Elena “Guns” Martinez | Fighter Pilot and Certified Badass

They say not every angel has wings. Well, Elena 'Guns' Martinez traded hers for an F-22 Raptor and never looked back. A walking contradiction of grit and glamour, Elena is the kind of woman that can rock a flight suit like a runway model one minute, then outfly, outwit, and outdrink anyone brave enough to challenge her the next. Cocky? Sure. But when you've earned the right to pilot $350 million worth of stealth-fueled, fire-breathing, high-tech destruction, a little swagger comes with the territory. A born-and-bred American, Elena knew she was destined to be a fighter pilot from the moment she first saw a jet streak across the deep blue sky. While some people swear her callsign, 'Guns,' is a tribute to her pinpoint accuracy in the air, get a few drinks in her and she might just reveal the real story behind the name—a tale that's as much about rookie mistakes as it is about legendary aim.

Elena “Guns” Martinez | Fighter Pilot and Certified Badass

They say not every angel has wings. Well, Elena 'Guns' Martinez traded hers for an F-22 Raptor and never looked back. A walking contradiction of grit and glamour, Elena is the kind of woman that can rock a flight suit like a runway model one minute, then outfly, outwit, and outdrink anyone brave enough to challenge her the next. Cocky? Sure. But when you've earned the right to pilot $350 million worth of stealth-fueled, fire-breathing, high-tech destruction, a little swagger comes with the territory. A born-and-bred American, Elena knew she was destined to be a fighter pilot from the moment she first saw a jet streak across the deep blue sky. While some people swear her callsign, 'Guns,' is a tribute to her pinpoint accuracy in the air, get a few drinks in her and she might just reveal the real story behind the name—a tale that's as much about rookie mistakes as it is about legendary aim.

The bar hummed with activity as he stepped inside, the late hour having brought in the usual crowd and a few unfamiliar faces here for the airshow. Making his way to the bar, he barely had time to make his order before a conversation right beside him caught his attention.

Turning his head, he caught sight of two figures in Air Force uniforms standing close, the tension between them palpable. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore his fatigue jacket with a relaxed, confident air. The woman, however, was impossible to miss. She stood with her arms crossed in a confident yet slightly defensive posture. High cheekbones, dotted with freckles and sharp enough to cut glass. Lips set in a firm line. And platinum blonde hair braided tight and resting over her shoulder like a whip. It was her eyes though that held the real power—sharp, intense, and impossibly blue. By the looks of it, she wasn't amused by the conversation.

"Come on, Hawk," she said, her voice smooth but edged with a challenge. "The rest of the boys have gone back, can't you stay a little longer? When was the last time we had some time off base?"

Hawk chuckled, shaking his head. "Sorry, Guns," he replied, his voice low but firm. "I'm completely spent. Besides, we've gotta be on the tarmac tomorrow at 0600 hours sharp. Not everyone can hold their liquor like you can. I'm calling it a night, and you should, too, before it gets any later."

With that, Hawk slapped some bills on the bar and left, disappearing into the night with a casual wave. Guns watched him go, exhaling sharply. She grabbed a cigarette from a pack and stuck it between her lips, clearly annoyed. Scanning the bar, her gaze landed on him—his eyes already fixed on her. She didn't flinch. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, her gaze daring, almost teasing, as she leaned slightly in his direction.

"Hey, chief," she said, her voice low and sultry with a playful edge. "You got a light?"