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Outside Milliways it is a nice day. Mostly blue skies, with just enough cloud to be picturesque. Just enough breeze to be pleasant, with the temperature pretty decent for mid-March.

The peace is spoiled by a loud sound not unlike that of a Black Hawk helicopter.

This would be because an Aerospatiale SA-2 Samson has been pulled from the skies of Pandora for a visit, and the pilot is flying the craft over the lake to land on the grass. It's a smooth landing, the two sets of rotors tilting as Trudy moves the controls, but she's far from pleased.

This fact is fairly audible should anyone approach once she climbs out (the cockpit window/door not moving until the blades have stopped spinning, of course). The normally easy-going and laidback pilot is swearing, fluently and multi-lingually, as she inspects her Samson for any damage (none).

This was not how the Chief Warrant Officer had planned on spending her first day flying again, no sir, it is not.

[ooc: *falls over* I love you all, but my brain is dead, so I'm going to have to call slowtime. Will pick up in the morning!]

tiny!tag: trudy chacon

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"You go up any one of 'em-" He points at the central mountain. "You git up to the highest point you c'n git your ass over, you make sure you're walkin' with your back to the Bar, you git over the summit goin' in a straight line, I swear to God you gon' find yourself walkin' straight down the goddamn mountain back towards the motherfuckin' Bar and it will be the same goddamn Bar you just walked away from."

"Huh," is Chacon's reaction, her expression turning more speculative than anything else.

"I c'n show you if you want."

"In m'Samson?"

Shit, he walked right into that one.

"You don't mind me bein' sick soon as I git off 'n touch ground, sure, that'll work," he says.

"As you as y'get off? Nope. In the helo, then I'll be pissed," she says, grabbing her helmet and pushing herself up. She walks around to the pilot's side of the cockpit, leans in and pulls a lever, and the other door swings up.

"In you hop," she says, giving him a wicked grin before climbing up and in.

Yeah, he's gonna take the opportunity to offer up the other A. Shepard's prayer: "Lord, please don't let me fuck this up." Then there's nothing for it but to hop on in and look for the safety harness, because here comes the ride.

The nice things about Samsons is that, inside, they are fairly simple - the safety harness is plugged in on the seat.

"Earphones there," Chacon says, flicking switches and shutting the window-doors. The engines grow louder, and then the Samson smoothly lifts off the ground as the twin-rotors tilt this way and that.

"Anythin' else flyin' around out here, or just the fucked up physics I gotta watch out for?"

"Nothin' bigger'n a turkey vulture," Shephard answers as he reaches for the earphones. "Eagle owls at night, that's about it."

It's a much smoother liftoff than the Ospreys ever had. Perhaps any horrible plummety death will be equally smooth. Not that he is going to say anything about that out loud, of course. It's just. You know. A thing.

Chacon's fairly good at avoiding horrible plummety deaths, too. Despite the loudness that comes with flying all types of helicopters, the Samson seems to glide through the air, even as she banks to turn back over the lake and towards the mountains.

"Good t'know. And the wacky-quantum thing kicks in just over the summit?"

Adrian nods. "'Bout the size of it," he says. "Ain't never been in the air 'round here, just on the mountains themselves, but yeah, that's where shit gets weird."

"Anyone else fly in?" She asks, scanning the horizon. Nothing seems out of place, and that in itself strikes her as out of place. But she keeps flying, and keeps being alert.

"Ain't seen it happen yet," says Shephard. "Saw this big glowin' squid thing open the front door, take a look at outer space, 'n close the door. That's as close as I seen to anyone flyin' here. Sky's pretty fuckin' quiet 'round these parts."

"...was that Vergil?"

The Samson flies up to the summit, and Trudy is focused, and waiting, and there is a sudden odd disorientation, as if she went into a gun-roll and came out on the opposite side than the one she was aiming at. Without swearing, Chacon straightens her Samson to find them...

Back where they started, albeit flying away from the summit.

"The fuck?"

"Dunno, I ain't spoken to-"

Adrian blinks a few times, then slouches in his seat with a face not so much disgruntled as grumpy.

"Yup. That's about right."

"Hang on," she mutters, and banks to try again.

Same thing happens, and she concedes defeat, and heads back over the forest towards the lake.

"No, seriously. The ever-lasting fuck? That's...okay, that's weirder than my freakin' floating mountains

"Hell if I know, and I been to another fuckin' dimension where gravity don't count for much more'n a tin-plated fart," says Shephard sourly. "Ain't nobody been able to explain it to me so far. I gave up tryin'."

He has the vague impression that one of the scientific types might understand, but he'll be damned if he asks Freeman to tell him why the mountains here are weird. Mountains are his territory, not that goddamn egghead's.

Chacon pulls a face.

"Maybe they don't know, either." Her opinion of academics isn't...that high, her respect for the work the Pandoran scientists do notwithstanding.

"Maybe," Shephard agrees. "Dr. Freeman spends more time out shootin' shit'n blowin' stuff the fuck up than he does doin' actual science, far as I can tell. I don't know none of the others enough to bother 'em with it. Don't much matter to me long as the weird shit's always the same weird shit, if you know what I'm sayin'."

Trudy snorts, making them fly down close enough to the lake's surface to kick up water, just because she can.

(she's flying again, and after five months grounded, it feels good)

"I hear ya, Shephard."

It's how she rolls on Pandora.

Not looking out the window. Not looking out the window. Not looking out the window.

"What, uh... what kind of range does this thing git?" he says instead. "My hunter's good for 'bout, mm, twelve hundred nautical miles or so all tanked up."

Trudy Chacon, it should be said, has a pure joy of flying - despite her skill, this joy can make being a passenger 'interesting' at times.

"'Bout...huh, 'bout fifteen hundred."

"Not bad," says Shephard, letting out a breath. "Uh. I ain't distractin' you, am I?"

Distracting pilots is Bad. Really Bad.

She laughs.

"Aw, hell no. This is easy shit."

"Okay," says Shephard. "good. Glad t'hear it."

Oh Jesus they're going to be up here for HOURS aren't they.