Page 37 of Stalk the Sky
Lt. Rothilion was currently leading Flight A on a scouting mission to the south, getting one last look of the area before everyone was grounded.
Of course he had given himself the more important task, along with a snide jab about Flight B not being ready to face the turbulent flying and landing just before the storm.
Probably true, but Lt. Rothilion didn’t need to be so snooty about it, making Fieran’s idea of target practice sound like a punishment instead of a good idea.
As Fieran strode into the hangar, he found the rest of Flight B hard at work at the task he’d set them while he’d been out running practice runs with four at a time.
All across the hangar, the aeroplanes of Flight B were in various stages of painting, from some which still had the first layer of gray-blue paint to those that were fully dry.
At the nearest aeroplane, Merrik stood on a ladder as he painted the upper wing. Pip stood below the aeroplane, painting the bottom of the fuselage. Gray paint liberally spattered her dark brown curls, her face, and her coveralls.
Fieran strolled up to them, then lifted a particularly paint-smeared section of Pip’s hair, which had frizzed out of her messy bun. “What happened to you? You look like you lost a paint fight.”
“No.” Pip sighed, though it held a trace of a laugh. “I volunteered to paint all the lower parts of the aeroplanes since I didn’t have to duck as much, but some of your flyboys aren’t so neat when it comes to painting.”
Fieran glanced over the hangar. Paint coated the floor all around each of the aeroplanes. “I can see that. At this point, it might be easier just to paint the floor gray rather than try to clean it up. Merrik, you were supposed to be supervising.”
“I tried.” Merrik’s tone was almost grim as he slathered paint on the upper wing. “Messy paint was the least of our worries.”
Fieran glanced from Merrik to Pip. That sounded rather ominous.
This time, Pip rolled her eyes, laid her paintbrush across the top of her can, and stepped out from under the aeroplane. “Come on. You need to see Pretty Face’s aeroplane.”
Fieran sighed and trailed after Pip. Any trouble involving Pretty Face was bound to be inappropriate in nature. So far, Pretty Face hadn’t crossed too many lines too egregiously, and Fieran had hoped that Sathrah’s punch in the nose had knocked some sense into him.
Apparently not.
As they meandered between the aeroplanes, Fieran nodded at a few of the other flyboys, who were hard at work on their aeroplanes’ paint jobs.
When they reached the back corner, Pretty Face stood on a ladder, putting the finishing touches on an additional painting on the side of his aeroplane.
The not-regulation artwork depicted Pretty Face with a rose clamped between his teeth and lounging in nothing but what appeared to be a towel—or perhaps a loincloth—draped around his middle, his shirtless chest especially well-defined.
He had a talent for painting. Fieran would give him that much.
Fieran resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. “Pretty Face, extra artwork is not in the regulations.”
“Exactly! There’s nothing in the regulations that forbid it.” Pretty Face put a last flourish to his self-portrait’s hair, his tone all too cheerful. “I checked.”
Probably because no one had thought to forbid it just yet. The Flying Corps was still too new as a branch of military service.
“It’s not exactly appropriate.” Fieran nearly pinched the bridge of his nose the way his Uncle Weylind did whenever the elven nobility was being especially aggravating.
From the next aeroplane over, Stickyfingers leaned farther out on his ladder to peer under the upper wing at them. “Just be glad Merrik put his foot down on Pretty Face’s original design before he got too far with it. That was truly inappropriate.”
“Dare I ask?” Fieran gave in and rubbed at his temples. Between Lt. Rothilion’s harassment and trying to wrangle the flyboys of Flight B into shape, he was getting nostalgic for the carefree days of basic training and yelling drill sergeants.
“The first version was a girl with very little clothes on.” Stickyfingers sent a glare in Pretty Face’s direction. “Totally disrespectful.”
“What? I changed it.” Pretty Face pressed a hand to his chest. “Besides, this is better. If my aeroplane had a girl on it, the ladies might think I’m taken. This way, I display my own magnificent attributes.”
“You’re just asking for another punch in the nose. Apparently my cousin didn’t knock enough sense into you last time.” Fieran sighed. What should he do about it? He could order Pretty Face to paint over it. He could forbid all extra art entirely.
And become exactly the kind of stuffy lieutenant he didn’t want to be.
Or he could let it go. At least the art would make Pretty Face’s aeroplane easy to identify while they were flying. And of the two artwork options, this was the better—less inappropriate?—of the two.
“Fine, you may keep it.” Fieran raised his voice slightly so that more of the surrounding flyboys would be able to hear. “Since you possess such painting skills, Pretty Face, I’d like you to help everyone else with painting art on their aeroplanes so that each flyer is more identifiable in the air.”