It was my sense of identity. That phenomenon had taken everything from me, including my manhood. I was alone and directionless while sitting in that quiet room in a sports bra, PT shirt, and panties. A lot of details I didn’t want to think about started to flood my conscious mind. The murder scene of sheets demanded attention. Instead of facing any of it, I darted to my seabag, yanked out some cammie trousers, slipped them on, bloused them, grabbed some boots, put them on, and walked out. Call it a tactical retreat, if you wish.

Instead, I decided to gain a tactical understanding of the place I’d found myself in. Dizzy was only too happy to give me a real tour of the place. There was the main room, the dining room, a rather big and impressive galley, and a game room/theater on the ground floor. The second floor was half residential rooms and half meeting spaces that were simply differently decorated hotel rooms. The third floor was nothing but rooms people lived in. Dizzy bought the place in 2009 after the hotel that existed before he got it went under and sold off the assets. He operates the place as a charitable organization and pays the bills with a combination of donations and whatever rent the people in the rooms can hand over. He’s informal about it because, as he said, there’s so many people that just need a place to land so they can stand someday soon. He was a very giving kind of guy. There was a bonus, too: washers and dryers in one of the ground floor rooms. I could do laundry.

There was one thing I noticed as we moved through the building: I was the only person around that appeared to have European ancestors. It was a little jarring to be the one in the minority. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Regardless, I did what I could to try to blend in. Everybody commented on my military attire. I might have been wearing camouflage but I was the furthest thing from invisible in this crowd. There was no blending in. I was suddenly “that girl in the camo”. I’m not even a girl. I just look like one. Sleep didn’t come soon enough.

The next morning, I knew something was off. My PT was fine. I got cat-called again. Even with that going on, that wasn’t what was wrong. I didn’t find out until I got back to the community center what was actually happening. Rowan the Mysterious was at their regular perch in front of the television, but so were several others. All of their eyes were wide in disbelief. Dizzy was at the desk, as usual. My face squinted at the odd behavior in front of the TV before me.

“What’s got their attention like that?” I asked Dizzy without turning my focus away from the group.

He shook his head and responded, “Shit got real. You heard about the raids around town the last couple of weeks?”

“Hell no. I was at Pendleton handling my squadron. I don’t really pay attention to the news. I wait for orders.”

“You probably should break that habit, hermano.” He gestured to the interior of the building. “Usually, there’s a lot of activity in here. Maybe fifty or sixty people at any given time. There’s community organizations that rent the spaces I showed you that just aren’t coming in. Most of the people around here are some variety of Hispanic or Native. They’re brown people, Sam.”

“I’ve seen that. And?”

“ICE happened. They started raiding the neighborhood and rounding people up. There’s a lot of immigrants around here, if you hadn’t noticed. ICE is snatching them off the streets and putting them in subpar cages.”

“It’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Dizzy. Did these people break any laws?”

He wanted to stand and smack me. I could see it. “The fuck, Sam?! No, man! The people being rounded up are just people trying to get a job or work for an honest day’s living! This shit ain’t right! People are being rounded up, put in zip tie cuffs, and carted off to nobody knows where!”

I nodded along as he spoke. I may not have fully understood the situation, but I’m not a heartless asshole. “Sounds pretty bad out there. What do the courts say? We’ve got a constitution with checks and balances.”

“This chingada president and his stooges don’t care about any of that, Sam. These ICE clowns are hiding their faces and refusing to identify themselves. They get just a little bit of kickback from protests and Orange Man sends in the National Guard.”

A record scratched in my brain. “Wait… National Guard? For what?”

Dizzy smirked knowing that I was starting to understand. “To defend ICE as they do their shit, hermano. They say it’s to ‘defend federal property’ but that’s a load of bullshit.”

“They’re sending in the National Guard, a military organization, for civilian law enforcement? That’s against Posse Comitatus. They’re literally not allowed to do that and any soldier getting that order should refuse it, as per their oath. The UCMJ will cover their ass because it’s not a lawful order.”

“You'd think there's a chance some might do that, but you'd be wrong. It gets worse. The President can’t nationalize the National Guard without approval from the Governor of the state. El Hombre Naranja didn’t even ask Newsom. He just did it.”

“So, it’s double illegal.” I pointed at the crowd with their faces illuminated by the blue-ish light from the television. “Is that what they’re watching?”

