┌───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────┐
FIVE
ground control
to major tom
└───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────┘

☆.｡.:*　　.｡.:*☆

BRADLEY has done a lot of waiting in his life, but somehow this is the most nerve-wracking thing so far. And why should it be? He didn't drive all the way down here from college in his dad's Ford Bronco, not to mention renting a tuxedo for this whole thing... all to be left standing on a doorstep with a corsage in his hand and butterflies in his stomach. What is he, twelve?

     This is a favour. A favour for a friend, and nothing more. He's done this whole prom thing before.

     He straightens up instantly — practice for the navy, he supposes — as the door opens to reveal Manny Sterling standing there. A pair of reading glasses sit on his nose, staring down at the boy through them, but with a warmth that Bradley definitely knows the father of his real prom date never showed. It calms the nerves simmering beneath his skin only marginally.

     "Mr. Sterling," Bradley says, before doing a double take. When has he ever called Manny that?

     "Bradley," Manny smiles, "I'm sure she'll be down in a moment... if we can get her out of her room."

     They both just chuckle at that, because they both know it's true. He's surprised Celeste is even going to prom at all. She can often find way too many reasons just to stay at home, cooped up inside the comfort of her bedroom. It was only after Bradley offered to take her, if it meant she would feel more comfortable, that she agreed. That was the offer to seal the deal — and now here he is, sweaty palms and a rented tuxedo slightly too short in the sleeves. Other college freshmen might have better things to do... but not everyone is a wingman like Bradley Bradshaw.

"Wow, you cleaned up good..."

Celeste's voice reaches Bradley before she does, carefully trying to traverse the staircase in her sandals.

For a moment, he thinks he forgets how to breathe. Celeste's uncertainty of herself, slightly gauche and out of her comfort zone, is simply so hidden by everything else that Bradley barely notices it. The midnight blue dress is only the surface of it — how beautiful she is. Maybe he always knew it in some shape or form, but it's still strange to consider her in this light. When normally she is the friend he played tag with on the beach, or the one he rang up when his mother was dying... she is suddenly the girl in the dress he's awestruck to be taking out.

     Neither of them seem to know how to navigate the next minute or so. Plenty of jokes to break the atmosphere, some strained laughter, all borne of this situation that neither Bradley or Celeste can fathom why it feels so unnatural. It isn't until the door is shut behind them and they're living on the inhale/exhale of the summer air, that Bradley finally finds he can breathe again.

     "Well, it's no limo, but your golden carriage to the prom awaits..." he gestures to the Ford Bronco with half-hearted flair, just starting down the path before her voice stops him.

     "I don't wanna go to prom."

     He swivels on his heels and stares at her. In the dark, her eyes glisten with resolve. "Wh– what do you mean?"

     "Would you want to spend the night in an over-decorated gym, swaying lifeless to whatever ballads the DJ is cranking out, all in the name of school spirit? Or saying goodbye one more time?" Celeste fires back critically, her roots planted in this argument. He knows this for a fact, for she has never shown the same enthusiasm as her brother to the continuous pep underlining her High School experience.

     "I thought... I thought you wanted to go," Bradley murmurs incredulously.

     "I never said that."

     "Yes you did! You agreed that I could take you to prom!"

     "I agreed to spend prom night with you, not to go to it. There's a difference."

     "Cel, I literally rented a tux just for this."

     "And I let Mom give me a makeover," Celeste shrugs, "so I guess we're both idiots."

     A beat passes, before the two of them crack up with self-deprecating grins. The light breeze and their laughter rustles the palm trees. His cheeks still aching with a smile, Bradley shrugs within the constraints of the rented tuxedo, while his 'date' shifts the weight between her feet sporadically.

     "Alright," Bradley nods, "so if you don't want to go to an over-decorated gym, what do you wanna do instead?"

     He should have guessed what it would be — twenty minutes later, the pair are sat on the hood of his Ford Bronco underneath a blanket of stars, parked down near the beach where the light pollution struggles to reach. Bradley sits back and listens while Celeste calmly navigates the astronomical map above for him. It's been her skill and passion since they were kids, and all she has ever wanted to do since was be up there with them. Right after she corrects him on the Big Dipper constellation, which looks like a 'wonky spatula' in his eyes, she goes quiet with contemplation.

"I can't believe we're at this point," Celeste says, a tinge of anxiety lacing her voice. "I mean... I'm gonna start my degree, and apply for the astronaut training programme..."

