Difference between revisions of "4489/The Airfield"

Latest revision as of 19:09, 2 September 2016

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  Welcome to the Sochen Airfield. It's a moderately-sized encampment a number of miles away from Yakutsk, Russia. Given the subarctic tundra and the average annual temperature, it's a one degree Farenheit. Yep, it's a record-breaking September, with cold temperatures everywhere.

  Isa Reichert would rather be burning her vacation time and waking up on a tropical island right now. Instead, she's in one of the coldest places in the world. At least there's company coming by -- Crush had been given coordinates leading directly to the airfield and a pre-emptive apology for the freakishly cold weather for the time of year.

  At least the inside of the hangar isn't uncomfortably cold. There are big portable heater units everywhere, and wires running all over the hangar to power them. It sports the standard harsh, industrial lighting; and there are crew members in black coveralls all over the place. The ostensible hub of their activity is the giant aircraft in the middle of the hangar, hooked up with a staggering array of wires, cables, and other interfaces.

  It's no jet like any other.

  Instead of the slash of hard-angled lines, this aircraft's profile is a series of sinuous, organic lines. Yet it still has something of the character of a fighter jet, predatory profile just waiting for a target. Yet its engines are dark, its running and cockpit lights on and flashing every so often.

  All this seems to be here for that one jet.

  In the midst of all this activity is the eye of the hurricane. Leaning against a heavy tool chest is Isa Reichert herself, absently balancing a big, boxy laptop and prodding at it every so often with her free hand. Her single eye is lowered, half-closed as she flicks boredly through the displays and readouts.

  She's obviously important, though. The mechanics bow and scrape to her, practically, and they're noticeably careful not to disturb her.

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    Cold? Bah! Crush hails from Siberia himself. Cold is something he could handle even before his selection for supersoldier augmentation. Now? He can pretty much go walking shirtless in it.

    Or nearly so, at any rate. He's wearing his Hammer-and-Sickle armor, at least. But that's more a matter of 'it's his standard duty uniform, more or less'. It also makes him easy to see as the hovership swings in, dropping just low enough for the crimson-clad commie to hop off the vehicle (and land with a THUD and a plume of snow) before disappearing. His approach to the hangar is a brisk, vigorous walk punctuated by numerous plumes of vapor as his impressive lungs work. It only stops when he reaches the hangar, whereupon he stops to give the jet a long, appreciative stare.

    Then he steps on in, spotting Isa and making a beeline. "Comrade!" he calls out, speaking in his native Russian. "It's wonderful to see you, absolutely splendid. This cold, though..." A chuckle, as the big guy walks up. "It's out of season, but it reminds me so much of home! I haven't been back in far too long."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  The cold doesn't bother any of the people in the hangar, possibly because they have an absurd number of heaters running along its edges. Isa looks up from her facts and figures as the door bangs open and then closed again.

  She stares at Comrade Crush for about three seconds before slapping the laptop shut and setting it aside and pushing off from the tool chest. "Comrade!" She answers his call, slipping right into Russian. She's considerably more fluent in it than English, and less curt. "Splendid, splendid! I see you were able to dig your way into the hangar. We will be shovelling snow when it stops snowing."

  Probably.

  Maybe.

  "Record-setting winters, or so the crews tell me. Come, come, have a seat." She waves Crush over to card table and chairs, next to a portable refridgerator. She plunks herself down in one, leaning back and stretching. "Something I can get you? Tea? Coffee? I have water and vodka, too. I'd offer you a cigarette, but not in the hangar." Things tend to explode that way. "So. What do you think of her?" Isa flicks her hand toward the jet. "My Skytalon?"

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    The chair indicated receives a somewhat dubious look from Crush, before he decides it passes muster and sits down.

    It creaks ominously. But holds.

    "I am not a smoking man anyway. I probably could, given my body, but..." A shrug. "However, I would love some vodka." He crosses a leg and leans back a little bit, settling his hands loosely on either thigh. "She's gorgeous. I have seldom seen such a fine aircraft. There's nothing like her in the skies back home." The big guy gives a faint nod in the machine's direction, indicating it. "I'm given to understand it's more than just a common machine!"

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  Isa's single eye flits to the chair, somewhat uneasy as the chair creaks as though it were going to give way. It doesn't, though, saving her an embarrassing situation.

  She leans over to root around in the fridge, which seems to be filled with all sorts of beer, vodka, and other alcohol; shoved in between bottles in there is the occasional squashed sandwich. She selects a bottle of vodka, balancing that with two shotglasses and setting all three down in the middle of the card table.

  Pouring both shotglasses, she takes her own and raises it in mock toast. "To health."

