Owner	Pose
Lady Blackhawk	Once upon a time there was nothing in this world that Jackie Sokol wouldn't take on, Back then Jackie was built out of a finite mixture of pig iron and fury. The awards, the placards, the trophies and framed photos testified to that effect. But then he took splinters from a 37mm flak burst in the chest, and well the years haven't made the condition any better. For a guy on an oxygen tank and dialysis he actually got pretty far, even before his wife reached out for help. Truly for a guy in his condition, it was impressive. The dude had ripped down the cabinets and backsplashes himself, sketched beautiful layouts on the wall. Anyone could have done the rest of the work, but this job had found it's way to the God of War. More importantly was the job he dropped after it was all wrapped up and taken care of, work for a commercial property.     Blackhawk freight company, like the third largest air freight joint in the world? Yeah it needs work done according to old Jackie, and the Secretary only asks one question when you ring'em up. "Are you a Veteran?" From there, an appointment is made. This being Teterboro it's of course in Jersey, which is the only reason this has fallen to Zinda. Nobody else could be talked into it, because nobody likes Jersey even with this much money involved. Not that the board particularly likes Zinda, she was far more convient when they thought she'd died ingloriously over the Pacific about eighty years previous.     Anyway the building is, well it was likely very cutting edge back in about 81'. These days the glass and black aluminum, it just looks like everything else. If not for the hangars beyond, and the gaudy faux chrome logo out front it'd be easy to miss. The Lobby at least is far more welcoming, with a bottom dollar mural to the Blackhawks themselves. There is a secretary at the desk at least, and hey coffee machines! Still there is corporate america, so of course there is a script. "Hello, welcome to Blackhawk Freight's Logistical operations center. Do you have an appointment?"
Ares	The visage of the man that arrives at the Blackhawk Freight Logistical operations center is a stern one. Perhaps seen on the flicker of a security cam or at a glance across the way, he looks much as one would imagine an archetype for a Mr. Fixit hands on handy man sort of fellow from the untamed North to look. He's got this red flannel jacket that looks like it's been with him for a score of winters. Worn jeans, work boots, and a beard that looks like it was trimmed but probably a few days ago.     He steps into the room with the secretary, her desk, and takes a moment to consider the office itself. No judgement can be read on his features, but then his eyes meet the secretary's gaze and he gives her a nod. "Mr. Aaron. For a Ms. Blake. I believe." He has a bag with him, canvas and probably containing incidental tools for gauging the extent of a job.     But he seems distracted briefly by the logo, the name, as he gestures with a hand towards the most prominent display of it. "Blackhawks, as in from the war?" He asks.
Lady Blackhawk	"Mmmhm, oh yes."She responds, before scribbling something in her logbook. "Miss Blake is aleady waiting for you, just take the elevator to the top floor and look to the right. She'll be there." Beyond that mural the joint looks positively dishwater, just cubicles full of chincy crap really. Top floor is, apparently offices but off to the right? Well it was a conference room, and then somone went and made it decidedly more open air. Obviously some new age management thing, right? Thats why there is clearly a man sized hole in the wall, and sheetrock dust ground into the carpet. Nevermind the broken conference table beyond, or the overturned chairs, or the dark stains on the carpet.     Standing there, is none other than Zinda Blake herself. Of course her idea of office wear is, less than normal. That Skirt ends nowhere near her knees, and well there isn't even an attempt to hide the shiner still fading over her left eye. Her knuckles and knees are taped up, nevermind the bandages covering those stitches on her right arm. Also, you're supposedly not allowed to smoke in the work place. Or drink. Which has not stopped the lovely Miss Blake from smoking, nevermind that beer bottle in her hand. Yeah clearly not cut out for corporate life right, no wonder the board hates her guts. Lady Blackhawk everyone, live and in the flesh.
Ares	The transition from speaking with the secretary to reaching the top floor with Zinda's presence is a fairly quick one. During that time his features don't change too much, no easy read to get his thoughts or opinions for the most part. There's no hint of a smile or a frown, nothing to signal approval or not. It's just a man set to a task, walking along the way.     But then he arrives there before the woman war veteran, a person who still seems war-torn and to be fighting who most likely had never given up. There's a glance given, gauging, measuring. The only signal that he might think anything about what's before him is just the slight lift to one eyebrow. But then he makes a small 'hnh' sound to himself and advances.     "Ms. Blake." His voice is a low baritone, rumbling. At first glance... well he's tall. Though there are taller. He's also large of frame. Though there are larger. He continues, "My name is John Aaron. We have an appointment." He glances aside as if towards a clock on the wall, as if to make sure he's not late. But then his brown eyes return towards her.
