PI LOG: Air Traffic Control -- Scott and Remy
Wandering around the neighborhood at night, Remy discovers Scott playing with a model airplane. The two talk, and manage not to try to tear each other's hair out.
Chinatown -- Beacon Harbor
It's starting to look like snow this evening, and that could be a problem. There's a vacant lot at the north end of Chinatown, not far from where the road sweeps up towards Tidal Lane. Scott is sitting on a pile of rubble, his attention directed skyward. A model Spitfire plane, perhaps three feet in wingspan, is circling in the dim sodium light, obeying the slightly clumsy remote-control commands of its operator. Scott cannot stop grinning, and he looks even younger than he is. The Spitfire dips its wings and banks sharply. Its engine drones.
Maybe it's the Cajun's natural curiousity, maybe it's that this is only on the way home from somewhere else, maybe it's the sound of the engine. Whatever it is, Remy has been attracted to the rooftop of a building next to the vacant lot, bright eyes fastened on the Spitfire. That's really cool. Gambit doesn't take long to identify the operator of the plane, either, and he grins silently to himself before leaning out over the edge of the building to figure out the quickest way down.
The little aircraft angles up towards Remy's rooftop; Scott spots the Cajun's eyes before anything else, and he dares to take one hand off the controls long enough to wave. The Spitfire circles Remy at a good distance, then veers off. "Hi," Scott calls, eyes on the plane again.
"Hey!" Remy calls, before he finds a drainage pipe that's been bolted to the building securely enough to support his weight. With a flash of a grin that's all but invisible in the bad light, the Cajun clambers over the edge and skids down it as if anyone in the world can do just what he did. "You build dat y'self?"
"Yeah, but it was a kit - thing, you know." Scott glances at Remy again and chuckles, truly amused. "Showing off. Uh - you like it?" He brings the plane down in a slow spiral.
Gambit makes a dismissive noise out of the corner of his mouth, as if to say that he doesn't completely write off kits. "Mais oui. Remote controlled anyt'in's cool as far as I'm concerned, but flyin' makes it cooler." Once he's on the ground, Remy pauses to push his hair out of his eyes, watching as the little model circles.
"This is a Spitfire. You've probably seen em in movies." Scott's speech is faster than usual, and without a hint of a stammer. "They were one of the first aircraft with retractable undercarriage the military used. There used to be accidents all the time with pilots forgetting to drop the wheels, until they got used to em. You like planes?"
"I like dem okay," Remy conceeds, watching the little plane go. "Don't know much 'bout dem, really, but I like dem okay. Even flown a couple." Sort of. He didn't crash the second one, so that counts, doesn't it?
"Really?" Scott flicks Remy a glance, invisibly; he angles the plane down and brings it to a juddering halt on the uneven surface. "You've flown planes? My father was in the air force."
Remy's expression is, briefly, very wry. "Vraiment, I've flown a couple. First one, I was still a boy an' it didn' go over so well. But back home," That would be on the other side of the portal, by the way the Cajun says it, "We had a Blackbird f'our own personal use. Ev'ry one of us was s'posed to know at least a l'il bit of how t'fly it, alt'ough honestly I lost more dan I kept concernin' how to get de t'ing goin' an' keepin' it goin'. An' den dere was de incident out on de airfield wit' de F-16." Crouching, Gambit leans to get a better look at the model without actually touching it. "Its wheels pull up, too?"
"No, it ain't that great." Scott watches Remy closely, as if he suspects the Cajun might make off with a propeller. "You all learned how to fly a plane? God. I have money, I - looked into it, but my eyes." They won't license him. "You're lucky."
"It was in case somet'in' happened to our usual pilots. We didn' want to get stuck in places if we didn' have to. I ain't sho' I can recall flyin' de Blackbird in anyt'in' but trainin' exercises, an' only den wit' Slim breat'in' down my neck." Much the same way this Scott is staring at him, worried he's going to take parts off the the plane. Remy never reaches for it, however, just looks from a closer angle. "Bet you coul' find somebody who'd teach you wit'out de official liscenin', if you tried."
"That's... that's the other one of me." Scott has heard that nickname all over the place. He doesn't like it, but he's just about prepared to put up with it. "Maybe. I don't know. Not like most people have goddamn planes - airfields sitting around to mess around on."
Remy's eyes flicker up to Scott, and he nods briefly. "Blackbird was his baby. Hardly even let de rest of us *on* it, much less fly." If he can gloss over the rest of the subject, however, he will, if only because he knows it makes Scott uneasy. "Once you know how to fly, gettin' de plane might not be as hard as you t'ink." The Cajun says, straightening. "'Dough I suppose maitenance woul' end up bein' a bitch."
