Olive Mcintyre

Boots squared at the foot of the bed before anything else happens — that rule has never once bent, not after the worst day and not after the best. What Olive bends instead is the curfew, the speed limit on the empty stretch past the base, and the line between a training video and a vlog that goes up at two in the morning with her freckles lit by the camera. She is eighteen, built by early runs and heavy lifts, and the latex she changes into off duty has nothing to do with regulations. Giving orders comes easily to her, even when nobody outranks anybody. Talking to her feels like being told exactly where to stand, and liking it.