  "Much more special than a common machine," Isa replies, with a grin. She was stunning, once upon a time, but the burn scarring ravagaes the entire right side of her face, and a patch covers that eye. Grinning ends up coming across a little unsettlingly. "Vertical takeoff and landing, extended fuel capacity, variable hardpoints, and a fully capable AI.

  Isa waves a hand dismissively. "Communications gear is shit, but I suppose something had to be traded away for performance."

  "So!" She bangs her shotglass down, pouring herself another and grinning that feral grin. Her eye, the single one left, is all wrong for a human's. The iris, pupil, and lens are all that of a bird of prey. They look blatantly wrong, and yet right, somehow. "What brings you to my humble home out here in the snowfields?"

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "To health," Crush echoes. The act of picking up the shot glass for him is... a bit tricky, given how big his hands are compared to a normal person's. But he manages it, and downs his shot quickly and smoothly.

    In the meantime, he listens to Isa's explanations with interest. While he might not be a gearhead, he /is/ effectively the most special of forces. So knowing what a machine can do is something the big guy is always interested in! "An AI... that is fascinating. More than just a simple control system. It's like having a partner." He's very careful about taking another shot of vodka, but he seems to have sorted out the best way to hold the glass by now. "And communications issues can always be sorted one way or another."

    Then he is asked, and he answers, unperturbed by the animal features of his companion. They suit a grizzled hawk well. "Curiosity! I have gone far too long without paying a visit here, I think. And I had this evening off, nothing to see to at the base and no major projects to help with around the motherland. So I thought I'd come pay a visit to a comrade at last. You've got a very pleasant base here! I've been to a few in my time that weren't much more than a tent and an open field."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "Maybe a little, but it's not that kind of AI. It's more designed to run the onboard systems themselves, but it doesn't think or speak for itself. It learns, but only in regards to combat manoeuvres." She waves her shotglass, shrugging. "Recording data, and transmitting back to my superiors."

  Pouring another shot for herself, she drains it. Her alcohol tolerance must be superhuman. Actually, it probably is.

  "Oho? I'm flattered. This isn't my base, though." She somehow managed to produce an unlit cigarette, waving it as she talks. Not dumb enough to light it, but she likes having them around. "Sochen is used for several different task forces that I have most of the clearance to talk about. Including mine, Soyuz Squadron. Not related to the space programme," she adds, dismissively. "On paper, we don't exist."

  "Not much to see out here, though. My jet is the most advanced, but there are a few other prototypes. The other hangars you saw on the way in," she adds, pointing northward. "But none of them are as well-funded or well-equipped as my Skytalon. Of course, I do other things than fly." Isa shows her teeth. It's suppose to be a grin but it just looks sort of predatory. "Hunting, and stalking enemies of the state. Among other things deemed enemies foreign or domestic."

  She leans back in her chair, craning her neck, because that's the only way she can look up at him properly. "What about you? I realise I don't know much about you, Comrade."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "Ah, I see. Pity, that. It's always good to have someone you can rely on in a fight." Alas, no sentient jet.

    Back to more intriguing topics, however. Like Soyuz Squadron. "Black ops. Not too different from the project that produced me." He takes another shot, then listens, until asked about his own side of things. "Me? Heheh. I have a reply to that I give to most people, but I will spare you the theatrics. This time." The smirk on his face is more than a little playful. "I'm the star operative of the Secret Soviet Military, and the only successful product of their supersoldier serum program. I am something of a troubleshooter. Or, well, trouble-puncher, I suppose?" He chuckles at his own joke, before continuing.

    "I go where they need the heaviest of firepower, punch what needs to die most. I lead the charge into battle, inspire the troops. And of course, I am at my discretion to develop new tactics, to go out on missions that serve Confederate interests, and to call on Soviet resources where needed." That beefy leg uncrosses. "They give me a wide lattitude to act how I see fit. I try to be worthy of this trust."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "What? I still rely on it." Isa manages a crooked smile, one side of her face creasing under the sharp line of her cheekbone. Her features are a little strange; those high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes suggest some kind of Asian blood, and yet her hair is rich auburn red, her eyes the colour of summer wheat. "It just doesn't talk to me, and I like things that way." It would probably complain about how hard she is on the machinery.

  "Black ops," she confirms, folding her arms over her chest and getting as comfortable as she can get in a folding metal chair. It's a little nicer than most folding chairs, but it's still basically a folding chair. "We're here to take care of criminals, deserters, traitors, and the odd Exalt."

  She's also an Exalt, but she doesn't comment on that. At least not yet.

  Instead, she leans back in her chair, toying with the ends of that red, red hair; her single eye is hooded as she studies the giant literal trouble puncher. "'This time?' Is that a promise, Comrade?" There's amusement in her own golden eye.

  He's probably hilarious when he's indulging in theatrics. It's hard for a guy that big not to come across melodramatic if he really wants to. Great sweeping gestures, fog horn of a voice when he wants to project.