"I don't - I don't need a plane to *keep*, but I mean getting on a plane to learn - to learn how." Scott is becoming uncertain again. He rubs a hand through his hair. "You can't just steal a plane like you steal a car. Traffic control notice."
"Sho' you can," Remy grins brightly, his head tilting back a little so that can consider Scott with that cheeky, devil-may-care grin of his. "Done it."
"Bullshit," Scott says, breaking into a grin of his own. "How the fuck did you get away with that, huh?" He's not sure he believes it, not really.
Remy gestures with one hand towards the airfield on the edge of town. "Partly, I'm jus' dat damn good. Partly, 'dough, I got a friend dat can teleport. Puff of smoke, puff of stink, an' he goes from here t'here," Now the Cajun indicates two points far from each other. "Faster den you can blink. Took one of de Falcons on de Reserve base out for a spin, but t'be honest I wasn't sho' how we'd get out if he hadn't been him. Gimmie enough time t'plan, 'dough, an' I could prob'ly pull it off."
"I'm there. If you can work out a way to pull that off, I'm there." Scott doesn't like risk. But for the chance to fly a plane, he'd do it. "It doesn't - it doesn't really solve the - I mean you can't pull it off twice a week for however long, I need *lessons*. And I can't get em." He shrugs and looks at the Spitfire. "How's your dog?"
"Barrin' bein' able to pull dat off, I migh' be able to shake some trees an' see if I can't find somebody who don't care 'bout dis bus'ness." Remy gestures vaguely across his own eyes before half-shrugging the entire affair off. "Jolie? She's doin' good. Gettin' big. Prob'ly gonna eat me outta house an' home b'fore too long."
"That's what they do." Yuck. Scott gets up and crosses to the plane; he picks it up and turns it over to examine the undercarriage. "Talked to Warren again. He mean to be that patronizing or does it just happen?"
Here, Remy laughs, lightly. "I t'ink it's jus' in his DNA, hien? I ain't sho' he means to be like dat, but all de Warrens I ever known are just.. dat way. Warren--least any from a world anyt'in' like mine--was one of de firs' five people on dat team I keep talkin' 'bout, an' he seems to t'ink dat gives him special rights or somet'in'." He's really the only one; Gambit never issues with the rest of the 'O5' and superiority complexes. Sure, one was a supergenius, another really was his boss, and a third kept reincarnating at atrocious power levels--but they mostly treated him like a peer. Mostly.
"He tried to tell me about how dangerous the streets were." Scott can't help grinning at that, though there's not much humour there. "Anybody else I know would try to find out about a guy before giving him advice. I don't hate him, but - he says he ain't safe, that he loses control, he might threaten me again. And then he acts like I've hurt his feelings when I tell him that ain't acceptable to me. Risk assessment, y'know?"
"Bien sur. T'ink mebbe he's havin' problems keepin' his worlds straight. Far as I know, Warren an' Scott were pretty tigh'. Now he's got you, an' he can't decide whet'er to be buddy buddy wit' you or big brot'er. On top of dat, he's got dat crazy blue skin shit goin' on. To be honest, I'm jus' gonna try an' keep clear of him much as I can." Remy shrugs a little, before scrounging for a pack of cigarettes. They're offered open-end first towards Scott. "Ain't gonna ruin de circuits in your plane, are dey?"
"Don't see how." Scott accepts a cigarette, and holds it in his mouth briefly while he digs his lighter out of his pocket. "Thanks. Yeah, I figure I'll avoid him. He doesn't seem to understand that I am not that same guy. You understand. Why can't he?"
Remy shrugs a little, slipping a cigarette out of the pack for himself and dropping it back into his pocket. Whether he uses his lighter or his finger, it isn't clear, but the thing is lit almost the instant it hits his mouth. "I don' know. Some people jus' don't move on well. I t'ink mebbe he went from bein' a kid to bein' an X-Man an' he can't parse t'ings changin'. Me, I done a lot of driftin'. T'ings come an' go, an' I jus' sorta roll wit' dem when dey do." A motion of one hand indicates something bobbing on a current.
"Sometimes you gotta, I guess." Scott smokes in thoughtful silence for a few seconds, looking at the underside of the Spitfire. "I can't be that guy for him. I don't even want to be. He'll have to figure that out."
"Oui, dat he will. An' b'sides, you don' wanna be dat guy anyway. He had more problems wit' smilin' dan you do." Remy grins, cheekily, through the cloud of exhaled smoke. Teasing.
Scott glances at Remy, quite obviously checking whether he's really being insulted. He smiles briefly. "Fuck off. Asshole. I'm gonna get inside before it snows."
Again, Remy laughs, saluting Scott with the two fingers he uses to hold his cigarette. "Aye, mon capitaine. An' dat sounds like a good idea. If I rummage anyt'in' up wit' planes, I let you know."