"I know. It's crazy."

"Have you applied for naval academy yet?"

Bradley leans back on his palms, his chest facing the skies. "It's all being processed right now. I haven't heard back from them yet, but so far it's looking pretty good," he replies with a quiet pride. He had originally planned to apply when he graduated High School, until the timing of his mother bowing out to cancer threw him off course for the last year. However, he was determined to come back full circle, and bag the spot in the naval academy he'd dreamed of since childhood.

Her eyes twinkling, Celeste hums, "So... it's all happening for us now?"

"Yeah," he smiles, "looks like it finally is."

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

If Celeste could go back in time, to that night sitting with Bradley beneath the stars, their future seemingly infinite before them... she doesn't know what she would do. Would she go over and tell that young girl the truth, before her hope could get the better of her? Or would she stand a few metres behind and remember what it felt like to dream without boundaries?

Maybe she had been too ahead of herself. Her Mathematics degree, however prestigious, seemed feeble in the sea of PhDs Celeste knew she was up against in her competitors. Not to mention her lack of career experience thus far would set her back in the eyes of the people deciding her worth. In the agonising wait that had followed, she remembers being torn up — restless nights, ulcers clawing at her tongue, days left pacing her room and waiting for a white envelope in the mail...

Still, nothing prepared her for the sucker-punch when she received that rejection letter from NASA.

The words in black ink burned themselves into her eyelids. Haunted her in her dreams. Dimmed the shine of the stars above her.

But Celeste wasn't finished yet. She had heard of the agonising wait for applicants, and knew that it would perhaps be more of a gruelling journey for her. Re-application after re-application, she updated her information as she went on to bag various achievements that might elevate herself in the pile of candidates the committee would have to sift through. One of them was being drawn to the navy — admittedly, Celeste credits that decision to her family at the beginning. Her father's role in it had always featured those bases heavily in her childhood, which had then pushed Quincy to go and train to become a pilot. It couldn't hurt, she had thought to herself. First it had been test pilot school, but that application process was just as vigorous as the others.

However, she knew she didn't want to be like her brother. They may have been twins by blood, but Celeste couldn't see herself as the sole pilot of a jet like he could. When she thought back to her childhood, and the aviators she admired the most, it was the back-seaters — the Weapons Systems Officers. No fuss, just getting the job done. Besides, she was well-aware that at least 1,000 hours flight-time in a jet aircraft could give her the upper hand (a fact learned from sleepless nights poring over the small print). So it was off to her homeland of Florida, where Celeste enrolled in NAS Pensacola as a student naval flight officer.

Now, almost ten years later, here she is. Still re-applying throughout her career, and receiving a rejection every single time. No matter how damn hard she tries.

Get told that you aren't adequate enough times, and you start to believe it.

Those kinds of doubts still follow Celeste around like a shadow; part of her and inescapable, even in the light. Although lately it is starting to become unbearable. It persists eating away at her in the background, even with distractions like the golden-brown tones of The Hard Deck as she walks inside. The warmth of the bar, rich with the aromas of ale and salted snacks, envelops her with a temporary comfort.

Tonight, Celeste has traded her uniform for a pair of jeans and an old maroon sweater with a NASA badge sewn onto her heart... a little too ironic for her liking, but it was the first thing she grabbed. However her coils remain in the military-style up-do, still maintaining a sense of duty. Between the content silhouettes of strangers and their conversations caught in wisps, she scans the bar stools and booths for any sign of a familiar face.

Eventually she finds one, and exactly the one she predicted. Luisa is sat on her own around a table for five, punctual as expected, swirling around a half-full beverage. The other hand is intertwined with the hair loosened down her shoulders, a distant frown etched into her features with the suggestion of not quite being here, in this moment. But when she clocks Celeste that all changes. She shifts gear into her welcoming aura, eyes crinkling at the sides.

Once having meandered over to the table, Celeste doesn't cower from the affectionate shoulder-squeeze Luisa gives her — something she doesn't let slide for many people. Her hands rest on the table before she instantly retracts them, the surface slightly sticky from the ghosts of beer glasses before. "You don't want anything stronger than that?" she notes, giving the mild coffee cup a sarcastic glance.

"Old habits die hard," Luisa replies with a sigh. "I've barely drunken since Gabriela was born."

