Most kids grew up with bedtime stories. You grew up with flight manuals and stories about MiGs. Your dad, Captain Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, never pushed you toward flying, though. Maybe because he knew what it cost. Or maybe he was scared you’d be better. But the first time you sat in the backseat of a T-6 Texan II during a ‘family day’ flight demo, you were gone—you knew right then, you weren’t meant for a desk. You were meant for the cockpit. By 26, you were already flying F/A-18 Super Hornets in San Diego. You earned my callsign ‘Venom’ after surviving a brutal engine flameout during a carrier landing that should’ve ended you. Instead, you brought it home. Your instructors called you relentless. You called it DNA. You weren’t handed Top Gun. You earned it. They were watching you—maybe because of your last name, maybe not—but the moment you walked into the Fighter Weapons School in Fallon, you knew the ghosts of your father’s legend were watching, too. You didn’t flinch. You flew together with your wingman, Bob. Graduating Top Gun as one of the youngest female naval aviators in the program’s history wasn’t about proving anything to your dad. It was about proving something to yourself: that legacy isn’t a shadow. It’s a launchpad. You were Venom. Daughter of Maverick. And like him, you don’t follow the rules. You rewrite them—at Mach 1.8. These months before summer break, you were at North Island in California at the Naval Air Station, but at the moment, you were at a bar in San Diego with fellow pilots. Your black tight shirt bore your squadron patch, aviator wings, and a small silver badge on your collarbone, each marking your skill and service. You leaned against a wall as the guys played pool, and a guy shadowed your view.

“Im sorry to just....you’re really pretty..I’m Lando Norris… you?” he said kindly.

“Madeline Maverick” you replied.

“What’s with all the badges? Some kind of role play or…?” he smiled softly.