  "So. They give you a long leash, and they tell you where to go. How inspiring. Morale to the troops; the courageous officer leading the charge. I almost envy you, Comrade."

  There's amusement in her tone, and also some kind of deep-seated bitterness. She smiles sourly. "My Dragon-Blooded superiors couldn't give a rat's ass about Soyuz. They want to make sure I go where they tell me to go, and they keep me quiet. I know they watch me. All the time." She smiles, but it's unconcerned, apparently unsurprised by the fact that her own superiors are spying on her. "They'll watch me, and they'll kill me the second they're threatened by me."

  She thumbs back toward the other hangars. "Those rejects will kill me if they have half a chance, too, but then again, that's why they were given to me. Because they're also afraid of me." Well, she doesn't look too intimidating, scars aside. "Because I'm the only one who can keep them in line."

  "I make my own luck. My work for the Confederacy is too valuable for them to discount, so I can do what I want as long as I bend to their authority. They thought they could cow me into experimentation, for the state, you understand, but I made it clear I would not be their science project." Isa stubs the unlit end of her cigarette against the table, eyeing it balefully. "You know, before I Exalted, before I became the captain of this squadron, I had a good life."

  "All up in smoke," she says, with a shrug and a blade-edged smile. "Nothing left now but to fly and stalk. I could have done worse. Most of the time, my marks are easy. They're new to Exaltation. They don't know how to use their abilities, their instincts."

  "But I do."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    Crush inclines his head a little. "I admit, I was indended as much as a symbol as I was a soldier. It's a lot of extra pressure at times. But I'm glad to bear it. It means the troops have something to rally around, it means the movers and shakers behind the scenes - like you, in fact - can do their jobs well while everyone else is looking at me." Another quick shot of vodka, before he continues. "We all serve in the way we're best able. And I'm best able to punch things, and be very loud and distracting. And, of course, work a bit of magic."

    He sets the shot glass down, listening to what Isa has to say on the topic of her superiors, and the other men; the superiors, at least, put a little scowl on his face. He understands why they'd be suspicious of her, of course. Exalts tend to earn that. But that doesn't mean he has to like them distrusting her so deeply. Her men, on the other hand... well, that's just par for the course, isn't it? Jockeying for position among the wolf pack, so to speak.

    And at the end of it all, Crush settles back in his chair, drawing another ominous creak out of it. "Hmh. I admit, I tend to prefer my fights with a little challenge. Facing off againt someone who's much weaker or less skilled than I am... it leaves a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. I love a good fight. Being out in the thick of it, swinging my fists, laughing at my enemy's blows! Maybe I'm just a brawler at heart."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "I was part of the rank and file, once. We made a pretty good squadron. Just another Chernobyl task force, scrambled to keep the Shadowlands from spilling their putrid guts all over our land." Isa heaves her boots off the table, straightening to pour herself another shot. It's very good vodka, some of the finest money can buy, and this is the kind of thing that she spends her blood money on. At least she goes for the good stuff.

  The pilot gestures to the right side of her face, where the scarring ravages from her hairline down past her jaw, and down beneath her collar. It probably goes further, going by the degree of damage to her face. "My records were sealed after the accident. I'm a dead woman as far as anyone else knows. Another brave soldier, sacrificed for the greater good to the meat grinder of Chernobyl." She makes a bitter sound in the back of her throat.

  "My aircraft was damaged, though I never saw by what. My ejection seat failed. I was able to make an emergency landing, but the cockpit... this was before the Skytalon. Pure mechanical failure. I couldn't pop the canopy, and the damage caused an electrical fire."

  Isa really does not like fire. At all.

  Shrugging, she sets aside her empty shotglass. "I wouldn't have minded so much, but I'd planned on transferring to a less dangerous department not long after the accident. I would have retired. Gone back to a city near my parents. They're dead now. I would've married my fiancée. He's dead, now, too. I'm not unconvinced my superiors haven't got something to do with that. It'd be nice to live in a world where I could believe in them as whole-heartedly as you do, Comrade, but that's just not my luck, or the world I was born into."

  "Heh. Heheh. I like a good fight, too. Maybe that's why they gave me Soyuz Squadron. There's no leading these men unless you put the fear of God in them, you know. They think they own the world. Think they own me, just because I'm a woman." She chuckles, as though genuinely amused. "I'll out-fight their asses any day of the week. And I do."