Lady Blackhawk	And right on cue she turns, offering the kind of smile that could melt steel beams. "Aww hey there chief, yeah ole'Sokol said ya'll were a decent feller. Glad to have ya'll by. Can I get'cha a cup've coffee, beer maybe?"She rolls her shoulders casually before slipping over to offer her hand. "Please just call me Zinda, I ain't one for all that formal stuff."Nodding towards the mess ever so casually, like it's a leaky faucet. "We had a little disagreement, and unfortunately they really don't make much've anything like they used to. Lawyers said I had to have a union guy look at this or we'd start some kind've trouble for some fool reason."     She's cool as a cucumber really, her grip firm but not vicelike. She's potentially a little sauced, but if she's still sore from whatever went down she sure as shootin isn't showing any hint of it. "We'll need this one mended and there's a little more work outside in the hangar too, kind've the same thing. Poor feller tripped and fell a few times, head first if you catch my meaning. Smaller hole of course, just yaknow head sized I guess."
Ares	"Zinda," He accepts the name as well as the hand. His own shake is firm, two pumps, done. Nothing aggressive and very direct. But then she starts speaking of the job as he follows along with her movements and motions, gaze wandering with. At each comment he gives a faint, barely perceptible nod, then when she's wrapping up he gives a firmer nod and murmurs. "Looks like the guy was pretty clumsy."     He gauges the reaction to that, but then takes the moment to eyeball her injuries. In some ways how he looks at the damage, some of the displaced debris, what prints might be in the dust. He might be able to reconstruct some of it in his mind and having done so a hint of emotion lights onto his features. His lip quirks a touch, wry.     "Will take some time to get the lay of the land. I will begin shortly." There's a pause as he sets his bag down, but then he rubs at the stubble on his jawline and adds, "Thing is. You figure that this is how it's going to be for a while, or is anyone likely to have another stumbling fit anytime soon?"
Lady Blackhawk	It's hard to tell of course, especially with all that curly blonde hair of hers. That might have been her who went through the wall, the broken table wasn't her for certain. The four divots near that break suggest somone with hands made of iron, or a pair of brass knuckles of course. The way the chairs are pitched about, suggest at least one of them had been used as a weapon. So a good proper brawl in there with somone who's stronger than your average bear, somone goes through the wall and driven to the ground. There's not nearly enough blood for a fatality, and if she was down a pint or three and drinking? Zinda would be way more than potentially buzzed like she is now. So theoretically, she got into it with somone above her weight class and beat the shit out of them. From calluses on her hands though this girl is a shooter above all else, maybe even a boxer but certainly nothing open handed.     "Take ya'll time chief, ain't no thang."She steps aside to take a seat on a nearby desk, before chaining up another cigarette and snagging another beer from that six pack. Offering a brew towards Mr.Aaron if he fancies one. "Well not terminally clumsy, law's already been involved and everything is squared. So don't you mind nothin, I ain't gonna get another vet all tangled up in some random bullshit. This Civilian crap is hard enough without the law breathing down your neck, so payment'll be above board and legal and all. Course I ain't disinclined from a little cash bonus between vets, if the work's square and on time."
Ares	Strangely enough, he accepts that beer. It cracks open with a hiss and he takes a long pull of it before holding it loose in his off hand. At that he tilts his head to the side, listening to her speak of the past, the service, nothing of the war, however. Not yet.     "I'll make certain you do not regret hiring me." He says simply, as if that was enough to allay all possible negative outcomes. But then he pushes past the mundanity of the job, of repairs. Instead he gestures towards a nearby place to sit and then asks a silent question with the quirk of an eyebrow. If she accepts or signals an agreement he'll move over to a place to sit and does so.     Another draw of the beer and then he asks directly, "Where did you serve?" On some level he assuredly is expecting some statement about the Middle East, though something about her speaks to something else. The job is now an afterthought, the curiousity is Zinda herself.
