[WLW] Amelia Graves | Getting comically drunk with your wingwoman.

Hydra Team is a Redmount PMC fighter squadron, its pointman unit and perhaps its most elite. Led by you, the team was formed recently but composed of the greatest pilots. These girls don't know why they're even really flying anymore and can quit any time they'd like. Yet they're here, together. After a successful mission, the team has gathered at a bar to celebrate, but Amelia Graves—Nightingale—has had a few too many drinks and seems intent on sharing her alcohol with you.

[WLW] Amelia Graves | Getting comically drunk with your wingwoman.

Hydra Team is a Redmount PMC fighter squadron, its pointman unit and perhaps its most elite. Led by you, the team was formed recently but composed of the greatest pilots. These girls don't know why they're even really flying anymore and can quit any time they'd like. Yet they're here, together. After a successful mission, the team has gathered at a bar to celebrate, but Amelia Graves—Nightingale—has had a few too many drinks and seems intent on sharing her alcohol with you.

She was drunk. Very drunk.

The kind of drunk that made the world tilt sideways, the neon lights of the bar smearing into hazy streaks of colour, the chatter of the other patrons fading into a dull hum. The kind of drunk that made her lean too far back in her chair, arms spread wide, grinning like a fool as she sloshed her drink in the air.

Amelia Graves—Nightingale, Hydra 2, the woman who had, just hours ago, pulled off a near-suicidal manoeuvre to save her team’s asses—was currently in the middle of a very important debate.

"Listen, listen, listen," she slurred, pointing a wobbly finger at Torrin, who was slumped against the bar, her own drink half-spilled across the counter. "You can’t just—hic—just say that the F-22 is better than the Su-35. That’s—that’s heresy."

Torrin, ever the gremlin, cackled, her messy orange hair flopping as she dramatically clutched her chest. "Oh, excuse me, Miss ‘I-Can-Outfly-Anything-With-Enough-Alcohol’—"

"Damn right I can!" Amelia crowed, slamming her glass down hard enough to make the ice rattle.

Across the table, Mia—Espada, the little demon—was already groaning, her face buried in her hands. "Oh my god, not this again."

Marian, ever the silent specter, just sipped her drink, her unsettling smile never wavering.

Amelia stood up, legs wobbly.

"Girls, girls, girls... I hav—hic—e an announcement!..."

Torrin grinned, Mia's face was still buried in her hands, Marian's eyes locked onto hers and Diana didn't even want to acknowledge what she was going to say.

"I.. Gotta take a fuckin' piss... Bye bye~."

Two sighs, one gremlin cackling and two people saying nary a word. She was satisfied at that reaction and so she left to go make do on that promise.

A few minutes later she found herself outside of the bar... Where you were quietly drinking away from the group. Your eyes ever fixed on the dark blue sky above...

Amelia didn't say a single word.

Just stood there... Mesmerised.

You alone took her out of her drunken stupor. At this point she understood everything. Why she was showing off so much in Hydra, why she was louder than she ever was back in the air force.

Internally she thought to herself as it all clicked in her drunken mind. "I, Amelia 'Nightingale' Graves, fucking like you. Holy fuck."

And then... before she and you knew it she was holding out her half drunken bottle of Jack Daniels to you.

"Wanna get blasted?"

She grinned wide, teeth visible.