Under the Hood

Posted on Thu Jan 15th, 2026 @ 1:26am by Petty Officer, 3rd Micki Callahan

1,002 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Long Night
Location: Miami, Florida
Timeline: Mission Day 1 at 0000

The humid Miami air was thick enough to chew on, a heavy blanket of stagnant heat that smelled like scorched rubber and high-octane fuel. Inside Callahan’s Custom Chassis, the atmosphere was slightly better, though only because the massive industrial box fan in the corner was working overtime. It sat on the concrete floor, a rattling metal beast that caught Micki’s thick braids and tossed them around her face in a wild, blonde-and-chestnut dance as she leaned deep into the gut of a 2098 Sterling-GTS.

The car was a sleek, red-silver bullet that cost more than most people made in a decade—a dinosaur with a pulse. It was exactly the kind of high-end business that kept her father’s doors open while every other shop in the district had surrendered to the clean, quiet hum of the mag-lev era. Jackson Callahan was a holdout, a man who spoke in grunts but worked in miracles, and his shop reflected it. The floors, once oil-stained and cracked, had been patched and sealed with fresh grey epoxy, and the tool racks were lined with a mix of antique wrenches and modern diagnostic pads. High on the wall, tucked between faded pinups of half-naked women from a different century and a tattered Miami Dolphins pennant, a dusty radio competed with the roar of the fan for dominance.

Janis Joplin was wailing. The raspy, soulful scream of "Piece of My Heart" filled the garage, and Micki was right there with her at every turn in the melody. She was alone in the shop, her black tank top damp with sweat and clinging to her skin, her pink leggings smudged with a fresh streak of carbon. She had a torque wrench in her right hand and a smudge of grease across her face that she’d forgotten about an hour ago.

"Take it!" Micki belted out, her voice a modern mirror of the track—a blend of sweetness and a rough, playful rasp that sounded like it had been seasoned by years of shouting over engines. At least, she would say, it wasn’t the stuff that affected Janis’ voice. "Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!"

She laughed to herself, a short, breathless sound, as she slowly adjusted the positioning of the GTS’s new hydrogen-injected V8. She didn't want the digital overlay shimmering on the tablet nearby; she could feel the alignment in the small of her back as she shifted the block. She was in the zone, that sweet spot where the world narrowed down to the click of a socket and the vibration of steel around her fingers.

Her father was probably at the house, or maybe just staring at the bay, lost in that quiet, heavy grief he never put into words. But here, in the sanctuary of their shop, Micki was keeping her promise to him and to herself. She was fixing a car; she was taking a break from the stars. She reached for a rag to wipe her hands, her golden eyes catching the light of the overhead shop lamps with a playful shimmer. She was humming the bridge of the song now, her head bobbing in time with the fan's rhythmic thrum, feeling every bit like the girl she used to be, hiding from her pain under the hood. She was so deeply engaged in her work, she hadn’t noticed the ringing of the bell at the counter, nor had she heard the footsteps make a final approach for her.

“I’m looking for Callahan.” said a low, masculine voice from her left.

Some people might have jumped in shock, but Micki was fool enough not to know potential danger when she heard it. That had always been her way. She licked her dry lips, her voice abandoning Janis’ for a short while.

“We’re closed.” She said directly without looking over at the man. Her hand plunged back into the car’s guts, searching for something tucked under the engine’s side.

“I’m not here for business. I’m looking for Specialist Mikayla Callahan.”

“Micki,” she corrected instantly, realizing whoever it was wanted her. She glanced over at the man and was surprised to see a rather short, caramel-skinned, and uniformed man with the rank of a crewman. She sighed and stood up straight, grabbing the nearby towel again and running it over her slender fingers. “Everybody calls me Micki. Petty Officer 3rd Class. And… very on-break. If you don’t have a good reason for reminding me about work, I might have to run my torque wrench across that pretty jaw of yours, Crewman.”

The crewman smiled uncomfortably, blushing but remaining squarely placed, putting his own military training on display. “Crewman Collin Reynolds. And no need for that, Callahan. I like my jaw the way it is.”

“You aren’t the only one, Reynolds,” Micki responded, issuing a grin that was both cute and smoldering. She was clearly teasing him, but her quick follow-up as she finished cleaning her hands showed that her purpose wasn’t merely to enjoy his discomfort. “What can I do for you…quickly…in the next thirty seconds before you leave?”

“I have orders for you,” Collin said, his uncomfortable smile blossoming into one of genuine amusement. He extended an envelope which she took with swift hands. He then lifted his own data pad in front of him. “I just need you to acknowledge receipt and I can get out of your hair.”

Micki looked down at the envelope and at her name, Petty Officer, 3rd Class Mikayla Rae Callahan, in tight formal script. It was from the Office of Personnel. She quickly extended her thumb and pressed it against the pad’s reader. “Receipt acknowledged.”

“Thanks, PO3. Good luck with..all this,” he said, looking around the large shop, before turning and heading to the door. Micki didn’t watch him go, but instead immediately tore into the envelope like a child opening a Christmas present.

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