Owner	Pose
Wildcat	A pilot bar is a hit or miss sort of place. It can have any number of issues. Some girls like pilots. Some boys do too. Others like attendants. This one is a palace where crews come to get a spot of drink before heading out to a hotel, or back home. It's nice. Clean. Well lit enough. That sets it apart though is the Mustang in the back. She's crippled; her engine mostly missing, her wheels long since gone as she is bolted to the floor. Most folks just peak at her before heading back. Not this guy. He's settled next to her. His coat, a long trench is tossed over one chair, and a fedora is settled on the table. The lighting is dim. It is almost intimate. The distinguished monster of a man is settled there sipping a gin and tonic from his glass. He is eyeing the plane like a lover, his eyes distant as if remembering another time and place.
Lady Blackhawk	The door slams open loudly enough to break the man's reverie, which generally isn't a good sign. The voice is feminine, loud, brash, and thickly-laden with an Alabama drawl. "Y'all got anything on tap what ain't imported? An' Ah ain't lookin' for any of that 'lite' shit, neither." The voice belongs to a woman. She's not large, but her personality more than makes up for it. The blonde hair could have come from a bottle, except her brows match. Short skirt, knee boots, and a leather flight jacket over a t-shirt. An authentic flight jacket. Zinda starts towards the bar, her gaze distracted by the Mustang... and perhaps the man looking over the old bird.
Wildcat	His blue eyes move over from the mustang and settle on the firecracker making a ruckus. For a moment, he's 19 years old. The war's been dragging on. That is the first time he saw her on the side of a bomber. Blond. Short skirt. Long legs. 'Keep 'em flying'. That pinup girl could be this one's mother. The big man stands far too fluidly and smoothly for a man of his size and apparent age; he must be somewhere in his 40s, but he's got the build that would make a 20 year old hit the gym. "Keep 'em flyin'" He says to the woman, barely raising his voice. It's Gotham accent. A little harsh. Definitely a little blue collar. The voice is like Scotch. It burns pleasantly on the way down and has subtle flavors and notes to it. Still, it's a voice that is is tough as nail. The older man lifts his gin and tonic to the woman than moves to sit back down.
Lady Blackhawk	Lady Blackhawk tilts her head at that, brows lifting when he says the catch phrase from her poster days. "Yessir, sugah." she quips back, stepping slowly and deliberately towards him now. "That's me. Zinda Blake, Lady Blackhawk. Ain't many folk remember THOSE posters, though." Closer and closer still, the petite blonde having to look up and up at the big man. The low lighting isn't helping, and she squints at him. "Well butter mah but an' call me a biscuit... Ted Grant, in the flesh."
Wildcat	His back tightens and Ted stands up a little taller. For a moment he stares at her. "What, your grandmother show you pictures of my 'eavyweight days little girl? Because you look far too young and far too pretty to be the Zinda Blake who was the terror of the London pub scene." He is staring now. "Though if you are named after your granny, you sure got your granny's legs." That is totally not an appropriate comment, but he seems oblivious to that much. He lifts his gin and tonic and knocks it back. He places it on the table with a solid gesture. Ted clears his throat; a mountain lion's growl would be quieter. "Hey! I'll have another of those. Get the pin up girl over here what she wants. My tab."
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda steps right up, working the walk like she did back in the day. "Still waterin' your gin like a lightweight, Ah see." she quips back. "Ah'd call you out for the 'granny' remark, but you always could take a punch like nobody's business." She looks back at the bartender expectantly, then, and the man starts filling a glass at the tap. "What if Ah told you Ah AM Zinda Blake. The REAL Lady Blackhawk. Flew through a time portal back in '45, when everybody thought I went up missin'." Reaching up, she pokes fingers and thumb against his chest. "But that don't explain how you ain't walkin' with a cane."
Wildcat	"Because straight gin tastes like the exhaust from that Messerschmitt you liked to tool around in?" Ted counters gamely, taking the poke in the chest without a flinch. ""Sides, I got the jaw for a beatin' Ted Grant returns." After smarting back at her he looks at her long and hard for a moment. His eyes narrow. "I would prolly believe you." He says finally. "Beauty mark is exactly where I remember it. They liked to paint it out of position." Slowly he works his jaw as he allows himself to look her over. Remembering nights after boxing matches between the air corps and the airborne. His blue eyes regard her seriously. "And maybe you actually being her isn't the weirdest thing I ever heard." He admits that much in his low voice his head tilting as he regards her still. Honestly, he's stared at her hard and long enough that a lesser woman would be intimidated. He's cat quick and he snakes out his left hand pull out her chair for her, like a gentleman. "And I don't need a cane. Clean living."
Lady Blackhawk	Lady Blackhawk doesn't back down from the stare, either. They're both aces, which means they're both competitive, aggressive predators. She tilts her head at the beauty mark comment, returning a broad, dimpled, poster-worthy smile. "Clean livin' my Aunt Margaret's patootie." she replies. She doesn't sit when he pulls out the chair, but steps up and uses it as a ladder to climb up and park her keister on the table, crossing one leg over the other. Just like the old days. "Ah ain't the only one what's got stories to tell, Ah see." The bartender brings over a tall mug, handing it to Zinda. The blonde raises it high. "To absent friends." she offers, then drinks deeply.
