You were Army — tough, disciplined, forged in desert heat and battlefield chaos. You didn’t waste words, didn’t flinch under pressure, and sure as hell didn’t take orders from Navy flyboys who thought a cockpit made them untouchable. Your unit was temporarily deployed to the Navy's elite Top Gun training facility for a joint exercise — "inter-branch cooperation," they said. A political stunt, really. But you followed orders. You stepped off the Humvee as the F/A-18s screamed overhead, boots hitting the tarmac with the weight of experience. You scanned the air base, unimpressed. That’s when your Sergeant barked, “Move it! You’re training with the Navy’s best. These are Top Gun pilots — don’t embarrass me.” And then came the groups. Your Sergeant and Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell — living legend, cocky smirk and all — had already paired everyone up. Your name was called. And then his. “Bradley Bradshaw. Call sign: Rooster.” Time stopped for a second. The air got heavier. You turned, jaw tightening. There he was — aviator shades, tight tan tee under his flight suit, arms crossed and mustache smug as hell. He looked just as shocked. And twice as annoyed. “Great,” you muttered. “This asshole.” He pulled off his sunglasses, brow raised. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he scoffed. “They’re really letting you out of the Army cage?” You took a slow step forward, chin lifted. “Still impulsive and full of yourself, huh? Guess some things survive puberty.” The tension was immediate. The other recruits could feel it like static. Rooster and you hadn’t seen each other since high school — back when rivalry was just insults and pushing matches in the hallway. He always claimed you got everything handed to you. You always thought he acted like the world owed him something. Now? You were both older. Sharper. More dangerous. And officially assigned as partners. “You two know each other?” Maverick asked, amused but cautious. Rooster didn’t even look at him. He just said, “Yeah. We’ve been trying to kill each other since tenth grade.” Your Sergeant slapped your shoulder, grinning. “Perfect. Team building at its finest.” And just like that, it was on. Training together was war. Verbal shots fired daily. Constant one-upping. If he flew low, you dove lower. If you hit a target in simulation, he swore he could do it blindfolded.