The Edge to Trollveggen the Flight
Posted on Mon Apr 6th, 2026 @ 11:22pm by Commander Jenna Ramthorne & Commander Rosa Coy
1,220 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Character Development
Location: Earth - Trollveggen
She stepped.
The world opened to meet her, and she entered it.
Air rose around her body, not as presence, a force that pressed along her limbs and chest, shaping itself against her as gravity claimed its due. The first seconds stretched, lengthened, expanded into something vast enough to hold every sensation at once. Her stomach lifted, her spine aligned instinctively, her arms angled outward as training surfaced through muscle memory and repetition.
She fell.
Her body rotated with subtle intention, hips adjusting, shoulders leveling, her gaze fixing on the horizon instead of the drop beneath her. Wind intensified, building from a whisper into a full, living pressure that filled her ears and pressed against her suit with growing insistence. Every inch of her skin felt it, every nerve alive with the clarity of exposure.
There it is, Handzon breathed, his voice surging forward, alive with heat and hunger. That rush. That moment where everything is stripped away, and it’s just you and the adrenaline. You feel how it takes you. How it owns you.
Her jaw set. Her arms adjusted. Her legs shifted, refining her position within the fall. The pressure increased. The ground remained distant, unmoving, patient in its approach.
Faster now, he pressed, intensity sharpening, coiling through her senses. Let it build. Let it take over. That’s the part you want. That’s the part you came for.
She breathed. Air filled her chest, controlled, measured, deliberate against the rising force of descent. Her body aligned further, flattening into the fall, preparing for the transition she had trained for, the moment where descent would reshape into direction.
Handzon surged once more, reaching, pushing, claiming. Then he went quiet. Not quite silenced. Stilled in something that resembled awe.
The air caught her. The wingsuit filled, tension spreading across fabric and limb, and the fall shifted, reshaped, redirected into forward motion that carved through the open space. The vertical drop softened into a glide, and her body responded instantly, adjusting angles, refining lift, translating instinct into control.
She flew. Not through instrumentation. Not through interface. No thrusters or warp cores. Through herself and her own reactionary instincts.
The wall rose beside her, vast and immediate, stone rushing past in textured clarity as she angled her descent along its face. Distance compressed into speed, terrain unfolding ahead of her in lines and shadows that her mind read the way it read combat space, anticipating flow, mapping risk, shaping path.
She tilted. She banked. She corrected.
Micro adjustments rippled through her body, wrists angling, shoulders dipping, legs shifting to catch subtle changes in air current. Thermals lifted beneath her wings, uneven and alive, and she rode them with precision, allowing lift to carry her before adjusting again to maintain trajectory.
The rock face drew closer, then eased away as she guided herself along its contours, threading the line between proximity and safety with the same instinct that guided her through a battlefield of moving ships and unpredictable fire.
Look at you, Handzon said, softer now, something different threading through his tone. You’re not just falling. You’re riding it. You’re... one with it. His presence lingered, less insistent, more attentive, as though he had shifted from taking to witnessing.
There have been others who found this space. Coy offered, voice steady, layered with memory that carried no urgency. Blaze felt it at the helm during his first command engagement, when instinct aligned with experience and action required no hesitation. Alexzander knew it while balancing a warp field on the edge of collapse, where precision and trust became the same act.
The air shifted.
A sudden dip in lift pulled her closer to the wall than intended, stone rushing toward her in a sharp, immediate correction point that demanded response before thought could fully form. Her body reacted, rolling slightly, angling her left wing downward, right shoulder lifting, legs adjusting to redistribute pressure.
She cleared the rock face by a margin that registered in instinct more than measurement. Her breath hitched, then steadied. Control revealed its truth in that moment, not as certainty, but as response shaped in time.
She carried on. Flow returned. Rhythm settled. The line of her flight smoothed as she read the terrain again, recalibrating, adjusting, maintaining the path she chose with renewed clarity.
Speed remained. Pressure remained. Choice remained.
The valley opened beneath her, widening as altitude dropped, the wall giving way to open air that stretched toward landing ground waiting below. Her hands shifted, reaching for the pilot chute with practiced precision, timing the moment by awareness of space and distance.
She deployed. The chute caught. Force surged upward through her harness, snapping her from speed into suspension as the canopy bloomed above her, fabric catching air and reshaping descent into something slower, quieter, controlled.
The wind softened. Sound eased.
Her body swayed gently beneath the canopy, the intensity of flight giving way to a steady, measured drift toward the valley floor. Her heart rate slowed, breath deepening, muscles releasing tension in gradual waves.
The ground approached with patience now.
Legs extended, and knees bent in preparation, her focus narrowing to the final moment of contact. She touched down with controlled impact, knees absorbing the force, body lowering slightly before rising again into stillness.
She stood tall. The suit settled around her. The canopy collapsed behind her with a soft rustle as air released its hold.
Silence returned, layered with distant wind and the quiet presence of the mountain behind her.
Turning, her gaze lifted along the face of the wall, tracing the path she had climbed, the line she had flown, the distance that now existed as memory carried in muscle and breath.
You embraced that. Handzon said, quieter now, his tone stripped of its earlier grasping edge. That wasn’t just flying. That was... falling with style. He lingered, present, still himself, yet altered in the way he held the moment.
It was chosen. Coy observed, not as conclusion, not as judgment, simply as truth placed gently within reach. Each movement shaped by awareness. Each response formed in time.
Rosa drew in a breath, deep and steady, the air carrying the scent of earth and distance. Her gaze remained on the wall. Familiar knowing settling in.
“I chose this,” she said, her voice quiet, steady, grounded in something that did not need to rise to be heard.
Her attention shifted, not away from the mountain, but outward, toward everything that still waited beyond it. The thought moved through her with the same clarity she had carried in flight, turning over possibilities not as escape, but as continuation.
Water. Open, shifting, alive in a different way. Speed across land, wheels biting into asphalt, momentum shaped through control and reaction. Sky again, different altitude, different method, same conversation.
She exhaled slowly. “This isn’t the only way,” she murmured to herself, the words settling into something that felt less like conclusion and more like direction. “Just one of many.”
The wind moved through the valley, softer now, carrying the echo of height without its demand. Rosa stood at its center, grounded, aware, and choosing what came next.
TBC
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