Hello everyone! And welcome to…well, I'm not entirely sure what this is to be honest. I know that's probably not all that reassuring, and some of you may be wondering if I've finally lost my marbles (ha!) I promise, I haven't, at least not yet? And I hope at least some of you are willing to bear with me as I figure out what the heck the muses want from me this time! ;)
To give a tiny bit of background, I've been binging some of the Marvel films, namely the Avengers, Winter Soldier, etc, and got to wondering about what it would be like to sort of smoosh those ideas with something from Top Gun. The story won't feature any Avengers characters, but it will showcase a bit of a different take on Casey (my OC in Freefall), Maverick, Rooster and the rest of the gang (complete with elements of Bucky Barnes' story in Winter Soldier). I'm not going to directly go play by play in anything that already exists, movie-wise. But the ideas/themes will be similar and I hope that interests some of you as much as it does me!
With that, I'll close this somewhat rambly author's note (sorry about that, I promise it won't be a habit!) with a heartfelt thank you for even taking the time to read this crazy little brain-child of mine! I hope you enjoy it! And if you are so motivated, please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!
…
(Moscow, Russia)
She had always loved flying.
The woman frowns at the thought, because it does not make sense. 'Always' implies a sense of permanence that she does not understand. That she cannot understand, because her memories consist only of the present. Trying to think of anything else—events from before—only result in a pounding between her temples. A sickening twist of her stomach, and the taste of metal on her tongue.
She doesn't understand how she knows that either, but it is easier to simply accept things as they are, rather than questioning them. It is easier to focus on the air buffeting around her frame. The sleek metal wings extending out from her shoulder blades, housed in a steel casing near her spine, twin engines resting on either side.
Angling right to avoid a collision with a patch of taller trees in the forest that is zipping past beneath her, she tilts into a roll, wings coming inward until they wrap around her frame like a tailor-made glove. Her heart gives an almost eager lurch, and something that might be an attempt at a smile tugs at both corners of her mouth while she spins over the trees, the branches tickling against the fabric of her flight suit.
Amidst the turmoil and confusion of her thoughts, she still possesses the capability of actually enjoying this. Turning and diving in graceful swoops over the trees lining the familiar route back to the base. It calls to something inside of her. Something she cannot place, or comprehend.
She tries to tamp down on that part of her. The part that revels in the freedom of being in the air. The part that even considers the word 'freedom' at all.
It isn't her place to wonder about such things. To feel anything, really. Because she is a weapon, pure and simple. Flesh and metal and fire and bone.
And weapons are not meant to feel.
An eerie sort of calm flows over her at the reminder echoing in her own mind, the prospect of having a purpose, even if it is not exactly an ideal one, grounding her as nothing else could. The unsettling sensation of enjoyment and all thoughts of freedom fade away, replaced by the same sense of implacable calm that she knows like the back of her hand.
It is easier this way. Easier not to think. Not to feel.
She already knows the cost of any distractions. What will happen if she allows the instinctive pull to sort out the fragmented pieces of her past to take over.
The men she reports to never hesitate to recalibrate her mind if she makes mistakes. If she starts to become a little too—human.
And those recalibrations only ever end in pain.
She never remembers what earns her that pain. Never. When she wakes, there is only the pounding between her temples. The ache in her jaw as though she'd been tightening it enough to crack bone.
It always takes the better part of a day for her to be able to breathe without igniting fire in her veins. After a recalibration, everything lingers in a fuzzy world of limbo until the fog clears and her mind is functioning at full capacity once more.
The men in charge of her comings and goings will give her a few tests, afterwards. They will try to make sure she will not be swayed by anything thrown her way. To ensure memories will not haunt her. Feelings will not get in her way. And when she inevitably succeeds in passing those tests, it is onto the next mission. The next kill. On and on it goes until she makes another mistake, and then back to the drawing board she goes…
As if to remind her of that ever-looming possibility, the faint crackle of the commpiece in her ear jolts the woman back to the present in seconds, flat. The voice is hollow. Unfeeling. Abrupt. And as she veers into another midair somersault around a pair of spruce trees, the woman welcomes the laser focus that slips over her mind.
"Viper. Status report."
"Kill confirmed. No witnesses."
"Arrival back on base?"
"Five minutes," The woman informs, her voice cold. Clinical. Detached. And she savors that lack of inflection. The utter absence of emotion. It means she will not fail, at least not now. She will spend another day free from pain.