"I don't know how you do it. This and raising a kid."

"What makes you think I know either?"

Both of them laugh, but they're equally worn through with tiredness. Today was another rough day of training, with plenty of self-esteem to be washed down the drain — Celeste knows they should take it as constructive criticism, highlighting what they need to improve on before the mission. But then there is always that taunting voice in her head, chanting the same thing: You'll never do it. You'll never do it. You'll never do it.

The other three stroll into the bar simultaneously, caught up in a web of banter between them, as the two girls at the table observe with amused expressions. "Nice of you boys to fill us in on the carshare," Luisa pretends to sound bothered by it, but the wink and delighted grin afterwards breaks her cover.

"Hey, you didn't give too specific of a time, you said from six o'clock," Quincy shrugs.

Celeste narrows her eyes at her brother. "What if I told you the last person sat down has to pay the bill for everyone?"

With a child-like determination, Quincy blitzes to the nearest vacant chair, while Ryan also places himself down somewhat more calmly. By the time Bradley has processed what is going on, he is left towering above the rest of them, pulling off his shades as he folds them with disdain in his eyes. "Thanks for nothing, Cel," he chuckles, shaking his head at Celeste in her chair, who is now shooting him a quietly triumphant look. He lowers himself down into the last vacant chair next to her, hanging his aviators on the neckline of his t-shirt.

"So, what did we miss?" asks Ryan, hanging his denim jacket on the back of his chair.

"We were just talking about today's training," Luisa sighs.

A collective groan simmers through the table. Celeste and Quincy share an instinctive look with one another, recounting their own experience — it had been another manic cat-and-mouse chase in the air, this time with Coyote as their wingman, mastering dogfighting to no avail as Maverick kept them on their toes. The mission was in three weeks and they still had more to learn.

"Has anyone actually managed to shoot Maverick down yet?" Quincy asks, leaning back in his seat. "I mean, aside from our own glorious attempts..."

"Not yet..." Bradley clenches his jaw, his contemptuous stare fixed on the glossy table. Where the reasons were murky before, after their conversation yesterday afternoon Celeste finally knows where his current grudge with Maverick comes from — it only serves as a reminder of her own chip on the shoulder. Her own secret she kept from him.

     "I don't think the idea is to beat him, necessarily," Celeste thinks out loud. "It's getting used to what a dogfight feels like. Have any of you ever been in a dogfight?" In the silence that ensues, she nods and adds on, "Yeah, that's what I thought. Better to go in with some practice than none at all."

     "In that case, getting our asses whooped now isn't a great start," Quincy chuckles.

     One uneasy gulp of coffee later, Luisa lets out a sharp exhale. A smile is trained on her face as she leans in closer, shakily at first from the way she seems to have to force it initially, until it becomes a natural one. "Hey, let's not talk about that now. We're all here, the same place at the same time. Feels like a rare thing these days. How long's it been since we last did that?"

     "It must have been Quincy's wedding."

     It's like a prompt to re-live the moment. Sparks shoot Celeste's body, ignited with a memory. Bradley clearly knows exactly which one; they turn to steal a glance at one other simultaneously, only catching the eyes of the other for a beat until they tear apart. It leaves behind the sting of unfinished business that night, or words left unsaid. The kiss left unexplored afterward. Celeste has no idea if he has ever thought about it since — it was never asked about, just buried down deep until this mission forced them back together for the first time since then.

     "Hey, but going down a different memory lane," says Quincy, glancing slyly at Ryan, "y'all remember when Kazansky over here used to cry at every plane he saw?"

     "Wha– why choose that as your conversation starter?" Ryan seems mortified by the anecdote, but the group is already latching onto it.

     "Weeping every time one flew over!"

     "I remember you used to hide behind me," Luisa remembers fondly with a giggle, "said it was gonna fall out the sky."

     "Look, I was like... five, alright? I didn't understand the physics that kept planes in the sky."

     "And the orange ear defenders!"

     Quincy slaps the table and rocks back in his chair laughing, which spreads like a contagious current through the rest of them; even to Ryan. But eventually his laughter wears off, still wearing a nostalgic half-smile as he considers this. "That's so weird you bring this up, actually," he blurts out, "because when I went to visit Dad yesterday, that's the thing we ended up talking about too."

     "Oh yeah, how did that go?" asks Celeste.

