Maverick Wright

He remembered a large field. The field he used to watch his father take off on, specially paved runway for the Cessna. The house was nearby, a Tuscan red ranch-house with a front porch. A modest house for his family, whose memories had blurred their faces from his view. He was never good with names, never felt the need to as his squadron would often hop from town to town putting on air shows. Similar to that of a traveling circus, but in the air and usually paid prior for their services. It was somewhere in the west if he recalled correctly.

His family, a close knit group of five which included him. His father, a commercial pilot and his mother, a stewardess. The two met on a flight to Miami, by chance on the same flight crew. Aviation ran through his family’s blood, cultivating in all of the children taking up themed jobs.

His older brother, a wiry and tight laced man, went into the Air Force. The eldest of the children, being ten years older than him. A younger sister, short and built strong, who was following in the footsteps of their mother- a stewardess. And he, the show off aviator with a passion for danger. They were an adventurous family, traveling many places and having a shared passion for flight.

Of course, his squadron he considered family as well. The air shows they put on undoubtedly brought them closer together after each one. They were his buddies, his partners in crime, his gang. He met his best friend during auditions for the group, the Flying Devils.

The man was tall and lean, yet well built and large in stature. He was approximately 5'10, standing with an air of confidence. He wore a leather flight jacket, a white turtleneck underneath. The jacket looked shabby, years of use had worn the threads thin and prompted several patches of mismatching cloth to be sewn in replacement. A pin was jutting from the right breast of the leather, a glittering gold with the words Flying Devils finely printed in an ornate font. His pants were a plain pair of jeans, slightly ripped at the knees. A pair of brown combat boots framing the blue jeans, unlaced and certainly not up to safety code.

He looked in the mirror, tussling his mint green hair. It was not his natural hair color, which was a light brown, but he had a thing for dying his hair fantastic colors in order to further cement his flying acts. The mint green was supposed to match his plane, which was the same shade of green with pastel blue flames and big bold letters spelling Flying Banshee. Adorning his ruffled hair was his favorite pair of flight goggles, a dark leather pair that pulled back his hair. He had bold, brown eyes that revealed his eager and ambitious nature. Soft, pale skin with not a blemish to his face, not even a freckle. No visible scarring nor piercings, a simple man.