“Yea, it’s been happening since this morning. There’s a huge protest downtown, too. Fucking Hegseth is talking about dispatching marines from The Stumps. Seven hundred of them have ‘make ready’ orders.”

“You’re kidding me?! That’s absolute overkill! That’s definitely not a lawful order! What’s going on downtown, then?! Is it Rodney King all over again?”

Dizzy scoffed. “Hell no. It’s ninety-eight percent peaceful. A few people doing stupid shit, but nothing lethal. As usual, LAPD is overreacting, too. It’s nuts downtown.”

It was my turn to nod in understanding. “Oh, so they’re escalating because it’s a show of force. It’s not enough to have the National Guard in town. Calling in Marines sends a message and it’s not the right one. Were I the officer with orders like that, I’d tell them to stuff the shit back down their throats. I wouldn’t allow my Marines to compromise their oath. It opens them up to a can of worms they are not prepared for. I’d also probably spend the rest of my days in Leavenworth once someone with sense got elected to the presidency again for following an order like that.”

“That’s why you’re a good officer, Sam. I’m not so sure about the guys at The Stumps. Maybe they voted for the moron. You remember your time as a zero-three-eleven, right? It’s not a thinking man’s MOS. This is a whole new level of stupid.”

“It’s not right, Diz. It’s not okay, either. It’s friggin’ unsat.”

“We can’t do anything about it, though, Sam. I’m a cripple. You got retired but you’re probably in the reserve lists. We’ve got no supply and no reinforcements. Going in like this would be an idiot’s gambit.”

“You’re probably right. I don’t know. Let me gather some intel.”

We parted and I sat with the group watching the news reports from downtown. All I saw was a bunch of protestors practicing their First Amendment rights to speech and assembly, not to mention a redress of grievances. From what I could tell, the intended purpose was to make it next to impossible for ICE to move their vehicles from the federal building out into the community. The protestors were protecting the people ICE wanted to target. It was infuriating to watch the National Guard with their riot shields push protestors back to allow for entry and exit of ICE vehicles. While they did that, federal officers fired tear gas canisters into the crowd in an effort to get them to disperse. The tactics were harsh and indiscriminate. I shared the anger of those gathered with me on those couches.

Dizzy was right, though. There was nothing we could do but watch. I hate feeling helpless.

Over the course of the next few days, I started to develop a rhythm. I’d execute my PT in the morning, come back inside for news updates, eat something, more news, more chow, more news until chow time in the evening, and go to bed. That was my whole day. In the course of that, I was starting to learn about the people around me. Mostly Rowan and Bidzii, though. Rowan was an odd one. Bidzii was much more upbeat. Between them and Dizzy, I was getting a crash course in the life of a Hispanic or indigenous person in the United States in 2025. When I’d take my run, I noticed fewer people were out in the street or their yards. They feared the raids. When the Marines were actually deployed to Los Angeles, I lost my mind. I had to excuse myself and go to the parking lot to cool off. My hands were doing that glowing thing and, occasionally, the yellow St. Elmo’s fire came back.

Watching the protests was starting to feel like some kind of spectator sport around the community center. There was popcorn and drinks for all, non-alcoholic of course. It had barely felt like I’d been there for a week when the big protest came. The “No Kings” march was planned nationwide. Nobody really knew how big it was going to be but people were pissed off enough that it might break a record or two. There were twelve of us gathered around the television area. Some had their phones out. On the TV, we kept the coverage to Los Angeles. On the phones, people were tracking several other major cities. The amount of people involved in this nationwide call to action was awe-inspiring. So, naturally, we cut the tension by trying to be the one to point out the funniest protest sign.

The game was interrupted by someone calling out, “Holy shit, you guys! It’s her!”

There was a scuffle over the TV remote while many of us tried to read each other’s confused expressions. The one that had called out finally changed the channel to the appropriate coverage. On the screen was a scene of Chicago, Illinois. The protest procession had ended but there were still a number of people around. They were all looking at the same spectacle. Right in front of our faces was some brunette wearing a blue suit with red trucks, boots, and cape and accented by a yellow belt as well as accents on the hems. She was… floating. As if the news commentators could read our minds, they began to speak.