Lady Blackhawk	She accepts without hesitation, moving that six pack and a pack of Gauloises where Mr.Aaron can snag either if he fancies. Casually crossing those long legs and getting good and cofmrortable. "North Africa at first, Sicily, France, Austria, Germany, China, Korea, Japan, philippines, you name it. They wrote books about that stuff, hell there are like four movies, comic books all that jazz if you're really that curious. I fought everywhere there was a fight to be had, nevermind all the wierd guys who tried to take advantage of the situation. Bozos dressed up like sharks, a man who had his brain implanted into a huge crab, lots of mob stuff."And a pause as she glances towards Mr.Aaron with a nod. "Yeah, I'm Lady Blackhawk. Most vets can spot me, with me being supposedly dead they weren't too shy about throwing my name around. News papers had a big deal few years back about me, when I came back I mean. Took awhile to get my pardon secured from the Japanese Government though, they were pretty confused how to handle me downing a zero over a major city about noon. Some wanted to call it murder, cuz the war had ended. It'd ended for -them-, anyway." Honest, right to the point. No games, no subterfuge. Perhaps more importantly, no shame.     "What about you chief, I'm guessing you did more than serve as a revervist state side. Ain't never seen no pogue like you, not with your neck."And a pause as Zinda puffs those strange french cigarettes of hers. "Thats how you can always tell, fighter pilots and grunts both wear their lids all the same. Get to moving around, neck gets strong or it gets snapped off I reckon."
Ares	He listens to her speak of her life, the trials and travails that were overcome. A list of names thrown out like a rap sheet that ignores the breadth of all the experiences between them. Then a touch on the wild and what some would the insane with what the Blackhawk squadron had faced and overcome, including what must have passed fairly recently.     As she speaks his brow furrows, looking down at the beer in his hand. "Call me John," He offers, even though it grates him slightly to offer that name to a warrior who speaks to him for true over the sharing of drink and the past. Those brown eyes lift to meet hers and for a time it looks like he's trying to see past. It's a look she's seen in vets from all eras, that way the past shows up in front of you even for just a moment, but it's all you can look at.     Then it's dispelled with a shake of his head. In some ways the memories that stand out for him would perhaps be so entirely alien to her. Standing at the foot of Olympus, sword in hand. Crushing the life from a great serpent who seeks to devour him and his. A great shadowed swordsman with hand resting on the shoulder of his son.     But then he's back to there here and now and he answers her, if not with all of the truth, with part of it. "I was in Iraq. For the first run up." That would work wouldn't it? The years blend together. "And then the second. I fought across the desert, faced what passed for battles." As if he had known something else entirely.     Yet his manner does not fit with what she's seen in other veterans, save perhaps in his distance... that initial closing off of oneself. But her overtures of camaraderie has gained her this much at the last so far.
Lady Blackhawk	"They say it's horrible and ugly and terrible, right. Is it wrong that I miss it, all of it?"Her own experiences are potentially just as alien of course. Struggling to breathe in the thin air because their oxygen masks never worked right, pulling Gs so hard she thought her eyes were going to be pulled right out of her skull. The overwhelming stench of cordite smoke, and the choking squeeze of carbon dioxide from her own guns. Screaming, cursing at the enemy over the radio as you ripped their friends to shreds with 20mm hellfire. The fear that your wings were going to snap off at any moment, because some jerk couldn't get you parts on time. Did you put that manifold back on all the way the last service? Still, war is war. Conflict is conflict and for all the machinery? You cannot refine it, just paint the same form in different colors.     "I joined when I was nineteen, grew up in the war really. Now it's gone and left me like a bum. My squadron, my friends. I'm not even a fighter pilot anymore, you need a fighter and a war for that title. Like being infantry in peacetime, all you are is a nother joe nothing at the end of the day if you're not doing what you're made for."And another pull of that beer. "I even thought about putting the Squadron back together, but man I ain't cut out for command. I just wanna fly and fight...and drink."
