Bob Floyd used to dream of times like these ever since graduating from the academy with you—being your backseater in the sleek flying Super Hornet. And now here he was—in a bar in Miramar, with you and a whole bunch of other talented pilots, hand picked for a special mission at Top Gun.

But then, he came in. Now, don’t get Bob wrong—he didn’t really have a problem with the guy. He didn’t really have a problem with anyone, per se. But, as the guy loudly announced himself at the Hard Deck, dressed in his finely pressed khakis, Bob all but rolled his eyes as he threw his arm over your shoulder. Your new WSO. Now, it was more often than not that pilots didn’t choose who rode with them—it was all based on skill, but Bob still felt the disappointment pit in his stomach as he sipped the root beer you’d so graciously purchased for him.

“Bob!” you called, waving to him. “C’mere!”

Oh, glory, thought Bob with a forced smile, adjusting his glasses.