SECOND GENERATION | ❝ i'm heavy with
the weight of
missing you ❞
in which grace 'vex' mitchell must confront the ghosts of her past and her deepest fears...
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stand down, drop these weapons now we're walking in this lie, walking in this lie you know i try, try to compromise we're walking in this high, walking in this high
MOJAVE DESERT, CALIF. USA | 1997
Gracie knew her family was different.
They weren't typical, or the norm.
The Mitchell's didn't follow a lot of the usual customs and routines normal to other more traditional households. Her dad didn't have a typical 9:00 to 5:00 job, and she didn't have the same hobbies a normal thirteen year old might. After a day spent flying and dogfighting, Mav snuck her onto airfields and into O clubs while Gracie went on drives with her fifteen year old best friend and read books about flight weapons systems.
They didn't have set meal times or bedtimes. They didn't celebrate holidays with big families and blood—relations; her family was made up of honorary aunts and uncles from the Navy. Instead of learning to ride a bike, Gracie first learned how to fly a plane. They didn't eat at the table in the kitchen, unless it was for birthdays or special occasions like when Aunt Carole came over. Usually they just ate wherever it struck their fancy or was most convenient.
Right now, they were eating dinner in their small airplane hangar.
Gracie sat on the wing of Maverick's propeller plane, criss—cross—applesauced while she ate a bowl of cereal. This was about as gourmet as they got in the Mitchell household. Mav clinked their spoons together, took another bite of his honey nut cheerios, and set the bowl back on the wing. Then he got back to work on the propeller, brow somewhat creased as he concentrated. She watched him curiously, handing various tools when he requested them.
"Mav?"
"Gracie?"
She wondered, "Could I get a call sign?"
"Sure. One day." He held out an oily hand, "Phillips head?"
Biting her lip, Gracie handed over the specific screwdriver, handle—first. While a quiet 'thanks', he got back to work and she kept studying him. Maverick. She only ever used his callsign; it was all she had ever called him since she could remember. This wasn't normal for most families either. Bradley called Goose 'Dad', but not Gracie. Even when she lived with her mom and he pulled up on his motorcycle, she would be shouting 'Maverick' when she ran down the porch steps and leapt into his arms.
She looked up to him all her life, since she had skinned knees and loose teeth. He was brave and he was cool and he did whatever the hell he wanted, no matter the consequences. Gracie wanted to be just like him, just like a Mitchell, just like a maverick.