“What you’re seeing here, ladies and gentlemen,” The anchor began, “is a shot from our news chopper in downtown Chicago. What you’re seeing is right in The Loop on West Ida B. Wells Drive in downtown Chicago. It’s right outside the ICE facility. That floating girl is someone seen around Chicagoland as of late. We’ve been calling her the ‘Windy City Wonder’ at the station. She hasn’t given anyone a name. We can’t begin to speculate what she’s doing, right now. We do have someone on the ground but they’re setting up in that mass of people somewhere.”

Before they could say much more, the figure zipped over to a guy using a mic for a loudspeaker. Just like that. In less than the blink of an eye, she’d gone from hovering to getting into the face of some guy in a uniform I didn’t recognize. I had never seen anyone move like that. Everybody else was in as much awe as me. From the lower part of the screen, another guy in the same style uniform pulled out a taser and fired toward the girl in the suit and cape. It bounced off.

“It would seem that these agents, who we have identified as employees of American Vanguard Solutions, are attempting to subdue the ‘Windy City Wonder’ in some way.”

Another guy came out of nowhere with a different weapon and fired. The girl in the cape was wrapped up in some kind of metallic net. Arcs of electricity could be seen on the TV. The people around me were gasping. I was still trying to figure out what was actually going on. Then, the girl tore through the net like it was wet paper. That shouldn’t be possible. Her head started darting around her surroundings. Then, she moved again. In the blink of an eye she’d traveled more than fifty feet. She lifted her arm like a hammer, brought it down, and bisected the front end of an MRAP like a hot knife through butter.

“Oh, my word! Did she just slice a police-grade armored personnel carrier with her arm? Sorry, folks. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing.”

She turned to the AVS agents with her eyes glowing red. I finally got a look at her face and I could swear the blood left my own face. I knew her.

“Hannah?” was the only thing I could vocalize.

Chasing Horizons



Chapter Six

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: This will be the last chapter of this particular work that will be released for a little while. I'm going to focus solely on Webs We Weave going forward. Unless my wife and I get COVID again or something else hinders the writing of chapters, you'll have to wait on the further adventures of Capt. Danvers. I still have a few chapters of this tale in reserve.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOQV__Z55eE ))

There was a seat on the next flight from LAX to O’Hare booked on my phone in minutes. It wouldn’t be leaving until around 0400. I’d have to spend ninety minutes in Denver, but I didn’t much care.

What the hell was going on with the world when I could see my niece dressed up in some weird cosplay and could do all those things I saw on national television? I almost regretted even seeing her face. What was with the red-orange glow to her eyes? How on Earth could anyone do that kind of damage to an MRAP with just their fist? Hannah can fly and move at speeds the human eye can’t accurately perceive?

Hundreds of questions swam around in my skull and I barely perceived the world around me for the duration. Dizzy and Bidzii tried to get the source of the name I’d spoken at the screen, but I went mute. After booking the flight, I moved upstairs to the room I was occupying and started shoving stuff into my seabag. The organization and technique was automatic, so I couldn’t mess it up unless I was trying. My brain had plugged in a heading and flipped a switch. I was on auto-pilot. The only conscious decision I made was that I’d wear my cammies the following day. Everything else was a blur.

The thought had crossed my mind to simply call my sister and have her confirm or deny whether or not that was my eldest niece on television. I almost did a few times. Reality soon smacked me in the face, though. She would recognize the number, but not my voice. Dizzy, a guy I contact on a regular basis over the phone, didn’t believe the voice belonged to the man who got him to medevac in Afghanistan all those years ago until I showed up and proved it. If a guy I talked to every other day was going to need concrete proof that the voice belonged to someone he knew, my sister would probably need more. My habit is to call family once a month or so. There’s not many happy memories associated with family, we’ll put it that way. She was going to need irrefutable evidence that I am, indeed, her brother… with quite a few modifications I didn’t approve.

At Zero-Dark-Thirty the next morning, I arose to the sound of the alarm I’d set on my phone. The sound that played? Reveille. What else?

As if I were all the way back at the MCRD on Parris Island, I went into action. Covers were thrown off, cammie trousers went on, belt secured, trousers bloused, boots applied, laces secured, blouse went on, buttons secured, inspection of sleeve fold commenced, and bedding squared away. One minute and twelve seconds. It wasn’t ground-breaking or a record, but it would do. In the head, I brushed my teeth and put a brush through my hair before stowing the gear back into my hygiene bag which then was secured in my duffel. My cover was stowed into a pocket of my trousers. Grabbing my duffel and seabag, I made my way out of the building. No one else was even conscious.