  "I like a good challenge, too. But I like to save something of myself." She thumbs in the direction of the other hangars. "I have too many battles on too many fronts to fight to spend all of myself in any one place."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "Hmh." It's a contemplative rumble from Crush. There's not much he can say. It's a bitter story, a crying shame any way you look at it. He's slow and steady about his vodka drinking, but not due to any concerns about drunkenness; he simply wants to savor it. "...Chernobyl... pah. In any world, it seems like it's always the same. A place of death and sickness, the greatest shame of the Soviet Union." He shakes his head. It's one of the saddest moments of his homeland's history, in any world, and he himself was just a kid when it happened. If he'd been there when it happened as he is now... no, it's not worth pursuing that line of thought. What's done is done.

    "I can't fault you that, at least. There's always too much that needs doing, and I know I have it easy compared to others out there. Others like you. I'm no stranger to subordinates who need... 'convincing' of my fitness to lead, though, I can say that much." He sets his shot glass down again and looks back out at the Skytalon again, contemplative. "I tell you what, though. If there's ever a job you and Soyuz need help on, don't be afraid to send a call my way. I can always slot in time to lend a fist to a comrade. If my strength or my magic can ease things on a given mission, you've got both."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "Chernobyl's the site of a Shadowland, here. Miles upon miles of blackened earth, and the unliving pouring out to devour you like a choice cut of steak." Isa flicks a hand in lazy gesture, resting her hand over her stomach again, draped carelessly over her chair. "Disgusting. I had been there many times, with my Chernobyl squadron. I knew how to fight them, and I knew how to keep my equipment safe as I did."

  She pulls a face. "One of the little bastards managed to get sucked into my jet's air intake. It wasn't the Skytalon; this was years before the Skytalon was even prototyped. That's what caused the crash, though, and then that son-of-a-bitch cockpit canopy refused to blow. I was able to pull it into an emergency landing, but the fire still... well." She gestures towards her face. "You can imagine how the rest went."

  "It's a simple arrangement. I kick their asses until they listen to me, and my superiors look the other way about whatever sends them snivelling into the medical wards. Then, when they start thinking about dangerous things like rebellion and mutiny, I kick their asses some more until they stop thinking about dangerous things." She stands, stretching, twisting from one side to the other and eyeing Crush as she does. "Don't mind me. I was flying all morning and afternoon. It may be a top of the line prototype, but the seats are hell on the upper and lower back, you know. Besides, I don't like sitting still for too long."

  She stops her stretching and sighs, almost wistfully. "I wouldn't mind having backup I can trust again. Wouldn't that be nice? I don't trust them, you know; those Soyuz curs. They think it's prestigious, to be in command of this squadron." Isa barks a laugh. "What do they know? I still have to deal with them being ambitious and stupid, and every once in a while, I send one of them to medical."

  "But I never trust them. I never rely on them. And I never, ever depend them." Isa drops her arms, stalking back to the table and pouring herself another shot as she lets herself plunk back down into the chair. Eyeing him speculatively, she frowns, rubbing at her jaw thoughtfully. "Maybe there are a few jobs I could use you for. You say your specialty is physical strength?"

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "If anyone knows the pain of poor seat design, comrade, it's me," Crush replies with a quiet, knowing chuckle. "I've found that a surprising number of chairs are not designed for a man two and a half meters tall and not much less broad. And doorways. And vehicles. And beds. I have to do a lot of special ordering to get things in my size, I find. And I'm a fairly active man myself," he agrees.

    Being part of a wolf pack like this, though... Just the way Isa describes it sounds like a constant grind. "Hnh. You'd think they'd learn after the first ten times or so. But that's why you're in charge and they're not, I suppose. Not just stronger, but smarter." But the topic comes around to his own capabilities, and THAT puts a broad grin on his face. "It's one of two, yes. My skin is sturdy enough to bounce low-caliber bullets off of, and I can lift twenty tons over my head without any kind of augmentation. But more than that, I have my Muscle Wizardry. Through the mystical might of muscles, I can manipulate the ether, shape mana into spells just as easily as some bearded old man with a staff and a robe. My firepower puts me on par with a mid-size military force easily. I'm not much for subtlety, but if you need something destroyed, a combat force held off, or a very, very loud distraction, you'll find no one better-suited."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "They don't learn after the first ten times or so, because all seven of them at a time are killed one by one, then the new group rises up to rebel--" She gestures here with one hand rising up a bit, "--and then I have to go kick their asses. Again. They don't listen because they're all the same. They're self-entitled little shits who think just because they screwed up and got assigned to Soyuz, they can get back out again if they get promoted."

  "Actually, it's more I'm willing to put a bullet in their asses and file it as insubordination when they get transferred to one of Chernobyl's suicide squadrons." Yup, those exist, and they're terrible. Hers was one of the better ones, before her crash; one of the few frontline divisions that had an actual budget and decent equipment. "But I guess I don't care enough to pick bones."