     Ryan pauses. Blinks, contemplating what to share as he looks around at all of them, before raising one shoulder in a half-shrug. "He's... been better," he finally settles for, "but still kicking. It was good to see him again."

     There's more to this than he's letting on, she thinks. But she decides not to pry — Celeste isn't one to dig around emotional rabbit holes, especially if not provoked. Ryan seems to think this is a good idea too, riding the next wave of conversation as Luisa and Quincy start chatting about all things childhood-on-naval-base anecdotes. They cover all sorts of ground, contributions coming from around the table. Ryan offers the time he was left under the watch of Slider, his father's RIO, and he panicked when the little boy went walkabout around the base without him... resulting in a long lecture from Iceman about not wandering off. Luisa fondly recounts sitting with her father, an air traffic controller, and resisting the urge to push every single button in the room.

     The conversation feels aimless in the best way; simply tossing around memories, and watching them come back to life with their animated re-tellings. These group of people, Celeste realises, are ones she shares a uniquely special bond with for their shared experiences and history.

     Bradley even recounts something involving his father and Maverick, his resentment towards the latter cast aside as he manages to tell the story without bitterness: "Alright, I can't remember this completely, but..." he is saying, while everyone listens; Celeste sits with her body fully-facing towards him. "So do you guys remember Charlie? Who Mav went out with for a couple of years? She was his instructor..."

     Quincy whistles suggestively, while Celeste nods at the vague memory. She does remember a Charlie Blackwood somewhere in her earliest childhood, tall and always smartly-dressed with a sharp mind and wit. Then one day, she was gone; it was before little Celeste understood the concept of adults and break-ups. Ryan, however, stares blankly as he was definitely too young to recollect her.

     "Anyway," Bradley continues, "the two of them, my dad and Mav, always had their little secrets and inside jokes. But what Maverick didn't know was that he also told everything to my mom, so the moment we stepped off the plane, apparently she was like, 'So Goose tells me you're close with your instructor?'... because apparently she can't keep secrets, either."

     "Carole Bradshaw!" Luisa laughs, shaking her head. "I would've loved to be a fly on the wall for that."

     "Yeah, I just wish I remembered it..." Bradley chuckles too, but something seems to fade from him in that moment. As if he re-remembers the three people from that memory — two of them gone, and the last one estranged. It is no wonder he doesn't dwell as much these days. Before he can get too distracted, Quincy is already shifting the tide.

     "Oh!" he claps, nodding to his sister. "Complete knee-jerk change of subject, but you know what I always remember? Celeste's space-nerd lectures."

     "It was Astronomy, you don't have to call them space-nerd lectures..." Celeste trails off with a chuckle. However, the rest of them are already animated with life as they collectively remember this recurring event, honing in on it with great fondness and eagerness.

     "They were like mini classrooms," Luisa remembers, "and you really knew your stuff for a kid at that time."

     "Oh yeah, and weren't you obsessed with basically everything space mission-related?" Bradley smiles, now turning in his chair to face her too. "You had all the information about what missions were taking off, and– and do you remember you made me sit and watch a rocket launch on TV with you?"

     Yes, I know, I remember, Celeste wants to reply. You don't have to remind me.

     "Man, NASA don't know what they're missing out on," Quincy sighs, taking a swig of beer.

     A sudden gravity drags her limbs down to Earth at his words. He knows more than anyone, and yet he still says something like that which digs it all up again. Celeste knows he didn't mean it that way — her brother has perhaps been the most empathetic of everyone — but it doesn't stop the sudden itch to leave the room emerging. Pushing her feet against the floorboards, the chair makes an excruciating scraping noise as she gets up.

"I'll be right back," she announces.

"You okay?" Bradley asks, craning his neck to look up at her.

"Yeah, I just need the bathroom."

So as not to arouse suspicion, Celeste initially heads in the direction of the bathrooms, the intermittent chorus of hand-dryers and running taps luring her in. But at the last minute she swivels, heading for the back door once she knows she's out of sight. A blast of evening air instantly hits her in the air — crisp and fresh, healing her with a single lungful. She sighs with relief. As always, she gazes up to her solace in the stars, finding the lights just outside the door too bright.

She strolls further down, until she is at the beach with the glow and bustle of The Hard Deck behind her. Now just alone with the moon, the waves and her thoughts. Celeste lowers herself down onto the sand, hugging her knees to her chest. Then she looks up into the towering skies for what seems like forever. Looking for anything — a constellation, a passing aircraft, an answer...