Immediately upon exiting the hatch, my cover was applied. Once the seabag and duffel were stowed in the back, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my truck. For the first time since all this occurred, my brain slowed down and actually made me acknowledge something. My seat was positioned wrong. This model year, 2022, had settings that one could program for quick adjustment. I touched the button labeled “1” on the door panel. The seat automatically adjusted and I felt as if I were shrinking again. The adjustment stopped and I noted that I was too far away from the pedals or the wheel and I couldn’t see well enough over the dash for it to be safe. Curiosity won over and I pushed the button marked “2”. The seat adjusted again and I found myself being able to grasp the wheel, manipulate the pedals, and see over the dash adequately. I must have made the adjustments and saved them to the button when I was aboard Camp Pendleton or after the retirement ceremony. The reality of the changes hit me like a brick.

Yet another thing I didn’t want to think about was pushed to the back of my mind and filed under “Nope”. Securing the seatbelt, I started the truck, hit “begin” on the navigation set to LAX, performed my two-point exit, and drove the direction the navigation was advising me to go. At this hour, most of the streets of Los Angeles were pretty barren. Even the freeways were mostly clear. Finding a secure parking spot was a nightmare I somewhat expected to experience. After shutting off the truck and removing my bags, I bid farewell and made sure the locks and alarm were engaged.

Navigating any civilian space in uniform is generally a gauntlet of people going out of their way to thank you for your service. It’s nice… for the first couple of years of your enlistment or commission, but it starts to feel performative and hollow. My thoughts usually drift to: “Okay, you’re proud of our service. That’s nice and all, but what are you doing to ensure that VA benefits are adequate? What are you doing for homeless veterans in your area? Are you advocating for the research into the consequences of combat and how they translate into TBIs or PTSD in combat veterans? Did you call your member of Congress to advocate for the passage of the PACT Act?”. I will smile and nod to the folks as a courtesy, but I don’t have to be happy about it. The thank-yous aren’t what got to me. An older couple commented on my being “such a brave young lady” who should “find a husband and settle down” rather than wear the uniform. How often do active duty female service members get that crap thrown at them?

Boarding the plane and getting settled in my seat was a blessing. Fewer eyes meant fewer hollow salutations. My seabag had been checked and stowed in the cargo bay. My duffel was securely stowed in the overhead compartment. I breathed a sigh of relief, closed my eyes, and tried to prepare myself for what might happen on the other end of this flight. That moment of meditation was interrupted by a body landing in the seat next to me.

“Are you armed, Captain?” The male voice asked in very hushed tones.

My eyes opened to reveal the face of some guy in his late twenties with a high-and-tight haircut and cold brown eyes. He looked like a fed with his loose-cut jeans, shirt tucked in, and jacket over the whole ensemble. While my physique before all this might have been compared to Colonel Miles Quaritch, this guy seemed to have more of a Kratos physique. It was almost like looking at an enlisted man who hit the gym a little too hard. My reaction was to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Am I wearing a cover, sir?” was my deadpan response, matching his volume level.

“Not that I can see, no.”

“Then I’m not fucking armed. We’re indoors and on a flight line. I’m not armed; thus my cover is in a pocket of my trousers. Why are you asking, sir?”

He discreetly pulled out his wallet and flashed me a badge. “Air Marshal, Captain. Need to know if you’ll cover my six if things go south.”

Considering that qualified air marshals go through some pretty intense screening, he was being a little odd about approaching me while the plane was still boarding. “You can deduce that I’m a Captain, but don’t know the customs and courtesies of the Marine Corps? That’s a little weird.” I shook my head at the man. “Things go south, you may not want to fire an explosive projectile in a pressurized, oxygenated space that could puncture the fuselage and kill everyone aboard at 30,000 feet. I’ll cover your six, though. I’ll also inform you that I’m a qualified MV-22 pilot, should you need that information. I’m not cleared for jet aircraft, but I’ve got enough flight hours to likely put this bird on the tarmac if necessary.”

“Good to know, Captain… ?”

“Danvers.” I pointed at the name strip on my right chest.

“Hopefully, all goes well, Captain Danvers. Are you getting off in Denver?”

“Yes. Ninety minute layover before final leg to O’Hare. Anything else you wanna know before I catch a few winks, sir?”