Finis!
Chinatown -- Beacon Harbor
It's starting to look like snow this evening, and that could be a problem. There's a vacant lot at the north end of Chinatown, not far from where the road sweeps up towards Tidal Lane. Scott is sitting on a pile of rubble, his attention directed skyward. A model Spitfire plane, perhaps three feet in wingspan, is circling in the dim sodium light, obeying the slightly clumsy remote-control commands of its operator. Scott cannot stop grinning, and he looks even younger than he is. The Spitfire dips its wings and banks sharply. Its engine drones.
Maybe it's the Cajun's natural curiousity, maybe it's that this is only on the way home from somewhere else, maybe it's the sound of the engine. Whatever it is, Remy has been attracted to the rooftop of a building next to the vacant lot, bright eyes fastened on the Spitfire. That's really cool. Gambit doesn't take long to identify the operator of the plane, either, and he grins silently to himself before leaning out over the edge of the building to figure out the quickest way down.
The little aircraft angles up towards Remy's rooftop; Scott spots the Cajun's eyes before anything else, and he dares to take one hand off the controls long enough to wave. The Spitfire circles Remy at a good distance, then veers off. "Hi," Scott calls, eyes on the plane again.
"Hey!" Remy calls, before he finds a drainage pipe that's been bolted to the building securely enough to support his weight. With a flash of a grin that's all but invisible in the bad light, the Cajun clambers over the edge and skids down it as if anyone in the world can do just what he did. "You build dat y'self?"
"Yeah, but it was a kit - thing, you know." Scott glances at Remy again and chuckles, truly amused. "Showing off. Uh - you like it?" He brings the plane down in a slow spiral.
Gambit makes a dismissive noise out of the corner of his mouth, as if to say that he doesn't completely write off kits. "Mais oui. Remote controlled anyt'in's cool as far as I'm concerned, but flyin' makes it cooler." Once he's on the ground, Remy pauses to push his hair out of his eyes, watching as the little model circles.
"This is a Spitfire. You've probably seen em in movies." Scott's speech is faster than usual, and without a hint of a stammer. "They were one of the first aircraft with retractable undercarriage the military used. There used to be accidents all the time with pilots forgetting to drop the wheels, until they got used to em. You like planes?"
"I like dem okay," Remy conceeds, watching the little plane go. "Don't know much 'bout dem, really, but I like dem okay. Even flown a couple." Sort of. He didn't crash the second one, so that counts, doesn't it?
"Really?" Scott flicks Remy a glance, invisibly; he angles the plane down and brings it to a juddering halt on the uneven surface. "You've flown planes? My father was in the air force."
Remy's expression is, briefly, very wry. "Vraiment, I've flown a couple. First one, I was still a boy an' it didn' go over so well. But back home," That would be on the other side of the portal, by the way the Cajun says it, "We had a Blackbird f'our own personal use. Ev'ry one of us was s'posed to know at least a l'il bit of how t'fly it, alt'ough honestly I lost more dan I kept concernin' how to get de t'ing goin' an' keepin' it goin'. An' den dere was de incident out on de airfield wit' de F-16." Crouching, Gambit leans to get a better look at the model without actually touching it. "Its wheels pull up, too?"
"No, it ain't that great." Scott watches Remy closely, as if he suspects the Cajun might make off with a propeller. "You all learned how to fly a plane? God. I have money, I - looked into it, but my eyes." They won't license him. "You're lucky."
"It was in case somet'in' happened to our usual pilots. We didn' want to get stuck in places if we didn' have to. I ain't sho' I can recall flyin' de Blackbird in anyt'in' but trainin' exercises, an' only den wit' Slim breat'in' down my neck." Much the same way this Scott is staring at him, worried he's going to take parts off the the plane. Remy never reaches for it, however, just looks from a closer angle. "Bet you coul' find somebody who'd teach you wit'out de official liscenin', if you tried."
"That's... that's the other one of me." Scott has heard that nickname all over the place. He doesn't like it, but he's just about prepared to put up with it. "Maybe. I don't know. Not like most people have goddamn planes - airfields sitting around to mess around on."
Remy's eyes flicker up to Scott, and he nods briefly. "Blackbird was his baby. Hardly even let de rest of us *on* it, much less fly." If he can gloss over the rest of the subject, however, he will, if only because he knows it makes Scott uneasy. "Once you know how to fly, gettin' de plane might not be as hard as you t'ink." The Cajun says, straightening. "'Dough I suppose maitenance woul' end up bein' a bitch."
"I don't - I don't need a plane to *keep*, but I mean getting on a plane to learn - to learn how." Scott is becoming uncertain again. He rubs a hand through his hair. "You can't just steal a plane like you steal a car. Traffic control notice."
