The story of Halcyon was the only one Marisol heard as a child. She memorized it. The prince and the princess, that magical flower, and most of all Halcyon, the most majestic of pegasi, with wings, her mother always told her kindly, that looked just like hers. You could be like him, Margot would tell her daughter, eyes glazed with reverence, and when Marisol saw that devotion, the fanaticism with which her parents spoke of the Halcyon Air Unit, she knew she had to become one of them.
As soon as she was able, Marisol scouted out the old leader of the Unit and asked to be trained. “Asked” was not really the right word - Marisol strode right up to the commander and said “You need me” in no more words, and at a time when the unit was beginning to lose some of its importance, they could not afford to turn her way. Still, she faced some backlash. The Commander was a gruff old man with little faith in the abilities of his women, especially in a girl as young as Marisol, and he promised her she would not make it. She promised that she would.
At exactly a year old, Marisol was indoctrinated. Day after day she rose at Dawn and flew out to the training centers, rain or sun, snow or heat; for hours she was beaten down and told how to fight back, sent alone on missions over mountains and oceans, bruised and battered in the name of the order. The year that passed, then, was a tumultuous blur of blood and ink and aching wings. Sleep was unreachable. Rest was not real. For the first time, Marisol’s natural talents were not enough: she was forced to work hard.
Many times she wanted to cry, to scream, or give up. Training was exhaustive and near-abusive, but it was necessary, she knew, if the Halcyon wanted to retain its elite status, and so she suffered through it nobly, nary a complaint from that young mouth. Marisol emerged from that year twice as muscled and three times as tough, her gray eyes hard her now, and utterly unconcerned with life outside the Halcyon unit. Fuck you, she told the Commander. I’m your best student. How’s it feel?
He kicked her out for talking back.
Marisol was devastated. Her return to the Terrastellan commonwealth was, perhaps, the worst moment of Marisol’s young life: she hated herself for speaking up, and even worse was the look of utter disappointment on her parent’s faces as they watched her push through the door, demoted from the only honorable position available to her. Marisol withdrew, became bitter, reclusive. She was angry. How could this have happened - here life’s chances taken away on account of some man’s fragile ego?
A girl found her, weeks later, staring blankly at a market stall. It was someone she had trained with - a familiar face now rent with sorrow.
The Commander is dead. They need you to replace him.
Why the fuck would they want her? A smart-mouthed, bitter girl discharged without honor? It was a sick joke - it had to be - she turned away, gave the messenger some callous line about how really, no one needed anything but food and water. Typical Marisol with her dry, angry humor. Fuck off.
You’re the only one of us that can do it. Marisol - please. Halcyon depends on it.