“How does a young woman your age get commissioned, reach the rank of Captain, and get enough flight hours to qualify as an MV-22 pilot?”

My eyes rolled all on their own. “That’s classified, sir.”

“I’ve got Top Secret clearance, Captain.”

“More classified than that. I’m also retired, so boil that in your little noodle for a while. With all due respect, kindly fuck off now, sir.”

“Enjoy the flight, ‘Captain’.” He stated that last bit like he was full of skepticism. His line of work is fueled by paranoia, so I guess it comes with the territory. At least he left me alone for the rest of the flight.

Thankfully, nobody else approached me for the duration of the flight. The ninety minutes in Denver crawled along like it had better things to do. There were a couple of news stories about the girl in the suit and cape in Chicago. They offered different angles and I could still swear that the girl was my niece. I still had no idea how it was possible, but that’s what I was determined to find out. I was not approached by the air marshal on the second leg of the flight, much to my relief.

By the time I disembarked the plane in Chicago, it was already lunch time. No amount of hunger would get me to pay the prices for chow at an airport, though. Instead, I just hit the baggage claim, grabbed my seabag, and went to the rental car counters. I’d have to have some way to get around on my own and there wasn’t time to try learning any public transit system. There was a little trouble with the people behind the desk because they didn’t think I looked old enough to rent a car. One flash of my military ID changed their tune and got me the veterans’ discount. Not having time to really plan the trip, I had to make due with whatever they had. I ended up with a Rav4. It wouldn’t have been my first choice but if it’s that or a Chevy Malibu, I’ll take the over-engineered grocery procurement vehicle any day.

Hybrids weird me out. Somehow, the universe was smiling at me and I got a 2025 Rav4 Limited Hybrid. It had leather seats and everything. I’m not fond of all the electronics on it, though. All the electronics in modern vehicles is why I still own my 4Runner. The push-button start was cool enough that I forgot all the rest. Once my gear was stowed in the back, I climbed in, adjusted the seat, checked the mirrors, and started off. The onboard navigation was voice-activated. I gave the weird voice my sister’s address and it complied. Technology is a trip. Of course, I made a point to stop in at a Burger King along the way.

Before long, the silver Rav4 I’d rented was sitting on the curb outside my sister’s house. A bit of trepidation stuck with me. Inside, I knew there was a happy family atmosphere. When I first met my sister’s husband, Christopher, I didn’t really know what to make of the guy. He was pretty nerdy, corny, and had a tendency to maybe ask too many questions. Overall, I knew he was a good guy. More importantly, Laura loved him with her whole self. They made a great life together. They had three daughters. They were little rascals I loved visiting when I got the chance. Their life might have been something I really aspired to… in another life. Now, it felt like I was bringing my failures to their doorstep.

Shaking that thought out of my head, I was on a mission. Stepping out of the vehicle and slipping on my cover, I strode right up to the front door and put my finger on the doorbell. I stood outside for a few moments. There was a little commotion inside, but it took a moment for footfalls to come to the door. Half a breath later, it swung open to reveal the visage of the middle child that most closely resembled my sister. She looked at me with a very confused expression. Christ, I was now about the same height as my fifteen-year-old niece.

“Something I can do for you, soldier?” She asked.

“Marine. Would you mind fetching either of your parents, Madison?” I inquired cordially.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “How do you know my name? Do I know you?”

“I should hope so, young lady. I’m just in a different package than you’re used to. Please get your mom or dad for me?”

Her eyes darted over my form for a moment. They scanned my cover, then my collar, then my torso. When they landed on my name tape, they widened in surprise. “Holy shit! It happened to you, too?!”

“Watch your language, Madison. Your mom would kill me if she thought I encouraged you.” Then, my brain did a double-take. “Wait… what do you mean by ‘it’? What happened?”

“You’re Uncle Sam, right? I don’t think the military knows where we live, yet.”

I balked. “Yea… why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me? Where’s your mom?”

“Who are you talking to, Madi?” A familiar voice echoed inside before the person reached the door. The door opened further to reveal my sister, Laura, in her 43-year-old splendor. She looked great to me. She stopped short and got a look at me. Again, once her eyes hit my name tape, she gasped. “Goddamn it, Sam! Not you too!”

“Okay, now I’m confused. What are you two talking about?”