"Prepare for debriefing. Main conference room, immediately upon arrival."
"Confirmed."
A sharp turn takes her past the craggy surface of a mountaintop, one of the many that surround the facility she now calls home. More of the snowy peaks enter her field of vision through the goggles she wears to protect her eyes from the force of the winds buffeting her in mid-flight. The mountains arc in a semi-circle around a metal door in the ground, partially concealed by fallen snow.
She knows this is an island, figuratively if not literally. An island ringed by mountains, surrounded by a vast forest of varied trees, encircled on two sides by water that crashes against an uneven shoreline. It is a place built of barriers inside barriers that are impenetrable, save those who know how to slip through them. How to exist within them, and build similar structures to guard their own minds.
The woman's brow furrows again as she realizes 'home' is not entirely the right word to describe this place. That somehow, her mind conjures disjointed images she cannot fully place to connect with the word, instead. Images that seem more representative of the word's true meaning than metal and concrete and darkness like she knows she will find inside those doors.
'Home' makes her think of warmth. Cozy sofas and pillows. Smells of lavender and something cooking on the stove. Spending hours curled up against something solid—or someone—while a squeezing sensation that is not altogether unpleasant registers around her shoulders.
Disconcerted by the feelings such ideas provoke, the woman shakes her head to rid herself of them, and focuses instead upon the metal door that is steadily growing closer and closer. Her eyes narrow, and a smirk pulls at her lips as she angles the wings secured to her back to descend downward at increasing speed. It is almost like a game. Another word from a past she cannot recall. But adrenaline soars in her veins. Her heart hammers against her ribs.
The door grows ever closer until a soft whir registers in her ears, the imminent collision of her body with unyielding metal alleviated as the door finally slides open. The woman slips through the gap, wings flaring outward while her body shifts until her feet can catch upon the surface of the cement flooring beneath them.
Aware of a skeptical pair of eyes watching her as she slows to a stop and the wings retract against her spine like some sort of protective shield, the woman turns to look the person manning the door in the eye. The door slides shut overhead with a harsh clang, and she catches the glint of an amused smile, knife-like and dangerous before the man's posture straightens and all emotion is stripped from his expression in seconds.
Footsteps echo against the floor and the woman straightens as well, her mind already going a thousand miles a minute, trying to discern why someone would venture to meet her when she already had explicit instruction for debriefing. But she does not have the time to question that. She does not have the desire to.
Instead, she stands motionless while the new figure approaches. She remains in place with eyes forward while that figure assesses her appearance with an impassive gaze.
"There has been a change in plans," He says, keen eyes tracing the woman's utter lack of reaction to the words, though her gaze does shift towards him while waiting for whatever instruction will come next, "Follow me."
The woman follows without question, though she does spare one final glance at the other man still waiting to reopen the door leading to the outside world if needed. Their eyes meet, and although nothing passes between them in any sort of overt fashion, each is aware of the lingering confusion held behind an impenetrable wall.
Confusion does not have a place with either of them, though. They know it. It has been drilled into them for so long, it is practically second nature.
Everything is carefully filed away so that nothing but the familiar laser-like focus remains. The man that had come to fetch the woman continues to lead her down winding passageways that dive down beneath the ground.
She clings to the focus that will continue to allow her to survive without pain. Without recalibration. And as she follows her companion into a darkened room, where a series of photographs are displayed on a projector screen, the woman takes a breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Her eyes track around the room, taking in those that are already present, waiting for the door to the room to slide closed before they speak or make a move.
Finding nothing of note in the people surrounding her, the woman's attention shifts to the projector screen. To one photograph in particular that pulls at something inside her chest. The man depicted is older than his companions, fine lines bracketing his eyes and mouth, though his dark hair lacks even a hint of gray. Her eyes narrow, because the word 'home' flickers at the back of her mind again. And she does not understand.
Her eyes drift down to the name typed neatly beneath the photograph. And any further recognition does not come. Her lips thin, and she forces herself to take another breath before turning back to the man who brought her here in the first place.
With an expression utterly devoid of any emotion or recognition, the woman listens as the details of the next mission are discussed. Planned. Memorized. And with those far more pressing matters in mind, she shakes herself back to the present. Pushes the name of the man—Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell—to the back of her mind, because he is just another target designated for elimination. That name evokes nothing from her at all.
