They Call Me the Coroner | Top Gun: Maverick

Changing Up the Lyrics

⚫Warning: Some blood in this chapter.

~~Tesha~~

It tickles. Whatever is on my face tickles. I open my eyes and see the white world and tall trees. Snow has melted on me and trickles water down my forehead.

I'm alive.

A glance down at my transmitter proving to tell those at base that I'm no longer alive...

But I am.

I smile at the thought. God has to love me. Why? I will never know. I heave a sigh and the plane tilts.

As it settles, the sight of an edge to my right and left threatens me to lean forward.

I'm teetering on a cliff.

"Really?" I grumble. Well, God's kept me alive this far...the least I can do is pull a little of the weight myself and get out of this situation.

I sit and wait for a moment as the plane creaks on the edge. I slowly reach for the clip above my right shoulder. It comes undone easily. The next clip above my left shoulder unfastens quickly.

The plane trembles. I hear the ground breaking away under me. A few clumps fall away into what seems to be water at the bottom of the cliff.

No. Really big ravine.

My breath hitches and I grab the sides of my jet while the plane tilts some more. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Hehe. This is kinda like a movie." I whistle as the plane stops it's moving and all is quiet for a long, long time. "Cliff Hanger? Ooo! That one scene in Star Trek Beyond where Scotty is about to fall off the cliff."

I'm trying to stall, I guess. I don't want to make another move in case I trigger another slip of the plane.

But I can't get out if I don't try.

The third clip next to my right side is stuck, so I inch my fingers to the fourth. Coming back to the third, I feel the clip as my hand keeps slipping off it, cold and wet. I pull my fingers back and stare at them.

Red. My gloves are soaked with blood.

I panic, looking down at myself and my torn torso. I take short, shallow breaths and rip off my gloves, wiping my hands on my legs.

Concentrate, Tesh. You have to get out of the plane.

I grab the clip again and look down. It's bent and battered like it's been run over by a tractor trailer 30 times.

"Oh come on!" I growl and tug at it. The plane cracking with each movement.

I unzip a pocket on my tattered vest and whip out a small knife. Cutting away at the strap behind the clip, I heave air into my lungs and hold it until I can't anymore. Then I let it out and repeat.

The plane tremors again and screeches on the rocks. I let out a struggled whimper and finally slice through the strap.

As I stand, the metal groans on the edge, daring me to jump out.