  Isa studies the end of her unlit cigarette, the burn-scarred fingers Apparently that scarring /does/ go all the way down; she must have held her arm in front of the fire to protect herself. Flexing her hand, she tucks the cigarette behind her ear (also scarred) and folds her hands on the table, cocking her single eye toward Crush.

  "Hnnn. Smarter too? If I didn't know any better, comrade, I'd say you were paying me a compliment. Why, thank you." Leaning against the table, the redhead drops her chin into a cupped hand, posture a far cry from military-straight. In fact, she seems almost catlike in her laziness. When he goes on to tell her what his specialty is, she blinks, then squints through that single eye. "What."

  But she seems to decide it's probably better not to think about it too hard. Maybe it's something better explained in action.

  "Uh. Right. I'll keep that in mind. You ever need any air support, Soyuz will help you. You ever need someone on the ground with you, for brute force, or good old-fashioned skulduggery, call me up. My squadron can manage the proverbial front while I'm off elsewhere. They're designed to be able to act autonomously, and my current second is old enough to know better when it comes to the usual stupid mistakes." In other words, he has a slightly longer life expectancy than the other six! Probably. Maybe. "Besides, it would be fun to help a comrade out."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "Hrrm... perhaps a small demonstration. I don't want to purge my armor entirely, but..." The chair creaks one last time as Crush moves to stand, this time in something like relief. He reaches up with his left hand to carefully work his right free of the gauntlet that covers it, and sets it on the table. "The armor interferes, you see. It's a complicated reason that boils down to 'not restraining my muscles', in concept."

    With the gauntlet on the table, the big guy brings his right hand up, and clenches it into a tight fist. His entire forearm flexes - every muscle becomes as rigid as steel, standing out almost to the point of bulging. And around his fist, a faint mist appears, the temperature in a small sphere around it dropping. So much so that a thin layer of frost envelops his fist, then extends down his forearm about halfway. "It's much more... spectacular, when I can cast aside the armor."

    Then he shakes his hand out, dismissing the spell of cold and casting off flecks of frost onto the ground. "I'd be obliged for both those, comrade. Particularly the air support, though. I can't count the times I've wished I had a unit in the sky to provide cover or precision strikes. And the same goes for you - don't hesitate to call if you've got an incursion from the shadowland or an Exalt that needs a bit of extra beating to take down safely."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  That single golden eye follows Crush as he stands up, the avian lens focusing and refocusing as he gets further away. Her single brow quirks as he explains that the armour gets in the way, eye hooding in a somewhat skeptical expression. Yeah, with a name like 'muscle wizardry,' this is probably going to be a little weird even by the standards of a jaded Celestial Exalt.

  Yep. It's weird.

  It's also kind of impressive in a bizarre sort of way. The pilot is clapping politely by the time Crush shakes his hand and snuffs out the magic. Weird, yes, but incredibly useful and probably formidable, with a man as big as Comrade Crush.

  "Hmmm... tempting," Isa affords, kicking her boots back up onto the corner of the table. "Except if I hauled you into Chernobyl, my superiors would probably try to figure out a way to draft you on a more permanent basis, comrade." She flashes a grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "We need all the help we can get when it comes to the filthy unliving."

  Leaning back, she eyes him speculatively through her single eye, one hand reaching up to adjust the lay of the eyepatch. That eye is curiously intense; one can almost feel the weight of that focus. "It's strange, comrade. Just... talkign to people."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    As Crush sits back down (and oh, how that poor chair protests), he slides the gauntlet back on, his grin wide. "Well, I might not sign on permanently, but I wouldn't be opposed to lending a hand on occasion as flare-ups get particularly bad. If that's something that happens, at least." It's time for another shot of that wonderful vodka, though, and Crush isn't afraid to pour it and take it. "That's another sentiment I know all too well. Military life can pry you away from that. Especially if you're part of some sort of black project. And with them keeping you cooped up here?" Snort. "I'd imagine the only people around to talk to are the maintenance crews and your own men, and neither seems like they'd mix well with you." He folds those arms over his massive chest, and looks out at the rest of the hangar. "I realized early on that being squestered all the time was going to drive me nuts, so I pushed for more leeway to go out and work with the people I'm fighting for. And for people who can't get out and about once in a while? I make the effort to bring conversation to them. Next best thing."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "You'd better believe it happens." Isa sighs a melodramatic sigh, letting her arm fall over the table, her forehead landing on her arm with a groan. Theatrics over with, she picks her head back up, gesturing dismissively with a flick of burn-scarred fingers. "Those are the sleepless nights and the endless days, when they start gathering themselves for a push."

  "It takes a coordinated strike by air and by land to push them back, and even then, it's a meat grinder. A third of the people they send won't come home again. Not in one piece, anyway." Isa grumbles, straightening and crossing one leg over the other. "Actually, I get along with the maintenance crews. As long as they don't screw up my Skytalon. They stay out of my way, I get along with them just fine. My own wingmen, well. They punch me, I punch them harder, then we have an understanding that if they try it again I'll break their necks with my bare hands and smile while I do it."