"Sho' you can," Remy grins brightly, his head tilting back a little so that can consider Scott with that cheeky, devil-may-care grin of his. "Done it."
"Bullshit," Scott says, breaking into a grin of his own. "How the fuck did you get away with that, huh?" He's not sure he believes it, not really.
Remy gestures with one hand towards the airfield on the edge of town. "Partly, I'm jus' dat damn good. Partly, 'dough, I got a friend dat can teleport. Puff of smoke, puff of stink, an' he goes from here t'here," Now the Cajun indicates two points far from each other. "Faster den you can blink. Took one of de Falcons on de Reserve base out for a spin, but t'be honest I wasn't sho' how we'd get out if he hadn't been him. Gimmie enough time t'plan, 'dough, an' I could prob'ly pull it off."
"I'm there. If you can work out a way to pull that off, I'm there." Scott doesn't like risk. But for the chance to fly a plane, he'd do it. "It doesn't - it doesn't really solve the - I mean you can't pull it off twice a week for however long, I need *lessons*. And I can't get em." He shrugs and looks at the Spitfire. "How's your dog?"
"Barrin' bein' able to pull dat off, I migh' be able to shake some trees an' see if I can't find somebody who don't care 'bout dis bus'ness." Remy gestures vaguely across his own eyes before half-shrugging the entire affair off. "Jolie? She's doin' good. Gettin' big. Prob'ly gonna eat me outta house an' home b'fore too long."
"That's what they do." Yuck. Scott gets up and crosses to the plane; he picks it up and turns it over to examine the undercarriage. "Talked to Warren again. He mean to be that patronizing or does it just happen?"
Here, Remy laughs, lightly. "I t'ink it's jus' in his DNA, hien? I ain't sho' he means to be like dat, but all de Warrens I ever known are just.. dat way. Warren--least any from a world anyt'in' like mine--was one of de firs' five people on dat team I keep talkin' 'bout, an' he seems to t'ink dat gives him special rights or somet'in'." He's really the only one; Gambit never issues with the rest of the 'O5' and superiority complexes. Sure, one was a supergenius, another really was his boss, and a third kept reincarnating at atrocious power levels--but they mostly treated him like a peer. Mostly.
"He tried to tell me about how dangerous the streets were." Scott can't help grinning at that, though there's not much humour there. "Anybody else I know would try to find out about a guy before giving him advice. I don't hate him, but - he says he ain't safe, that he loses control, he might threaten me again. And then he acts like I've hurt his feelings when I tell him that ain't acceptable to me. Risk assessment, y'know?"
"Bien sur. T'ink mebbe he's havin' problems keepin' his worlds straight. Far as I know, Warren an' Scott were pretty tigh'. Now he's got you, an' he can't decide whet'er to be buddy buddy wit' you or big brot'er. On top of dat, he's got dat crazy blue skin shit goin' on. To be honest, I'm jus' gonna try an' keep clear of him much as I can." Remy shrugs a little, before scrounging for a pack of cigarettes. They're offered open-end first towards Scott. "Ain't gonna ruin de circuits in your plane, are dey?"
"Don't see how." Scott accepts a cigarette, and holds it in his mouth briefly while he digs his lighter out of his pocket. "Thanks. Yeah, I figure I'll avoid him. He doesn't seem to understand that I am not that same guy. You understand. Why can't he?"
Remy shrugs a little, slipping a cigarette out of the pack for himself and dropping it back into his pocket. Whether he uses his lighter or his finger, it isn't clear, but the thing is lit almost the instant it hits his mouth. "I don' know. Some people jus' don't move on well. I t'ink mebbe he went from bein' a kid to bein' an X-Man an' he can't parse t'ings changin'. Me, I done a lot of driftin'. T'ings come an' go, an' I jus' sorta roll wit' dem when dey do." A motion of one hand indicates something bobbing on a current.
"Sometimes you gotta, I guess." Scott smokes in thoughtful silence for a few seconds, looking at the underside of the Spitfire. "I can't be that guy for him. I don't even want to be. He'll have to figure that out."
"Oui, dat he will. An' b'sides, you don' wanna be dat guy anyway. He had more problems wit' smilin' dan you do." Remy grins, cheekily, through the cloud of exhaled smoke. Teasing.
Scott glances at Remy, quite obviously checking whether he's really being insulted. He smiles briefly. "Fuck off. Asshole. I'm gonna get inside before it snows."
Again, Remy laughs, saluting Scott with the two fingers he uses to hold his cigarette. "Aye, mon capitaine. An' dat sounds like a good idea. If I rummage anyt'in' up wit' planes, I let you know."
Finis!