“You’d better come inside. Do you have anything you want out of your truck or something? Did you bring your truck?” Laura seemed incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing. It was almost as if she was familiar with someone she knew to be male becoming a younger female.

Without much word, I crossed the threshold, stepped inside, and removed my cover. “Anyone going to give me a sitrep?”

Madison quickly closed the door behind me. While Laura shuffled to get a better look at me. “How is it that you look more like Mom than I do?”

The confusion was getting the better of me. “How are you all so strangely okay with this?!” I gestured to my body. “Why in the hell am I seeing Hannah in a goddamn superhero costume on national television all the way in Los Angeles?!”

“That wasn’t Hannah, Sam. That was Kris.” Laura dropped the bomb that exploded my brain.

“Excuse the fuck out of me?!”

“Language, Sam. Olivia’s in the other room.”

They ushered my confused butt into the dining room, sat me down, and explained as much as they could. Apparently, the same day things went south for me, Christopher was also affected. He got powers and turned into a teenage girl. Those powers are on par with the most famous comic book superhero of all time: Superman. Madison was really excited about it. Laura was less so. I got the feeling she wasn’t going to say much in front of the kids. Somewhere along the line, Chris decided he was gonna do the ‘superhero thing’. The suit was made by some scientist at Northwestern or something. He’s been wearing it and doing his thing ever since. Yesterday’s engagement was the most public thing he’s done so far.

“With a straight face, you’re gonna sit there and tell me that my brother-in-law is now my sister-in-law and can do all the things the most powerful superhero of all time can do?” I asked, half sarcastically.

Laura sighed. “I wish it weren’t true, frankly.”

“Dad hasn’t lived here since his first rescue. He’s afraid some bad people might find out who he is and come hurt us. He moved back in with grandma in Wisconsin.” Madison recalled.

“What happened to you, Sam?” My sister wanted to know.

Beginning with a long, heavy sigh, I explained everything. The pulse thing hit, base went on alert and lockdown, I fainted, then woke up in the base hospital with boobs. I mentioned they needed to do a lot of testing, but not what sort of testing. I told them I was basically confined to quarters for over a month. Then, the retirement. Outwardly, I was stoic as ever. Inside, I wanted to scream out loud about how unfair it all felt. Both Laura and Madison listened attentively. It was strange to me that they didn’t really react like I thought they would. It was like they already knew half the story.

As if on cue, Hannah walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She pulled out a drink, opened it, and turned to us while taking a big gulp. After swallowing, she pointed at me while looking at her mother, “Who’s this, Mom? Relative of yours?”

“Hannah, this is—” Laura began.

“The dumbass Marine who thought you were the one in the cape on TV.” I finished her statement.

Hannah’s whole body shook in recognition. “Geezus, another one? Who are you?”

Laura spoke in monotone. “This is your Uncle Sam, sweetie.”

Hannah threw her head back in resignation. “Oh, I cannot with all these people changing and getting powers! I’m outta here!” She stomped out of the room.

Laura’s eyes landed on me once more. “It’s been something of an event around here. You remember Kris’ friend from high school? The other journalist? She goes by Lauren, now.”

“How many people has this happened to around you guys?” My eyes met Laura’s, then Madison’s, and back to Laura’s. “For the record, I don’t think I’ve got powers. Let’s just leave that hanging thread alone, okay?”

“Well, there’s dad and his friend, though I’m not sure that Lauren has any powers at all.” Madison thought aloud.

Laura let out a long sigh. “It’s been a very confusing month and a half around here. How long are you planning on staying, Sam?”

“How long can I stay?”

She smiled at me. “As long as you need to. The spare room is available since Kris moved up to Wisconsin.”

“Why is your husband living with his mother in Wisconsin, Laura? Shouldn’t he be here with you and the girls?”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Sam.” Her voice was firm and authoritative. I was not going to get anywhere continuing that line of questioning. Her gaze moved to Madison. “Sweetie, why don’t you take your uncle to your little spot on the roof and… call your father?”

Madison smiled like a little imp and grabbed my arm. “C’mon, Uncle Sam. You’re gonna love this.”

Maybe I should have objected, but I didn’t. I let my niece lead me by the arm through my sister’s house. There was a moment where I was able to recognize that I was now shorter than my own sister. No time to dwell on that while I was being dragged. Madison led me into her room and pointed at the window.