When she was younger, Celeste used to think she was so close to being up there. She thought she could reach out and just grab a pocketful of stars. Nowadays, she doesn't see the stars in arm's reach. Instead she just thinks of the 330,000 feet separating her from space, the Kármán line a thin veil between her and the beyond.

She focuses not on the proximity, but the distance.

She doesn't know how long she has been sitting there on the sand when she hears footsteps. It takes a heartbeat to figure out who it is — Celeste knows Bradley Bradshaw like the back of her hand. Or at least she used to. She doesn't look his way when he emerges in her periphery, but quietly leaves the space in the sand open for him to sit. He wordlessly takes it, lowering himself down with a grunt. Only then does she look at him. "Hey," she says quietly, watching his gaze snap up to her as he props his elbows on his knees.

"Hi..." Bradley softly replies, "I thought you'd be out here."

"I heard some planets were supposed to be in conjunction tonight, so..."

She actually has no idea if that's the truth. Celeste still watches patiently anyway, while observing the rise and fall of Bradley's chest next to her as he too tilts his head up to stargaze. Suddenly she hears his breath hitch, his hand invading into her line of sight as he points up to a blinking light dragging across the sky.

"Whoa, look, a shooting star!"

"... Bradshaw, that's the International Space Station."

A beat passes. "Right, uh... yeah. I knew that."

Celeste grins then, rocking back slightly with a chuckle. "Shooting stars are a lot quicker. And technically they aren't stars, just small bits of rock or dust hitting our atmosphere."

"I don't know how you gave up on this," Bradley suddenly says.

"What?"

"You know, all the space stuff. I mean, whatever makes you happy of course, but when you rocked up in the navy and told me you'd changed your mind about space academy, I was pretty surprised to say the least..."

Celeste's fingers squeeze her knees, the skin tightening around her knuckles like what feels like a hand around her heart. How long can she keep hiding this from him? No more, is the answer she comes to. Shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath, she steels herself for the words leaving her lips:

     "I didn't change my mind... I couldn't pass."

     When she doesn't hear any reaction from Bradley, she opens her eyes. He is just staring at her — not even accusatory or shocked, just simply asking her why?

     "I got rejected on my first try," Celeste admits, "and every one since... I've been re-applying for years. And part of the reason I joined the navy was so I could get enough flight hours to add to my application."

     Silence still bloats between them. Finally, Bradley exhales and shuffles a little closer to her.

     "... I mean, I knew that," he says.

     "What? Did Quincy tell you?" she panics. "I swear, I'll kill him—"

     "No, no one told me, I just figured it out. I know Celeste Sterling well enough to guess she would never give something up that easily..." Bradley nudges her and she smiles. Then, his tone softening, he asks, "But why didn't you tell me? You know I'm here for you, right? You don't have to hide stuff like that from me, ever."

     "I could ask you the same thing about the naval academy."

     "That's different."

     "No, it isn't. We used to tell each other this kind of stuff."

     Rattled by the epiphany of their distance, Celeste and Bradley fall into silence except for the gentle crashing of waves onto shore. Her heartbeat pumps swiftly at the digging up of all these feelings she'd buried, ones she preferred turning a blind eye to. Bradley now has his stare cast out to the horizon, harder to see in the last remnants of dusk.

     "I guess... I know how you felt about naval academy," Celeste eventually pipes up. "It must've been a blow."

     Squinting, Bradley looks down at his feet. "Yeah. It was."

     Shhh... the waves hush them once more.

     "Do you ever think about it?" he asks.

     "Think about what?"

     "You know, if you'd gone up to space?"

     "Every day," Celeste replies without hesitation.

     Slightly thrown by the rapidness of her response, Bradley sighs sympathetically. "I mean... it's not too late. It's not like you're too old or anything. I don't see why you wouldn't get accepted now."

     "I don't know, Bradley," she shakes her head, her thoughts bubbling to the surface. "I'm in my mid-thirties, and I still haven't found this thing I've been dreaming after for years. I'm exhausted. And you know what, it's not the same anymore — the more I get rejected, the more I start to hate everything about that dream I had. I don't wanna be chasing it forever. But if... if I let go..."