Ares	For some reason, as she finishes speaking it causes him to smile a bit, just a slow ghost of a thing that hovers there at the corner of his mouth. But it's genuine, reaching his eyes as he looks up and gives a nod. "I know what you mean." He looks to the side, brow knitting slightly as if trying to conjure the imagery to match his words as he speaks in that steady baritone of his.     "There is something of the exultant to testing yourself against others, surpassing them. Matching yourself against fate and steel and blood. When conflict breaks it is a test..." His brow furrows and she might sense some measure of kinship in the sentiment, because whatever he says next... it's clear he misses it.     But then he murmurs levelly, shaking his head. "But that is behind me, and I understand the desire, the wish to hold that aspect of one's self close to their ego, to derive your identity from it." A curious thing for the God of War to say if she knew. "I have... focused on other matters. I would at times..."     There's a pause as he looks up, at the repairs she needs and his lip quirks, "I would at times find myself clumsy, usually over the weekend. When I would want for... the old ways." He shakes his head and takes a breath, "But I am trying to get past it. I have a child I tend to. I do my best at work." He smirks across the way at her, smile curving slightly more prominent then he flares a hand to the side, "But it's hard to embrace the normalcy of it. To just be..."
Lady Blackhawk	"The testing part sure, but I mean after a point I think I just liked the honesty of it all. I liked belonging, having brothers. Now out here, jesus I it's all this hand wringing."And a plaintive little shrug at that as she works at her cigarette. "This jerk.."And an affirmative not towards the hole in the wall. "Tries to tell me we're going to ferry dope up from Colombia, and like no obviously no we're not going to do that. So he wants to fight, fine lets fight. Only the dust settles and I got lawyers and PR people losing their minds, like what do you want me to do? Guy told one of my little office twirps he was gonna shank'em if he didn't play along, I should have just shot the both of them."     And a sigh, and a roll of the shoulder. "Kids, christ. Braver man than I, I can't pull off that parent schtick. Especially not in these times, not with all the cellphones and cyber games and everything else."She pauses long enough to crack open another beer, before letting her gaze swing back yonder to Ares. "You gonna let him enlist, or you gonna keep him out of it? I don't know what I'd do, I mean my parents sent private eyes to try and drag me home when I was wandering around trying to get into the fight. I don't know what I'd do."
Ares	As she tells him about the incident his smile grows a touch, enough that he'll even allow a low rumbling chuckle slip from him near the end. But he gives a nod and murmurs levelly, "The directness can be a boon. True. And... there are times I try to convince myself that not everything would be better if it ended in bloodshed, for from my position it seems such would improve a great many things." But then he shakes his head, as if trying to dismiss the notion.     And then, "Ah, Alexander." He offers up the name of his child with that sort of half-rueful and half-proud tone that many a parent has used in the past. "There are times when I feel I have no true influence upon the path of his life. He is headstrong, as am I. He is willful, as am I." He shakes his head slightly, "But the world as it is now..."     The words trail off as he looks over Zinda's shoulder, eyes distancing as if considering what has passed just in the last few years. "Wars are no longer wars. And despite what we have said there is no honesty in them. It is for industry, commerce, resources. Oh true we fought for such in the past but now..." He grimaces as his features darken into a scowl.     But then he reaches forwards and claims one of the last beers, his own having been drained in between their words. "Then again, maybe I'm just feeling old."
Lady Blackhawk	"Well if he wants to become a pilot, plenty of money in it these days. Not much use being a fighter pilot, last ace was during Vietnam. Let that sink in a little, not a single ace since the air war over Vietnam."She waggles a finger at that, because obviously that's the worst thing ever. It's the death of her breed right there, the knights of the sky. "We used to field entire aircraft development cycles in months, hell the XF-5Fs we flew in the war? They did all that thing over a weekend, no joke there. Now we have all these time saving computers and everything else, and look at it. Years and billions, trillions plus contracts for parts and upgrades and everything else. All for fighters we'll use for bomb trucks anyway, because nobody else is deploying near-peer aircraft."     "I'd say maybe Mercenary work, but the UN outlawed that too. No honest warrior trades left it seems like, but hey coffee shops are always hiring right?"And yeah alright maybe she's had a beer too many, not that it shows beyond the preachy tilt. "Anyway I got totally off topic, Alexander wants to learn how to fly kick me in the shins alright? I'm a certified instructor and all that nonsense, and it's as honest a trade as any other."
