The morning sun hung low over Miramar, spilling gold across the runway and glinting off the rows of jets lined up like sleeping predators. Inside the hangar, the sound of laughter and bootsteps echoed as the new class of Top Gun pilots filed in — the best of the best, gathered for the next twelve weeks of hell and glory.

Commander Mike “Viper” Metcalf stood at the front of the hangar, flight manual tucked under one arm, scanning the roster on his clipboard. Beside him, Commander Duke Mitchell adjusted his sunglasses and watched the young aviators settle into formation. A decade had deepened the lines on his face, but the confidence in his stance hadn’t faded a bit.

“Looks like a good batch,” Viper said quietly.

“Good’s not enough here,” Duke replied. His tone was even, but his eyes lingered on the group, sharp and searching — until they caught on a name patch that stopped him cold.

MITCHELL. Call sign: MAVERICK.

For a second, Duke forgot to breathe. His throat tightened, the sound of the hangar fading to a dull hum. Maverick.

Viper noticed the way his friend stiffened. “Something wrong?”

Duke shook his head slowly, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “No. Just… didn’t expect that name to show up on the roster.”

When the briefing began, the students straightened as Viper addressed them. “You’re here because you’re the top one percent of Naval Aviators. You’ll push harder, fly faster, and learn quicker than you ever have. This program doesn’t make heroes — it makes survivors.”

He nodded to Duke. “Commander Mitchell, anything to add?”

Duke stepped forward, voice calm and steady. “You’ve all got talent — that’s why you’re standing here. But talent without discipline gets people killed. The sky doesn’t care who your parents were or what medals you’ve earned. Respect it, or it’ll take you.”

As he spoke, his gaze swept the line of pilots — and landed on Pete.

Pete Mitchell. Twenty-four now, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s stance. He looked back at Duke without flinching, that same restless energy humming in his posture, the kind that had once made Duke grin and shake his head when the boy was barely tall enough to see over a cockpit ladder.

When the briefing ended, Viper clapped the folder shut. “Dismissed.”

The students scattered, but Pete lingered. He approached the two instructors slowly, boots clicking against the concrete.

“Commander Metcalf. Commander Mitchell,” he said, his tone professional but lined with warmth. “Good to be here, sirs.”

Duke studied him for a heartbeat longer before speaking. “Maverick, huh? Interesting choice of call sign.”