     Celeste struggles for the words. Only then does she notice she's shivering. Bradley is leaning his hand into the sand behind her back, but once he notices, he tentatively wraps his arm around her shoulders — part for warmth, part for comfort. She lets herself relax into it, her head nestling into his shoulder. Soon she has rolled into him completely, sitting on her knees as she wraps both arms around him in an embrace. Celeste inhales the cologne on his shirt, feels how strong his arms have become since they last hugged each other like this.

     "I've missed you," she mumbles into his shoulder. It comes out as naturally as breathing does, and she means it. Bradley and her have been too far apart for too long.

     "I've missed you too, Cel," Bradley rubs her back gently.

     Celeste wishes they could stay like this forever. For this moment, the mission and those 330,000 feet between her and Earth feel meaningless, as long as she is here with Bradley — he has often had that effect. It plants one particular memory in her mind, which makes her smile as she pulls away from the hug.

     "I think I've got a memory of my own to share," she says. "But not for the others. Just between us."

     "Alright, hit me with it."

     "Prom night underneath the stars."

     Bradley instantly beams at the mention of it. "Oh, you mean the prom-night-that-wasn't-actually-prom? The one I rented a tux for?"

     "Come on, we've been through this! I never specified that we were going to prom, and I definitely never asked you to wear a tuxedo. Given the choice I would've rocked up in jeans and a hoodie..." Celeste huffs, making him laugh. "But I guess I was thinking more about the timing of it. You were waiting for a response from naval academy, and I was gonna start my degree."

     "Yeah... you know, I actually found out my papers had been pulled two weeks later."

     "You did?"

     "Mhmm," Bradley nods with a hint of bitterness. Then, looking at her, he says, "But I agree. That was a great night... just for us."

     Just for us, Celeste finds herself echoing in her head.

     The Bradshaw boy stands up, brushing the sand away from his jeans and offering her a hand. Behind him, the glow of the Hard Deck inside has never looked so welcoming. "Come on," he encourages her, "we should go back inside. If I'm still paying the bill, I need to make sure those three haven't bought out the whole bar."

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"Time is your greatest enemy," Maverick says to the room full of aviators. They are all sat before a giant screen, the day that the real training catered to their mission begins. It is the moment everyone has been waiting for, frankly — Celeste diligently takes down notes as their commander details aspects of the mission. "Phase One of the mission will be a low-level ingress attacking in plane teams."

     The screen changes before them, displaying a rocky terrain with just a slither of room to navigate, shown in a red line weaving through. "You'll fly along this narrow canyon to your target... radar-guided, surface-to-air missiles defend the area," Maverick explains, just as a large danger-red display of enemy missiles appears on-screen. "These SAMs... are lethal. But they were designed to protect the skies above, not the canyon below."

     "That's because the enemy knows no one is insane enough to fly below them," Bradley speaks up. Only separated by the aisle between their chairs, Celeste glances at him curiously — is he challenging Maverick?

     The commander turns to face him, a fire in his eyes as he replies, "That's exactly what I'm gonna train you to do."

     Of course, Celeste thinks, watching the screen with a vague sense of unease.

"On the day, your altitude will be 100 feet. Maximum. If you exceed this altitude, the radar will spot you and you'll be dead. Your airspeed will be 660 knots, minimum..."

She exchanges a look with her brother sat next to her, and even he seems somewhat perplexed by this. In front of her, Payback and Fanboy puff out a breath in bewilderment and also share a look.

"... Time to target: two and a half minutes. That's because fifth-generation fighters wait at an airbase nearby," Maverick says, staring thoughtfully at the screen. "In a head-to-head with these planes in your F-18s, you're dead... that's why you need to get in, hit your target, and be gone before these planes even have a chance of catching you. This makes time your greatest adversary."

Celeste swallows thickly, her fingers tingling with anticipation over this mission. The stakes suddenly seem higher now. She doesn't know what she expected, but if this is only Phase One, she dreads to think what will be following this.

     "You'll fly a route in your nav system that simulates the canyon. The faster you navigate this canyon, the harder it'll be to stay under the radar of the enemy SAMs. The tighter the turns, the more intensely the force of gravity on your body multiplies. Compressing your lungs. Forcing the blood from your brain, impairing your judgement and reaction time... so for today's test, we're gonna take it easy on you," Maverick adds optimistically, after the bleaker preface. "Max ceiling: 300 feet, time to target: three minutes. Good luck."