Ares	"The industrialization of warfare, hands off, computer screened." The distaste in his words are clear as he shakes his head. Another swig of beer is taken and he grimaces as he remembers a few words that had passed between him and Zeus the last time they spoke. It causes him to squeeze the bottle of beer in his hand until there's an abrupt strangled /crackle/ then the crunch of grinding glass against glass.     There's a pause as he looks at it, and then frowns to himself. Leaning over the table he wipes his hands a bit, the small small beadlets of glass fall onto the tabletop with a faint tinkle before he leans back and adds. "My apologies." Of course under normal circumstances one might imagine for there to be blood and screaming and whatnot. But from him, there's none to be had.     A breath is taken then he gives her a nod continuing as if nothing happened. "He is ten. I have no inkling as to what he wishes to do with his life. For now all he does is play his playstations and ex-boxes."
Lady Blackhawk	She notices, raised eyebrow and all but hey this is Lady Blackhawk. She's hung out with plenty of capes, gods no but men of improbable strength aren't all -that- uncommon. She peels back the sleeve of her jacket to eye her watch, before rolling back onto her heels. "Hey soldier, we are out've beer and I know a great place about an hour's flight from here. Now as you drank the last one, it's only fair you're on the hook for the next six pack. So saddle up, you and I are going on a little trip. Game?"Already she's sauntering down that hallway to presumably her office. "I mean goodness, you don't wanna miss out on an opportunity to fly with the last of the Blackhawks do you? Nevermind that there is booze at the end of this tunnel."And well, it would appear that Ares or not? Booze runs are holy, unassailable things. This most necessary of things is not going to be ignored by Miss Zinda, heavens no!
Ares	For a moment the tall man is gaining his feet, and it looks like he might actually be about to say something about how he has work to do. But then he looks back at her and realizes as he says, "Well, you are the boss, literally and figuratively."     John reaches forward and takes up his bag, then sets it aside and out of the way. Nothing too terribly valuable in there most likely, some tape measures, chalk, a compass, maybe even a level or two. But nothing he won't miss if it walks off. Not that that's hugely likely to happen. This is the Blackhawks after all.     A moment after that and he's following after her, his gaze meeting hers levelly. "Going to tell me or are you feeling like the surprise might be more fun?" His hands slide into the pockets of his jeans as he follows, then when she turns he'll fall easily into step and. Yeah, he's pretty tall. But her pace is matched, he's used to doing so.
Lady Blackhawk	She does change, because well why the hell not right? Just a moment in the office is all it takes for her to get those cavalry boots on and the rest takes even less time. That heavy black leather tunic with the brilliant gold roundel of the Blackhawks. The cockeyed crush cap perched atop that mane of blonde curls, the stark white of that pistol belt and it's holster. It's a fine uniform, and likely not one she has much occasion to wear these days unfortunately. "Pittsburgh, figure an hour or so for the trip there. An hour or so on the ground, and that'll give us a round trip of about three hours all in all?" She leads on into the elevator and punches the sub basement, before recling back to rest her elbows atop those holstered pistols.     Down in the basement seems to be more of an ops room, flight gear for -other- /lesser/ pilots and a short tunnel that leads directly out to the hangars. Sitting there all by it's lonesome, thats no business jet. It's big and black and mean, and well it's not -visibly- armed, for the moment anyway. The charcoal paint across the nose announces this particular example of the breed is named "Reckoner III", but this is a P-61 Black Widow. Obscure when it was new, and eighty years haven't done much to change that.     Granted it's hardly factory stock, but it'd take a proper aircraft mechanic to point out all the work done. She climbs up without a word through a tunnel behind the front landing gear, before climbing into the cockpit. The copilot's seat behind is both elevated and offset to the side, but it's a roomy thing really. Moreso than flying first class at least, flat panel displays crammed in everywhere that isn't window and there's a cramped passageway leading back into the fuselage that hides..who knows what. "Alright Soldier, strap in. Headset should be hanging on a hook above and behind you. Lap and crotch belts first, then shoulder straps. There's sickbags infront of you by your knees if you need it, understood?"She's already strapping on her knee board and running preflights for engine startup, as the hangar doors slowly begin to part.
