Salvatore [Top Gun: Maverick]

1

  Becoming a pilot was probably the last career she'd imagine herself taking up. Being in the top one percent of fighter pilots. That just made her laugh.

  Unlike her fellow classmates, whom she'd trained with at the naval academy and top gun who always knew they'd be in the pilot seat since they figured out what those large metal things were in the sky. Stella thought those things were a huge death machine. She wasn't too far off.

  At ten years old she remembered sitting in a crowded airplane flying from Seattle, Washington down to Los Angeles. Only about a two-hour trip. However, with the major turbulence from an unexpected storm to nearly landing right on the freeway, Stella declared planes were the worst invention ever created.

  Sometimes she still agrees with that statement.

—

  "God fucking damnit," she cussed as a loud beep signaled her left engine was out.

  Stella took a deep breath before turning the jet around in order to make an emergency landing.  To her luck, the thing made it to the ground safely with a crowd of people rushing over to put out the fire. She hopped out of the jet, helmet in hand to check the damage.

  Ever since her graduation from the academy, Stella went straight back into school to get a degree in aerospace engineering. So now she can improve the scary pieces of metal to ensure minimum crashing. Maybe it really was a dream come true.

  When she settled herself back in the tiny office, she took some notes on the flight and the jet itself before packing up her things. A few goodbyes and see you laters before turning the keys to her grey sports car. It was a pretty automobile that earned a lot of stares and hoots after seeing the person behind the wheel. But it was also proven to be pretty damn safe.

Cars were the second worst invention. There was a scar across Stella's left cheek from a crash a couple of years back. She has a strange history with vehicles.

  Her apartment, west of the air force base in Northern California, was cute and comfortable. Somewhat sophisticated with the carefully picked furniture that looked high end if you ignored the Ikea label on the bottom. The view was the seller though. If she squinted hard enough she convinced herself she could see the ocean.

  Opening the fridge, Stella grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and a tub of watermelon before plopping on the couch. In a quick motion her blonde locks were released from its tight bun and fell past her shoulders. Her phone rang startling her as she was about to scroll through Netflix.

  "Hello?" she asked, placing the phone on her shoulder.

  "Hi is this Stella James? Call sign Jigsaw," the voice replied.

  "That is correct," she responded, looking through the Emmy winning tv shows.

  "This is Admiral Simpson," her eyes widened at the voice.

  She was silent, unsure of how to respond. Her scrolling stopped and she placed her tub of fruit on the table in front.

  "You're presence has been requested back at Naval Fighters School, otherwise known as Top Gun. More details will be provided upon your arrival. Thank you," and then they hung up.

  Stella was left with her mouth hanging open and her mind spinning. Flying at Top Gun all those years ago was a privilege no doubt about it. To be the very best and learn the skill set only a few have access to. It was even more of an honor to graduate the top of her class. The badge was still displayed proudly on her flight suit hanging up in the closet.

  However, unlike her other classmates who went on to actually use those skills in the navy and to carry out missions, Stella went back to build the damn fighter jets. Sure she flies the jets but not on the same level she flown at Top Gun. She was perhaps the least qualified person to go back. Unless the mission involved building a fucking plane, which she highly doubted. Whatever it was it seemed Stella was trading the Bay Area for San Diego.

She was going back to Top Gun.