Phase One is easier said than done, when it wasn't even simple in the first place — because a few hours later, all the aviators are back in the room with Maverick, heads hung low for having failed the task.

First up for grilling is Coyote, who was teamed up with Phoenix and Bob. "Why are they dead?" Maverick asks.

"We broke the 300 foot ceiling," Phoenix calmly admits. "The SAM took us out."

But Maverick shakes his head, directing his gaze to Coyote and asking, "No, why are they dead?"

"I slowed down and didn't give her a warning. It was my fault."

"Is there a reason you didn't communicate?"

"I was focusing on the—"

"One their family will accept at the funeral."

Ouch. A hushed tension falls over the room, Coyote swallowing thickly. "No, sir."

"Why didn't you anticipate the turn? You were briefed on the terrain," Maverick interrogates Phoenix. When she opens her mouth, he shakes his head and gestures to Bob. "Don't tell me. Tell it to his family."

Next up for a good dressing down is Hangman's team, for he sped ahead of Payback and Fanboy and left them to hit the wall. However the pilot shows little signs of regret — the same smug smile as always is etched in his face, chest puffed out egotistical ly as Maverick crosses over to him at the front.

"What happened?" asks the commander.

"Well, I flew as fast as I could. Kinda like my ass depended on it," Hangman drawls.

"And, your put your team in danger," Bradley butts in distastefully, "and your wingman's dead."

Clearly Maverick isn't the only one he loathes.

"They couldn't keep up."

"Bullshit," Ryan coughs into his fist next to Hangman. For some reason, a strange look appears in Maverick's eyes — like he is transported back somewhere, or another time — before he snaps promptly back to the present moment and moves to stand in front of the Kazansky son.

     "Your team had a similar problem, Lynx," he raises. "Can you tell me what happened?"

     At this, Ryan furrows his eyebrows defensively. "I don't understand, sir. We actually made it to the target."

     "You still made plenty of mistakes. Lynx, you didn't communicate enough with your team. Bullseye, you were flying way too close to Lynx," Maverick points out. "What were you thinking?"

     "I– I misjudged the distance, sir," Quincy replies, a little startled by the grilling. "The sharp turns and the speed definitely took a toll. But don't worry, I'll do better next time."

     Celeste remembers it well. Her brother had also been somewhat impaired by the intense forces. The gravity had tugged hard with every sharp twist and turn, and while she had tried her best to help navigate, the cornices of her vision had begun to flicker with darkness — all she could focus on was the Gs on her screen climbing up steadily through 5.3 and onwards. In the onslaught of protest that follows from her other two members, she remains quiet and observant as always.

     "You'd better get it right next time," Maverick says, "because it could have put your WSO and your wingman in danger."

     "But we didn't hit the wall or arrive late, sir," Ryan points out again.

     "Maybe. But you guys fly like that on the day, you can't promise anything."

     "Sir—" Quincy tries to protest.

     "What if you'd been caught in Lynx's jet wash? Or misjudged the distance too much on a turn?" Maverick snaps, more affected by this than anyone expected. "There is... no room for mistakes on this mission. Not unless you want to go to your sister's funeral, Bullseye."

     The sting of the last remark is clear on Quincy's face — it is as if he has been slapped in the face, mouth slightly agape before he locks it shut in shame. Those words coming from a man he admires so much must hit even harder. He sinks slowly into the foam of the seat, unable to look Celeste in the eye. It's okay. I know you wouldn't let that happen, she tries to communicate telepathically, but her brother has blocked her out. Even she is a little rattled by what Maverick said too. Being a WSO, the trust she has to put in whoever is at the front seat is a very fragile thing, hence why she was dreading flying with Hangman the other day.

     Celeste still trusts Quincy to keep her safe more than any other pilot in this room, and she knows the feeling is mutual. Losing each other would be like losing half a heart.

     Only one other team made it to the target, which was Rooster, Athena and Tintin. But of course Maverick still has his criticisms. "Why are you dead, Rooster? You're team leader up there. You were a minute late to the target..." he struggles to say. "Therefore you gave enemy aircraft time to shoot him down. You are all dead."

     "You don't know that," Bradley defies him.

     "You're not flying fast enough," Hangman points out, although no one asked for his opinion. What's new? "You don't have a second to waste."

     "We made it to the target."

     "And superior enemy aircraft intercepted you on your way out," Maverick highlights.

     "Then it's a dogfight."