“We’re gonna climb out here. Hope you’re not afraid of heights.” She giggled.

“Madison, I’m a pilot. Being afraid of heights and flying would be entirely counter-intuitive.”

Following her out the window and onto the roof, there was a very narrow “lip” edge of the roof. A part of me really wanted to grill my niece for needlessly risking her life with this roof thing. Carefully rounding the “lip”, I found Madison sitting with her chest to her knees on the roof. I trudged up the slope and settled next to her. My landing was quite unceremonious because I just plopped myself down. It may only be early afternoon, but it was already a long day for me.

“You going to explain how everybody is mostly nonchalant about learning I’m shorter and have to wear a bra, now?” The fatigue in my voice squeezed out.

Madison smirked in my general direction. “Or I could just show you.” She turned her head to look out at the small grove of trees and little manmade pond behind the house. She spoke softly in a conversational tone. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

There was a thought about saying something, but then something interrupted. Somehow, I knew something was coming and it was coming incredibly fast. Without thinking, I stood up on the roof and planted myself between whatever was coming and my niece. My eyes rapidly scanned the horizon. I didn’t notice, but that St. Elmo’s Fire effect began to encompass my body and my hands did the weird glowing thing as I stood guard in front of Madison. Whatever had been coming stopped on a dime and the wind around us picked up a little bit. There before me, floating at about 25 feet above the ground, was the girl I’d seen on the news; except she was wearing glasses, a loose-fitting T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes while her hair was up in a ponytail. Madison stood up next to me gasping with an intense smile on her face.

“Who is this, Madison?” The floating girl wondered.

She was feeling too many things to respond, so I did in her stead. “Capt. Samuel Danvers, USMC. I’m Laura’s brother and the uncle of these girls. Who are you?”

Realization hit the floating girl’s face. “Sam? It’s me, Kris. I’m guessing the universe has some strange sense of humor. Looks like it got you, too.” Her eyes shifted to my niece. “Madison, I’m going to ask you to breathe, please.”

“I know what powers you have!” Madison practically screamed in my ear before darting off toward her bedroom and carefully navigating the tiny bit of roof at the window.

“It really unnerves me that she does that. That part of the roof really isn’t safe.” The floating girl somehow moved closer and set her feet down on the roof. “Are you okay, Sam?”

I was not. Plopping back down on the roof, a breath of unease escaped. Nothing made sense anymore. I had come to investigate why my niece was in that suit on TV and how she was doing the things she was doing. Turns out, it wasn’t my niece. Even more baffling, the whole family was just acting like it was any other day. There were some tense undertones, but they didn’t seem to be acting much differently than I remember them. I may not be able to visit more than once a year, but I felt like I knew them enough. This girl flies in that bears a strong family resemblance to my nieces without any mechanical assistance and I’m supposed to interpret that as “normal”?

The girl sat down next to me like she knew me. “Going through some things, eh?” She let out a long sigh. “Yea, right there with you, bud.”

“I doubt you’d know half of what I’m thinking.” I told her.

She scoffed. “Sam, I told you: it’s me, Kris. A bit different shape to me, no wrinkles on my face, and no gray hairs, but I’m the same guy. Are you up for having a man-to-man?”

I scoffed and chuckled at the same time while throwing my head back. “Yea, okay. I think the fact we’re both wearing a bra right now is grounds for revoking our man cards.”

“You know what I mean, Sam. Don’t be crass. Tell me what’s going through your head.”

For a moment, I didn’t want to answer. Talking things out that don’t involve the inner workings of a helicopter or tiltrotor engine has never been my strong suit. “Let’s entertain the idea that you’re my brother-in-law. How long have you and my sister been married?”

“Twenty-three years. You gave one of the best speeches at the wedding, as I recall. You’d just graduated boot camp and were about to head off to infantry school. Laura timed it just right so you could be there.”

“Best speech, eh? Not doin’ too bad.”

“You had a lot more hope, back then. You talked about finding someone for yourself that made you as happy as I made Laura.”

A memory bubbled to the surface, but I pushed it back down again. “Yea, those were different times.”

The girl turned her head and looked me dead in the eyes. “It wasn’t the combat deployments that changed you, Sam. Admit it.”

The bubble refused to be suppressed and the flicker of an image reached my mind’s eye. It was the face of a young woman in her early 20s with a laugh playing across it. She had a headband in her hair that she’d curled into little ringlets. The image seemed to have a yellow-ish filter applied to it and a lot of details were distorted in the background.

