A Top Gun Nightmare

Once upon a commission, Fitz was a naval aviator. He could fly, and he could judge his targets by blowing them to hell.

He was MUCH younger. And he looked MUCH better. The ladies loved him. But he never had time to flirt; the enemy wasn't going to destroy itself, after all.

He went through a lot of training. Most of it was physical. For four years before that, there were a lot of classrooms, and he didn't have a commission for any of it. They enhanced him, and made him cocky in life, if not in the sky.

And then, the hard part came. They strapped him to a chair, and inoculated him with a super-aviator serum...

There were nightmares. Several times, Fitz lost control. More than once, he woke up sleeping on the ceiling. He started wearing a ball and chain to bed.

Now, they think he's ready for flight. In an empty hangar, they stand by, as Fitz uses his powers for the first time.

Fitz tries. He doesn't do anything. He tries again. He's lucky he doesn't fall through a hole in the hangar ceiling.

And he falls back down. He's lucky his skeleton doesn't shatter.

A VERY long time later, Fitz can control gravity. When he's ready, the high command sends him on a mission to Persia.

Ah, Persia. The mountains. The deserts. The vast open land. If only Fitz could dwell... But he mustn't; he's here to make the enemy weaker, not to sight-see.

They've got him wearing a nice costume. It's weather-proof, and bears his people's roundel.

At long last, he meets an opponent. Unlike him, he's wearing the Persian roundel on his costume. Also unlike him, he's relying on a Shiite cloak to levitate. Figures; Persian patriots like their Shia Islam like Goths like their black.

They both stop, and levitate in place. They drift in circles, around each other. It's a balance contest. Both can go for the rest of their lives...if that's their destiny.

When Fitz is ready, he'll make his move. His will, after all, is destined to become his homeland's commander-in-chief...

The Persian foe dips into his other talents, and hypnotizes Fitz. Fitz can't control it; he starts seeing what his opponent shows him.

He's in Jahannam. Below, the mountains are as hot as coals. The valleys burn, and are filled with fire. The sky is red. Black demons fly here and there, like mosquitoes, vultures, vampire bats, and angels with black wings. Some get too close to Fitz, and slash at him with their flaming blades...

A shadowy figure approaches him. Fitz reaches for his flail, thinking it might be Iblis...

It's Mellie. She wears a long green robe, and her hair up in a crown braid. She wears a lot of mascara. Her gauntlets are made of silver-steel scale armor. She wears a glowing pendant around her neck. She unfolds her arms, and erects a bo staff.

"Infidel," she hisses, in a SO-not-Mellie-like voice. "You trespass...again."

"I am not here for your people's faith," Fitz insists. "I am here for their weapons."

"Bullshit," she hisses. "Our faith IS a weapon! And with it, we will defend ourselves until the end times! When will you exterior filth ever learn?"

"It is not for me to learn. It's for my nation."

"A nation of bastards who interbreed with other bastards, I see. Here in Persia, we keep our dicks inside our pants!"

Fitz shrugs. "Well, then...how do you reproduce?"

"Allah sees all. And you will not trespass unchallenged."

"As I said, I am here for your weapons. Hand them over, and I will not attack."

"Your attack will not hinder me, infidel. You have no ace!"

Fitz takes up his mace, and swings it. "No; but I'm the first line of offense. And I will gladly die in the service of protecting my people. I just wish that your subjects could remember that there's a little Grant inside all of them."

"No Grant is Muslim. And I will make an example out of you...by reminding them of that." Her staff turns to metal, and grows spikes at either end. "Welcome to Jahannam, Ensign!"

Fitz takes his mace, and swings it around. Its chain gets longer with each revolution. Soon, he'll be able to hit Dark Mellie with it. He's almost within range...

Outside the illusion, Fitz's opponent knocks him out, with a sucker punch from the Allahforce. With that, Fitz's powers fail him, and now, like Tom Petty, he's free, free-falling...

The desert looms up at him. It's getting too close. He may not survive the impact. Then again, he might...

Fitz wakes. He's still in the fort. He and Ms. Ophir are still in protective custody. Fitz keeps having that nightmare...and it gets creepier each time.

He gets out of bed, and urinates. He's starting to sense that kosher meat isn't up his alley. And to think he once thought he couldn't go wrong with turkey. Then again, turkeys probably have less meat on them in Afroasia...if they live out there at all...

Yeah, for them, it's probably mostly quail. Even so, Fitz will never stop being a turkey man...

He flushes the toilet. He starts to return to his bed.

His bedroom door creaks. Fitz reaches for his flail...until he remembers that he doesn't have it anymore...or his gravity-control powers, for that matter...

It's Ophir. He relaxes...and doesn't at the same time.

"Sorry," she yawns. "I couldn't sleep."

"Had a nightmare," Fitz recounts. "Trying to recover."

"You were in the military, weren't you?"

Fitz nods. "I was a naval aviator. I could control gravity. I used a ball-and-chain flail for dogfights."

"Sounds hot. Can I join you...for a few?"

Fitz nods. "Don't get any ideas."

She comes in. Fitz nearly goes blind from looking at her in her sky-blue babydoll.

They lie on opposite sides of the bed, and stare at one another. Fitz should be more worried about someone coming to kill him...but somehow, when he's with the Afroasian president, he feels more secure than when he's commanding the military.

"You were in your country's military," Fitz reminds her. "How so?"

She shrugs her big bare shoulders. "A little amphibious. A little expeditionary. A little ground. I was basically a fucking amazon. Deborah's got nothing on me."

Fitz narrows his eyes.

"Deborah was a judge of Israel, sometime after Moses and before Samuel. Thought you'd know that. Don't you North American conservatives read the Bible?"

"Yes. But we don't really memorize it, as you do the Torah."

"I haven't memorized the Torah. I still don't recall how I dodged that scale...but I did."

"I envy you. I didn't dodge a lot of scales in youth I still think I could've."

"Don't dwell. If you don't learn to like yourself for who you are, you won't teach anyone else to do the same."

Fitz smiles. "Do they teach that in the Afroasian military?"

"They teach that everywhere. Only a few do it verbally."

"Of course." Fitz yawns. "How about your country's soccer team? Do you think they'll make it to the next World Cup?"

Ophir grins, and flaps her hair. "You don't watch the World Cup, do you?"

"How can I? We all prefer our NFL here."

"Do you?"

"My voters expect me to. But there are thirty-two teams in it, and it's hard to commit to one when I can't even commit to my wife."

"There's no dishonor in getting divorced while in the Grey House. Just because it's never happened before doesn't mean it'll never have to."

Fitz chuckles. "I have forty-three predecessors. Only one of them was a lifelong bachelor. Alas, he was a leftist."

"Again: just because it's never happened before doesn't mean it never has to. It was a different world for your predecessors; if they had to live in yours for five minutes, I'm sure they'd understand."

"You're probably right. But even so, I'd need Mellie's signature as well."

Ophir giggles. "Good luck with collecting that, then." With that, she yawns. And, she snores.

Fitz gapes, and raises his finger...but hesitates. He'd hate to wake her; it might not improve North American-Afroasian relations. He sighs, and rolls over on his back. The bed sure is hotter, with Ophir in it...

"I'm trusting you not to make me pregnant, Ms. President," he mutters. She still snores. "I'll probably regret it. God-forbid if your Muslim conservatives go to war with us because there's a half-Grant bastard gestating in your...presidential belly."

Ophir smiles, and snores. She doesn't heed what she's risking...and doesn't care. Sometimes, Fitz envies her. And yet, it's usually better if he doesn't...

In moments like these, Fitz thinks of Liv. Not that he ever stops...