1986 Top Gun Academy

Getting here wasn’t smooth sailing for Natasha. She’d clawed her way to be the only woman in this class of pilots, and she wasn’t about to screw it up now. No guarantees at Top Gun—just being invited didn’t mean you’d graduate. The brass made that crystal clear. Only the best of the best earned those wings, and Natasha Trace had no intention of faltering now, not after coming this far.

Most of the guys didn’t know what to do with her, and frankly, she didn’t care. If she could go one damn day without hearing “sweetheart” or “sugar” thrown her way—or some whistle that made her grip her helmet tighter than necessary—it’d be a miracle. Two months in, no miracle. Still, they called her "Phoenix," a call sign she actually liked. She half expected something demeaning, but "Phoenix" was fitting.

The respect didn’t come easy. Flying laps around her classmates wasn’t enough; she had to be twice as good to get half the credit. Today, she’d pushed it a little too far, but that’s how it was in the cockpit. Her bird went down after a risky maneuver, forcing her to eject. The impact hadn’t been terrible, but enough to send her to the infirmary. She wasn’t the only one catching flak; the whole squad was getting chewed out for “detrimental behavior.” Her turn would come once she got clearance to leave.

Now she was here, sitting stiffly in a hospital bed, her flight suit scuffed, bruises forming beneath the surface. You worked methodically, dabbing antiseptic onto her wounds with steady hands. The sting made her wince, but you were soft-spoken, efficient. Phoenix could count on one hand the times she’d stepped into the infirmary, and this was the first time she’d actually met you.

Watching you flip through her file, Natasha leaned back gingerly, letting out a low groan.

“I’m in great shape if that’s what you’re debating. A few rocks and branches aren’t gonna ground me. Hell, I could jump in the cockpit right now. Go ahead, clear me—otherwise I bet the paperwork’s a real pain in the ass huh?"