“We’re not going to talk about that.” I stated harshly, shutting down the memory and that line of conversation.

I couldn’t read her face because I wasn’t looking at it. “Okay. Fine. Let me tell you why Laura and the girls took the news that you have changed in stride, then.”

The girl next to me started weaving a tale. The story began the day of the pulse – or wave or whatever else the science people were going to call it. Chris was on his way home from some conference. The thing hit, electronics flickered, and there was a fainting. A quick flash of me in my office came rushing back to my mind. Things didn’t start happening until later in the afternoon when Laura came home with the girls. There was a little talk about blue filters and skeletons that seemed odd to me. From there, the story took on a more macro framing about learning the powers and making the decision to start doing ‘the hero thing’. There was also commentary about the relationship with Laura and the girls being a bit rocky after everything happened. I’d read enough of Chris’ news articles to recognize the prose of the speech and the way the story was being told. Chris never did fiction because he felt like it was lying on some level. Non-fiction, especially journalism, was always his forté.

“...so that’s that. My marriage is on the rocks because Laura is very heterosexual – not to mention having a relationship with someone that looks to be the age of her children is nausea-inducing. I can’t blame her for feeling that way. Moving in with my mom in Wisconsin was a two-pronged solution: 1) it gives Laura and the girls the space they need to figure out how they feel about everything, and 2) it puts me out away from populated areas should some nut job try to find out who I really am and where I live. It’s not an ideal solution, but it was the best one I could come up with.” Chris finished the story.

Having been thinking through the story, I nodded along. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“What about you, Sam? How have you been dealing with all this?”

“Doing my damndest to improvise, adapt, and overcome.” I let out a heavy sigh. “It’s not working out like I’d hoped. I am not a fan of this body. That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s not me.”

“I understand that all too well. You’re talking to someone that’s gone through a lot of what you’re experiencing right now. You know what I found out? I can’t go back. Not physically, anyway. There have been… some complications to getting these powers. First, nothing can pierce my skin. Not needles, not scalpels, and not even bullets. When I first went to the hospital with Laura and the girls, they tried to draw blood but none of the needles would work. That leaves out scalpels because they’re made of the same material. I’ve been shot at a couple of times and walked away without a scratch.

“Second, I’m not sure I’d even benefit from any effects. Even if something could hurt me, I heal too quickly. My good friend, Týr, and I have had some full-contact sparring matches. He’s the only one that’s been capable of even hurting me a little. The bruise disappeared in seconds. I think my body would just undo anything that might be done.

“I’ve looked into every option of hormone therapy and surgeries. I’ve researched things I didn’t even know existed two months ago. I keep coming back to the same answer: it’s probably not going to work for me. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to do with that knowledge, honestly. I don’t have all the answers.”

“You’ve really given this a lot of thought.”

“Yes, because I haven’t been hiding behind military routine all this time. I’ve had to face it head on. That’s not to say you’re doing it wrong, though. Everybody works things out in their own time. What you do with whatever knowledge you gain is your own business.”

Just before I could respond, Madison climbed out of her window again and joined us on the roof. She was holding some kind of book tight to her chest and trying to obscure the cover with her arms.

“I found it!” She squeaked. She uncrossed her arms and showed me the cover of the book. There was a yellow-orange background. The foreground was occupied by a blonde woman in a blue and red suit with yellow accents. I noted the Mandarin collar. There was a red sash around her hips and she was seemingly pulling on one of her red gloves. The words “Captain Marvel” were positioned in front of the woman. “Uncle Sam, given what I saw around you and your upper arms when Dad flew in, I can reasonably say that you may very well have the powers of Captain Marvel.”

“I don’t have powers, Madison.” I objected.

“Not true, Sam. You had this glow around you and I could see the blood vessels in your fists without using my x-ray vision. You’ve got something going on, but I don’t know what.” Chris concurred with his daughter.

Madison’s expression hardened. “Uncle Sam, I correctly identified all of Dad’s abilities as they manifested and cross-referenced with an extensive knowledge of comic books in my own mind. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

“Madison, this is real life, not a comic book.” I objected.

“Sam, just go with it. Let her go through her tests. If she’s wrong, you’re right back where you started. No harm done, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Run your tests, I guess.”