Wildcat	His opinion on the sweetness of Zinda's patootie will have to wait for him to be seated at least. Ted eases back down onto the chair he was in previously and it gives a slight creak as his muscular form settles in it. "I never met'cher aunt Margaret." He deadpans. "But, if she looked like you, I regret that." He lifts his own drink and drains a significant amount of it, giving a nod. "Too many of them." He pauses for a moment. "Any of your old crew make it through with you? Or did any of them make it around the long way like I did?" He tilts a brow upwards as he asks. "You missed out on a lot. Sound barrier. Superman. Mutants being around. A couple of idiots in the white house. A couple of undefeated 'eavyweight boxing champions." He puffs his chest out a little at that. His face falls a little. "The erosion of a lot of what we fought for, and a general settling for 'good enough' and the setting aside of principles for what is 'good 'nuff'." Tedd frowns a little bit and looks into his glass as if there might be answers there. Now, if he can look through the glass and admire Zinda's dangling leg while doing it, well that is just multitasking.
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda's expression softens a touch at that, and she shakes her head slowly. "Couple months back, Ah drank the bottle of scotch the Blackhawks had set back for the last survivin' member of the Squadron." she replies, swinging her legs a bit. Yeah, that's definitely Zinda. "Oh, Ah've been back long enough to get flight certified... in mah real name this time... finish up some schoolin', and get checked out in everything up to, and including, F-22's." She takes another drink, more slowly this time, while watching him. "Maybe even got myself another little gig goin' on the side. But Ah'm pretty sure Ah ken' hook you up with a familiar old gal, if y'all still got the gumption." And at that, she gives the old Mustang a knowing nod.
Wildcat	"I am sorry about that. The last of my war buddies died ..." he has to think. "Maybe a decade ago? He was almost a hundred years old. Bald. Half blind, damn near deaf." He pauses. "His funeral was full of family though, so there is that." he works his jaw as he considers things. His chest rises and falls. He grimly lifts his glass and points it at Zinda. he clearly gets her loss. Taking a moment to consider, Ted shrugs his shoulders. "not a lot of Mustangs left. I lost one in the war. Bailed on it over the Ardennes. It's replacement finished out the war with me. She was retired as a trainer for Korea. I have her stick at my place. You gotta remember. Any of them left are 75 years old or so. Most of what is left are in museums. A few grandsons and great-grandsons fly a squadron or two of them, but those are people with more money than sense. The world got in a real hurry these last 60 years. Not a lot of time for old fossils or the planes that they flew."
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda puts her mug down, resting both hands on the edge of the table where she's perched. Those blue eyes brighten, booted feet swinging a bit more. "Not a lotta time, unless y'all happen to be an old fossil yerself." she quips back. "An old fossil with more money than sense, a private island full of spare parts, and a hangar what can hold a full squadron..." Her voice trails off, her gaze fixing on his face in silence for a moment. "You still live in Gotham, Ted? Ah still make th' rounds here in the TriState. Maybe Ah should bring one of th' old girls by sometime."
Wildcat	His finger itch. He doesn't look his age, but in that moment, like many others, he feels it. Not physically. That 'curse' saw to that. His brows narrow and he rubs at his jaw. "I would like that. I've kept my certification and all that mostly out of stubbornness. I'm not checked out on as much stuff as you, obviously. I left the Air Corps after the war, went into boxing, and never looked back." "I'd appreciate that." He pauses. "Any side effects from taking that short cut?" He asks in a careful tone. "had it looked at by people? You don't make it to my age without meeting a few folks, you know?"
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda lifts a blonde brow at his question. "Aside from the Air Force, after one of their jets talked me down?" She shrugs, then, sitting on the edge of the table and looking a lot like her posters. "Oh, they poked an' prodded me plenty, but couldn't find nothin' wrong." Zinda smiles broadly. "Leastwise nothin' that wasn't already wrong in the first place." Zinda leans in closer to him, then, squinting and even taking a sniff. "Ah'd love to hear YOUR story sometime, too." Even Zinda recognizes that there's plenty Ted is holding back. "When y'all are ready to tell it, of course."
Wildcat	He doesn't smell like an old man. Well, not to her nose. Only old people where his scent. But it was what everyone wore in their time. Ted nods. He reaches into a pocket and slides over a card 'Grant's Gym' it reads. "Show that. It'll get you in. I need to warn ya. It's full of apes and testosterone. It's where I train fighters to this day. Show up sometime. I'll fix you a drink. We'll talk."
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda looks down at the card, then slips it into her jacket pocket. "You got yerself a deal, Ted." she replies. The blonde reaches up to give him a quick, almost fierce hug, then, before scooting off the table and out of reach. Then she reaches for that mug to down the rest of it, mostly likely to hide the flush to her cheeks as well. "Take care of yourself, now."
Wildcat	"Don't fall into any more portals." He snarks back. "Can't guarantee I'll be around next time, Zinda." He leans back and watches her walk off. He gives another soft bark of a laugh. "And looking good for a old lady." He says with a smile on his face. He openly walks her move away. That skirt. Those boots. Those legs. Classy yet intriguing. "I'll catch ya."