Ares	"Mmm," John follows after and of course he turns his back at the needed times to provide for the needs of modesty whens he changes, even if there's a door or wall in the way. But when she speaks of her itinerary he lifts his voice for a moment to interrupt as he says, "And an hour to deal with the barfight and the aftermath?" He asks again and if she's looking at him as he speaks then she might see a rather wry... if edged smile.     But then there they are in the hangar and he gets a glimpse at what the Blackhawks are and what they had always been about. Even the plane speaks of a different time, with buckles swashed or swashes buckled? But it seems in a way to him that something different overtakes her as she enters there and starts to speak about the vehicle that she's spent so much time in.     He ascends to the co-pilot seat and drops into place, turning to try and get the belts settled. John is a large man, and so it might take him a little more time than most, but eventually there's the needed series of clicks and he pulls on the headset. A puff of breath on it to test it, then she'll hear his voice as she starts to get the fighter ready for take off. "Pittsburgh isn't bad. At least it isn't Cleveland."
Lady Blackhawk	"Barfights, goodness Mr.Aaron. With present company I hardly see how it'll take more then twenty minutes."She reaches up to flip some switches, and the thing comes alive. It thrums and whines and coughs before well more than the stock 4500 horsepower turns to a purr. Her voice over the intercom is, cooler by a fair measure. Thats perhaps to be expected, this is her native habitat isn't it? "It's a nice town, was nicer in the thirties. Family business used to have a factory there once upon a time."     Preflight completed, the big bird stalks from the hangar slowly. Coming to a stop just outside on the tarmac, before she can chatter at the tower and ger a cleared runway. Blackhawk 1 Actual, somone still appreciates her it would seem because the FAA didn't need to give her that callsign certainly. "Alright so, this is going to be a treat. Only two P-61s are left in all the world sadly, one lives in a museum and hasn't flown since the seventies. You're in the other one, couldn't find a hull or nothin left. So Reckoner here is brand new, first one built since 45'. Pretty Neato Torpedo, right?"She eases the shadowy bird around the taxiways with ease, returning the salutes of other pilots without hesitation until she can get on the pattern. Waiting for the tower's go. "Pity everyone wants a business jet these days, just not the same let me tell you."
Ares	"Don't worry, I'll let you handle the majority of the fighting." John says in an ever so gentlemanly way into the microphone in front of his mouth. He settles to the side slightly in the cockpit, still trying to get a bit comfortable. To be fair they don't really make planes in his size for the most part. But he does seem to be eating up the experience, letting his gaze wander openly and noting the flaps, and the shifting of the rudder with the pressure of the pedals.     "Zinda, do you often take your contractors out for a spin?" He's looking to the side of the window as the engines whir, the airplane holding for the word from air traffic control. "Or are you just trying to haze me?" His lip curves a little as he looks back towards her, perhaps catching her eyes in a reflection.
Lady Blackhawk	"Contractors, no. Another Dog of War though, sure if it suits my fancy." <<Blackhawk 1 Actual, this is Tetterboro control. You are clear to depart, good hunting Ma'am>> She lifts a white glove to salute the tower in return, before pushing those throttles foreward. The brakes hold, as the aircraft almost hunches down. Thick white contrails spiraling out from the tips of those propellers, before she lets the brakes go and the whole thing hurtles foreward. It's not that glass smooth press of a jet, the acceleration builds and the whole airframe seems to move and flex. It's the kind of experience anyone who's fought from horseback could appreciate. It's more than just a machine this, it's as alive as a soldier's sword might be in his hands. V1, and she picks up the nosewheel. V2 and she lifts the rest of the gear up just enough to clear them to retract, before letting it roar down the rest of the runway. A gentle press of a G or two as she lifts the nose to begin their ascent, and the view from up here? Well, it's divine! Even if the wing does eat up much of what you can see out the window, the heavens and the clouds beyond are real and tangible in a way they can never be from the ground. "Besides, you drank my last beer. You don't expect a girl to leave the fridge empty, do you? A debt is owed my friend, and this is a perfectly good excuse to turn money into noise and airspeed. You complaining back there?"