  Apparently she's serious; she gives an affirming little nod at that, long red hair bobbing. "Oh. Well... thank you, I guess. It's not very often that people do things for me without having an ulterior motive. I'm going to guess you don't have any ulterior motives, anyway." She shrugs. "I apologise that Sochen Airfield isn't more... well. Exciting, I suppose. Most of the time, there is nothing happening here. I come, I leave, I wait while my Skytalon is refueled and repaired. We find ways to amuse ourselves. Mostly, we drink, off-duty."

  She pauses, then gestures at the sleek jet behind her. "You want to see her, comrade? Up close?"

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    That gets a chuckle out of Crush. "Isn't that the way with military bases? Unless there's an all-out war on, there's nothing to do but wait. Especially in a remote place like this." He gestures vaguely at the general area. "I've always been the kind of man with enough vigor and energy for ten. So I busy myself with my friends and allies. When I worked the farm, I checked in on my neighbors, kept good relations. During basic training, I was always making sure my fellow recruits were holding out well enough. It's the kind of person I am, I suppose. I'll grab a man by his head and smash it through a wall if he's in my way, but if he's on my side I'll take a bullet for him, then bring him a barrel of vodka afterward."

    But hey now, here's an intriguing offer. Getting a good, close look at the Skytalon. "I'd like nothing more!" he replies, with animated interest. He's sitting up more already.

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "Welcome to the steppe, where the most exciting part of my week is when one of the perimeter guards takes a shot at a deer, hits it, and we all have something to eat more interesting than rations that night." Isa sighs, blandly. "In between that, we go fly halfway across the world, kill some poor Celestial Exalted fool, and then return here. It's an exciting life."

  Yeah no. She gives him a bland look before shrugging, single eye closing for a few seconds. "I'll do the same, most of the time. But I take a little more time deciding who is an ally of mine." She shrugs, pushing off from her chair, gesturing for him to follow. "Come on. I don't think you can climb in, but I can show you what I can."

  It takes only a few dozen steps to reach the jet, parked and silent, the sleek and organic, sweeping lines of its fuselage dark. Only the displays in the cockpit are lit. She vanishes up the ladder that dangles from the cockpit, reaching up above the cockpit glass and yanking down a big circular mirror on an articulated metal arm. Swinging it around, she positions it so Crush can see into the cockpit without having to climb up. "Comfortable, for what it is. But what matters more is what's in here."

  She jabs a finger at the cockpit, indicating the displays, rattling off plenty of technical nonsense that Crush probably won't understand about how and why it can stop on a dime and pivot in place like a helicopter. Basically, though, she's telling him it's very un-jetlike, and it can stop on a dime and pivot like a helicopter. Nobody else in America or Europe has quite figured out how to do it, yet. At least, not as good as her Skytalon.

  Once that's all explained, she drapes over the edge of the cockpit, arms folded over the rim. She'll let him look as long and as thoroughly as he wants, and she'll even let him poke and prod at the moonsilver plating of the hull. It's smooth and, curiously, vaguely warm to the touch.

  "She's attuned to me, and she won't answer to anybody but my bio-signature and life signs." Isa gives the hull a pat. Clunk clunk clunk. "And she is responsive, more responsive than anything else I have ever flown. I was a test pilot, before I went to Chernobyl; I have flown many different designs."

  She looks down, red hair spilling over her shoulder. "If you have any questions, comrade, I will be happy to answer them."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "Hmm. I should see if I can hunt you all an elk before I leave!" Crush decides as he stands up. "It'll be a good way to go stretch my muscles a bit." His strides across the hangar are just as brisk as before, the big man already sizing the thing up with intense curiosity. The mirror puts a great big grin on his face, though; watching her work in the cockpit is fascinating.

    And he might not follow all of it, but he's surprisingly capable at getting the gist. After a few minutes, he plants his fists against his side, impressed. "True 360-degree control and movement along all three axes. Now there's a pretty dangerous capability for a jet to have. In most worlds you can either have the speed and firepower of a jet, or the maneuverability of a helicopter or hovercraft. But you've got all three. This is the kind of machine that wins wars on most worlds." Curious, he brings up the right hand and slips the gauntlet off again, holding it with the left while he runs bare fingers along the hull. "She's a beautiful bird, comrade. Even if it would accept other pilots, I don't think there are many around who could handle such a demanding craft. I am deeply impressed."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "I wouldn't say no to that." Isa grins down from her perch at the cockpit. "Elk is good. I can't remember the last time I had some, but I remember it was good." There is a non-zero chance she might like it raw since her Exaltation. Raw and bloody.