     "Against fifth-generation fighters."

     "Yeah. We still have a chance."

     "In an F-18!"

     "It's not the plane, sir," Bradley points out, "it's the pilot."

     "Exactly!" Maverick blurts out, eyes suddenly streaked with pain. The back-and-forth had been teetering on deeper territory for a while, but this just seals it — this is personal. Anyone who knows the two of them, namely the Sterlings and the other kids who knew Maverick before he was their commander, can guess that.

     Bradley stares at him, betrayal sharpening his glare. "There's more than one way to fly this mission."

     Silence falls over the room. Celeste tries to get Bradley's attention, in the hopes of trying to calm him down, but all hope goes out of the window when Hangman decides to open his mouth again.

     "You really don't get it, do you? A man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back..." Hangman pauses, looking over at Phoenix, namely a woman, on the other side of the room. "No offence intended."

     While she squints in distaste at him, Bob leans forward and replies, "And yet somehow, you always manage..." He may be a man of few words, but he certainly knows how and when to use them — despite still being disgusted by Hangman's comment, even Luisa sat right behind the WSO manages a proud smile.

     It still doesn't stop the arrogant pilot from speaking where he isn't wanted. Looking behind at Bradley, he says, "I don't mean to criticise. You're conservative, that's all."

     "Lieutenant—" Maverick tries to cut him off, but to no avail.

     "We're going into combat, son. On a level no living pilot has ever seen before... not even him," Hangman says pointedly, making the colour drain from Maverick's face for a second. "It's no time to be thinking about the past."

     The past?

     Oh no... Celeste realises. She can see where this is going, even if no one else can. Always a few steps ahead.

     "What's that supposed to mean?" Bradley asks. His voice is steady, controlled, but trembles with the wobbly composure of a man about to snap.

     "Bradley," she murmurs, "don't listen to him—"

     "I can't be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man..."

     "Lieutenant," Maverick interjects, "that's enough—"

     "... And that Maverick was flying with his old man when he—"

     Bradley leaps up between the blink of an eye. Before she processes it herself, Celeste is jumping up after him, clambering to hold him back with the cluster of other aviators — "You son of a bitch!" he spits at Hangman, cheeks red with blotches of rage. She keeps him from laying a finger on the arrogant pilot with her hand on Bradley's chest, feeling the heavy rise and fall through his ribcage. Celeste takes her own turn to glare daggers at the instigator. That was way too far. Even for her, nearing Goose's name like that feels like the ultimate crossing of the line.

"I'm cool, I'm cool," Hangman chuckles, shrugging the grip of Ryan and some other pilots off his shoulders; meanwhile Bradley is still like a bull in a china shop, slowly humiliated by how calm and collected the man opposite is in comparison.

"That's enough," Maverick demands.

"He's not cut out for this mission—"

"That's enough!"

"You know it," Hangman stares knowingly between Bradley and Maverick. "You know I'm right."

He gets up in the Bradshaw boy's face for a moment, before leaving. Maverick quickly dismisses everyone, the tension still boiling the room until it is suffocating. Some of the pilots whisper to each other, while others steal curious glances at Bradley — unable to take it anymore, he storms out of the room, the doors slamming against the walls before creaking slowly shut.

Celeste is straight out there after him.

☆.｡.:*　　.｡.:*☆

AUTHOR'S NOTE

coincidentally, this chapter is our exactly one month after the last one! i actually meant to write it in celebration of top gun: maverick winning best sound at the oscars (although they honestly should have won/been nominated in more categories... no nomination for cinematography still makes my blood boil).

i have to say, i'm very pleased with this chapter. we got a cute flashback to begin with, as well as some backstory for celeste and how she ended up a WSO instead of an astronaut. this is very important for her character — a lot of her arc is learning to let go of her impossible standards she has set for herself, to learn to accept the past and embrace who she is today to believe in her abilities. and of course, we also got some bradleste content 🥰 these two are finally re-connecting more (and it's only a matter of time before other feelings catch up too)

speaking of bradleste, i've actually curated a spotify playlist just for them, based on songs that fit their story! hopefully the code below works...

the next chapter may trigger the waterworks, because it follows directly on from this cliffhanger ending... and it's a goose-centric chapter. i wanted to pay tribute to the original film (and my favourite character from it) in some way, so we're going back to 1986, baby!

──

published: march 23rd, 2023