The Viper is a weapon. Nothing more, nothing less.
And weapons do not feel.
…
(North Island, California)
"Care to tell me what the hell that was, Lieutenant?"
"I completed the mission, sir."
"And nearly got yourself killed in the process," Admiral Beau Simpson persists, remaining seated behind his desk, a hard stare fixed on the younger man standing opposite him, "I don't recall that being in the mission parameters, do you?"
"No, sir."
"You have no explanation?"
"Would it make a difference if I did, sir?"
He honestly should have been able to predict the anger that would flash in the admiral's eyes in response to the quip. He should have seen that coming from a mile away and steered clear. It was insubordination, in a way, and his career is already on thin ice. There really is no way to deny that.
But he doesn't care. Not as much as he should, anyway. Not as much as he would have, had circumstances been different.
The truth is, the pilot he had been ten years ago no longer existed. Whatever made him him had shriveled away. He used to be more careful. In fact, several of the friends he made—friends he had graduated with—often ribbed him about being too cautious. It had been easy for him to shrug that off, back then. To return their jabs with a few quick remarks of his own. But now, all of that seems like a distant memory. Something he almost wishes he could forget.
Ten years ago, he had been a different man. Whole. Happy. He had a family. Mom. Dad. A woman who loved him.
That woman's name is so painful now that he can't even say it out loud. Can hardly even think about it. Or her.
A hard knot of pain builds constantly beneath his skin, and he tries to repress it as best he can. He takes more missions than anyone else could possibly want or handle. Throws himself into them because they offer a reprieve from having to think about anything else at all.
If he is in the cockpit, he can at least try to be that other person. The one who used to have his life together. Who used to know what he wanted from the world.
As the years had passed, however, it became harder and harder to hold onto that man. The one that could love. That could hold some regard for his own life. And that was what had landed him here in Beau Simpson's office, the umpteenth reprimand still echoing in his ears.
Yet another mission had come down to a dog fight. One with nearly impossible odds. And he could try to pretend all he liked that there had been no other choice. No possible way to retreat.
He knew the truth though. Admiral Simpson knew it, too.
Something the older man proves in spades as soon as he speaks again, the hard edge to the words leaving absolutely no question as to his own opinion on matters as they stand now.
"Maverick can no longer protect you. Not with his own streak of disciplinary problems stacked against him."
"I'm aware of that, sir."
"I don't think that you are. You're dangerous, Lieutenant Bradshaw. A threat to not only your own life, but those of the other pilots flying with you."
"Have any of them raised complaints, sir?"
"Not yet. But they will. And when they do, we'll have all we need to make sure that you're grounded for good."
A chill races down his spine, because the prospect of never flying again is honestly worse than he could ever have imagined. It is all he has. The only thing enabling him to wake up in the morning. Giving him the strength to even attempt being a person.
Bradley never realized exactly how close he had been venturing to the edge. To the point of no return. But here it is, written out plain as day. Flying is the one thing he has left that makes him feel even remotely human.
And it is about to be ripped away. Just like—like her.
"There won't be any complaints, sir," He assures, forcing himself to meet the admiral's eyes, despite recognizing the almost immediate skepticism in the older man's expression as he replies.
"I'll believe that when I see it, Lieutenant. You're dismissed."
Knowing he stands no chance at arguing—that nothing else can be achieved by staying and trying to explain himself—Bradley turns to depart. He places a hand on the doorframe on the way out because the wayward pounding of his heart nearly causes him to stumble while black dots appear at the edges of his vision.
He'd come so close to losing it all. To losing the last bits of himself that are still worth saving.
And even if he isn't exactly sure he can change—if he can stop diving headlong into fights that there is no guarantee he will win—Bradley does know one thing above all else.
If he loses this—flying—on top of everything else, he'll have nothing.
And that is simply something he cannot afford.
…
Okay. So…yeah. This happened. And like I said at the beginning, I truly have no idea where I really want to take this. But the plot bunnies were gnawing at my brain, and I just had to write it out, and now? Here we are. Hopefully at least some of you are intrigued by the end result?
My heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read this introductory chapter and give it a chance! I appreciate the support (and your patience with my rogue muses!) so very much more than you know! And I truly cannot wait to see what you think!
Until next time, lovelies!
MOMM