  Her head vanishes back into the cockpit, although the mirror shows her puttering around and accessing various display panels. It looks like the consoles almost fully wrap around the pilot once the cockpit canopy is closed; the glass is still clear and can be seen through, but the lower parts within the hull are practically packed with... well, stuff.

  Presumably all that stuff has a purpose of some kind or another, some kind of arcane and mysterious purpose that only makes sense to the person trained to operate this giant heap of moonsilver and circuitry and high-performance turbines.

  Isa's head pops up over the cockpit's edge again.

  "Uh huh. That's right. I've got all three. And this thing puts the Foxhound to shame. "Hell, I'm sure this thing puts those old American spy planes to shame." She snaps her fingers a few times. "What were they. Crows? No. Blackbirds."

  The hull feels cool and smooth to the touch, but where his fingers pass over places that look suspiciously... circuit-like, there's a bloom of warmth. There's a strange sensation that the aircraft is /aware/ of him, although it has no personality to speak of; merely a presence, though that presence dominates the hangar.

  It's a predator, quietly waiting for its next hunt... much like its mistress in the cockpit above.

  "She is indeed. And she's my beautiful bird." Isa gives the hull a fond pat. Was that a bloom of light where her fingers touch that moonsilver skin? "She almost makes all the exhaustion and the lonely nights worthwhile." Pat, pat, pat. "Maybe someday, if I can ever figure out a way to fit you into the cockpit, I can take you for a ride. She's fast. Blisteringly fast. And she responds quick as thought to the lightest touch on the controls."

  Isa vaults out from the cockpit, scrambling down the ladder again; despite old burns and scarring, she moves with what might be surprising agility. Either she's just enthusiastic about the subject matter, or she's in better physical shape than she lets on. Probably a little of both.

  She /is/ an Exalt, after all.

  "Still, what you can do is nothing to sneeze at, comrade! I can punch things, and I can even break things, but certainly not like that." She gestures to his fist again, with a grin. "I cannot set things on /ice/. By punching them."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "Faster than a Blackbird..." Crush mumbles. Now THAT's a comparison that puts things in perspective. "Not many aircraft can say that at all." His respect for Isa and her Skytalon has grown all over again. He can't help grinning, and when he speaks next it's directly to the machine. "You are a fine predator of the skies, young lady. I don't think I've met one finer." He takes a step or two back, giving the whole machine another look over - and giving Isa room to disembark. "I can even feel the life in her." He chuckles quietly, finally sliding his gauntlet back on again, and returning to holding his arms akimbo. "You might not need to worry about the cockpit. If need be I could probably cling to the underside. Or the nose."

    Her commentary on his own capabilities sets off a fierce sort of grin this time, and in response to it he brings his fists up and slams them together. Wham. That's... actually kinda loud. "Indeed. I'm quite proud of my magic. Elementalism, conjury, I've even managed to put together some fairly good mobility spells. And then of course, I've got a spell or two that's nothing but pure firepower. It was quite a great deal of study to learn the art, and then much more on top of it to start adapting spells to my unique form of sorcery. But it has been quite worth it."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "Not many. And one of them is mine." Isa may be overestimating the capabilities of her own aircraft, although it does look like it has the power to keep up with that kind of thing.

  Isa leaps the last few rungs from the plastic and nylon ladder, landing in a crouch and dusting off her jacket once she straightens. "Hmm. You could probably hang onto the outside, but I don't know where you might find a handhold. I don't recommend the air intakes. The paperwork I'd have to file if you got sucked into the engines would be astronomical."

  Several nearby mechanics jump when Crush slams his fists together.

  Pay them no mind.

  "I imagine it has." Isa settles for pacing, beckoning Crush with a 'walk with me' gesture. "I don't use magic, myself. I can change my form, sure. But that's different. That's part of what I am, now. It isn't something I had to study or learn how to use. I just... do it, if that makes any sense. The eagle is as much my true form as the human. One is not more comfortable to me than the other. And I know how to fly, how to hunt, how to stalk; I knew these things without needing to be taught."

  She chuckles. "I guess it's cheating, no? Flying almost makes up for this wretched posting. I love it. It's like nothing else in the world. But when I'm out there, with the wind under /my/ wings, and ripping through /my/ feathers... ah, comrade, I wish I could share that feeling. It's one thing to pilot a predator like the Skytalon, but it's another entirely when /you/ are the one flying."