Ares	She can probably tell when he shifts in his seat back there, considering that he weighs a good chunk more than one would expect of a person his size and build, maybe it affects the acceleration or the lift, but at least he tries to hold himself still somewhat as best as possible. "Dog of war." He says into the microphone, as if amused at that turn of phrase. He scratches at the stubble along the curve of his chin and chuckles as he turns his head to appreciate the scenery.     As they climb and climb, continuing their ascent he offers a short bark of a laugh at her words. "Complaining. Never." But he shakes his head a little bit, just that way one does when they've met another person who is 'too much', but not really. "My son is going to be very envious when I tell him of this." He lifts a large hand and touches it to the glass of the side window in the cockpit, feeling it grow cooler as they climb.     "He has a model of a P-51 hanging over his desk that we had made together." He leans forwards to fog the glass a touch with his breath and then clears it away with the brush of his hand. "Perhaps he would like to become a pilot. I will ask him."
Lady Blackhawk	"When I was a little girl, bout his age and younger? I'd snuggle up with my daddy when he was flying booze all over god's creation, ruined me forever for anything but this. Oh, snap I forgot your monitors."And with the flick of a switch, those monitors surrounding the copilot's station blink to life. Most seem diagnostic in nature, but amongst them are feeds from cameras based around the aircraft. Radar feeds, FLIR and what looks suspiciously like the camera view for the turret on the top of the fuselage. Anyway it's a view, expecially as the Widow climbs through the light cloud cover.     Far below the world stretches out, shrouded by thin clouds like wandering snow drifts, painted in the amber of sunshine not poisoned by diesel smoke and whatever else. "You want me to take him up, it'd be my pleasure. There's another seat in the aft, that big clear tailcone gives a pretty awesome view. Little lonely back there, but it's pretty great if you need to do some thinking. You got anyplace in particular you want me to take the young man, or hell if he's just super into the Mustang I could rustle one up and take him up in that. Everyone should be able to experience flight in a personal kind of way, speaking of which you want to try your hand at it?"
Ares	For a moment he doesn't answer, but then he says into the microphone, the altered voice reaching her ears as he says, "I wouldn't wish to impose." He looks at the monitors then, considering their views. Then he looks up and considers the ergonomics of the matter, what his eyes would be drawn to naturally. A small hmm can be heard from him as he looks askance thoughtfully, pondering the different information feeds.     "Besides, you barely know me, Zinda." She can hear the mild amusement in his words as he continues to scan his surroundings. "I'll make a deal with you." He turns back to look at her, leaning forwards slightly. "If I finish our contract to your satisfaction, and you still wish to, then I'll ask him then. Good?"
Lady Blackhawk	"You shed blood for your brothers, that's all I need to know chief. It's no imposition, and besides do I really seem like the kind of woman who gets imposed upon? Ain't nobody gonna make me do anything I don't want to, honest."She seems just as casual as can be. Hands raised and knitted behind her head as she uses a thigh to guide the airplane, not that it needs much more than a nudge here and there. It rolls and dogs a little, but it seems quite inclined to go straight all by itself. They call that, good engineering you know.     It's a fighting position, with radar and flir flanking what looks like the turret's gunsight in the center. No obvious way to control the thing, and the screens don't look touch screen anyway. Then again this is a fighter aircraft, perhaps it just seemed natural for a fighter pilot to lay everything out that way? "I'd take up anykid who asked for free if I had my way, the way we keep kiddos at arms reach from aviation is a crime. We have to run everything through filters, safety bumpers and peanut allergies. Like we're terrified of getting anyone up against the real thing, but man I think realness is what we need right?"
Ares	John furrows his brow at that statement, shedding blood for one's brothers. All of the times he's been in battle, the sides he's taken, those he's known waging war with him in the same eras as him. A small element of guilt has followed him through those ages. Watching people in battle die as he would rage like a berserker and emerge unscathed. There was a risk being taken at times, but his was never the lion's share. Eventually he murmurs low, calmly. "It is a fine sentiment."     But then he shifts the topic slightly as he murmurs, "Come. Tell me what each of these displays are for. Perhaps on the way back I'll fly." His smile is there, faint, perhaps a little sardonic... even as the plane continues on its way.
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda Blake would totes eat that, if she didn't have crazy st.louis pizza.
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda Blake says, "What'chew doin'ere sugar, ain't you got some spacklin' to do?"
Lady Blackhawk	Zinda Blake says, "Seems legit, dont forget those 83 minute cigarette breaks either man."