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "It's a feeling I already know," Crush replies - the look on his face now could best be described as 'misguided capitalist child on disgusting bourgeois holiday Christmas'. "One of the first spells I adapted? A spell of flight. I don't imagine my capabilities in the air are anywhere close to yours, on your own OR in the Skytalon, but the feeling of rising up among the clouds, gliding over the land with nothing around me but the cool air across my skin... that, I have learned quite well." At his sides, Crush's fingers flex. Just the thought of it is tempting. "Natural knowledge, though. Instincts like those. That's something I've never experienced. To simply know how to move quietly, how best to circle around my prey and strike at just the right moment... that, I'd very much like to experience some day. But, it is what it is, I suppose."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "Oh?" Isa lifts her eye, blinking at the Muscle Wizard. She's impressed; that much shows. Well, maybe she's winking. You never know. How can you tell if a one-eyed person is winking, anyway? Exactly. You don't. "Well, you seem to be full of surprises, comrade."

  Yeah, he looks about as aerodynamic as a brick. Maybe he's really good at punching things, but he's not really the kind of person she'd think would fly that well.

  "Ah, comrade, but feathers are better." An effort of will, a glow of moonsilver -- and there is a very large, battle-scarred bird alternatively crab-walking and hopping along the concrete floor beside Crush.

  It's a steppe eagle, a common sight of the Russian steppes, but none of them are this freakishly huge. It has just as much mass as Isa-the-woman, if not more; its massive head is scarred the same way as her skin is, with feathers missing or gnarled. The right eye socket is empty, and her remaining eye looks more at home in an avian head.

  Oh, and it's covered in moonsilver tattoos. They're glowing.

  Isa stands a little taller, spreading her wings, and the shadow they cast is impressive. Several of the mechanics are staring openly by this point. Not that they don't know what she can do, but it's pretty amazing to the mundane folk.

  </Feathers/, comrade!> How she speaks, it's hard to say; her beak never moves, and the faint screech of an eagle is audible behind her words. It's very faint. <Feathers. Except instead of circling around, I circle over.> Wickedly-curved talons scrabble on the concrete as she keeps pace beside him, alterating every few deliberate steps with a hop to 'catch up.' Eagles don't walk very gracefully, especially on smooth surfaces.

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "Hah!" Crush applauds, impressed by the transformation. The claps don't come out as loudly as the fist-slam before; he's controlling himself this time, both for her sake and the techs'. Mostly for the techs' sakes. "Perhaps they are, perhaps they are. I don't think I'll get to know that any time soon, so I'll simply have to say that we at least share an enjoyment of the skies. Though I dare say yours likely exceeds mine by a great deal." His pace has, notably, slowed a bit. He's capable of really covering the distance at his size, but with Isa hopping along, he's taking it a bit slower. "Perhaps one day I'll find a spell to do something similar, but I doubt that. Transformations... they don't suit me so well. I'm comfortable in my own body. It's a fine instrument of pain in its own right. Very versatile."

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  Another effort of will returns Isa to her other shape, the human one that most people are infinitely more familiar with. A quick gesture adjusts the lapels of her jacket back into place. A neat trick? You betcha.

  "It is not that I enjoy the skies so much, comrade. It is that when I am in them, I am /alive/." There's a light in that single golden eye which makes that pretty clear. "My life has meaning when I am up there, whether in my Skytalon or with the wind beneath my wings."

  She shrugs, strolling alongside him. "I am comfortable in either. It is... difficult to explain, comrade, but they are /both/ 'me.' One is no more true than the other."

  "But it is growing late, comrade, and I would not keep you from your duties." The scarred pilot smiles a crooked half-smile, because half of her face doesn't move so well any more. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Something for the road to eat, or drink?"

Comrade Crush (220) has posed:
    "You are right, I suppose. For me, there is only one true form, and I am happy enough with it." Crush's steps slow enough to stop and have that last-moment chat, but shakes his head at the offers. "No, no, that's quite alright. I could drink an entire bottle of vodka without so much as feeling it. It's not fair of me to take any more of such a fine drink than I already have!" He dusts his hands absently, looking towards the exit. "I think, however, I may just go and make good on that idea I had, before I leave. If I take to the sky, it shouldn't take me too terribly long to find an elk, or something similarly large." Most people would be surprised how wide an area you can cover when you do it from overhead.

Isa Reichert (1022) has posed:
  "Nothing wrong with that, comrade." Isa sketches a salute when he decides he's fine without anything for the road. "Stop and visit more often. Sochen Airfield may not be much, but you are always welcome here. It's good to see another comrade."

  A true one, she thinks, with a fleeting smile that's just a little wistful. She hasn't had that kind of pleasure in a long time. Serving this government feels like a sham with every passing day, kept in line by equal measures of bribery and threats.

  Isa snaps off a razor-sharp salute, before letting her hands drop into her pockets. "We will not argue your generosity, comrade! My mechanics will wait for you to return. In the meantime, I had better sleep while I have the opportunity. A pilot learns to sleep when they can, you know." She laughs, before waving the Muscle Wizard on. "Good hunting, comrade!"