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Moon is shinin' in the sky
There's tons of clouds in sight.
It's stopped snowin'
Everybody's in the blight.
And don't you know
It's a beautiful new night
Hey, hey
Skiddin' down the avenue
See how the moon shines.
Brightly in the city on the streets
Where once was pity.
Mister Black Sky
Is living here today
Hey hey
*
It is a clear, crisp night with the moon hanging low in a sky that is dark save for the scattered light of the city below. Winging his way through this quiet sky is Warren Worthington III, and with his blond hair streaming in the wind and his huge white wings beating the air, it is easy to see where he got the appellations "The Angel". He is flying slowly tonight, just enjoying the peace and thinking to himself, sharp eyes scanning the city below from time to time.
*
The majority of the city cares for issues earthbound, far too wrapped up in the terrible news and Christmas preparations in the wake of a very late Thanksgiving to spare a thought for anything overhead. Those who would peer up find the relentless visitation of the clouds across the western horizon ill-suited for trying to stargaze or track planes headed along established flight paths. A number of astronomers and trackers looking for any signs of alien activity have increased, but they might wish they had the benefits a redheaded bohemian do.
She dances upon the wind at a speed a little below some of the finer Boeing fleet, cutting long parabola arcs through the cumulonimbus masses piled up over the western boroughs. Soaring and dropping might put her within radar reach, if only actual radar pointed up. She spins and twirls on her axis, sometimes slowing for the sheer freedom of drifting through different currents of air. This is the only freedom Scarlett knows, sometimes, and she swan dives backwards towards the city.
*
It is by chance that Angel spots Scarlett as she bursts from a cloud. He checks his speed for a moment. There aren't that many who fly at all, let alone faster than he does Fortunately his eyes are up to the speed of tracking her. He soared higher, then stoops into a dive that will take him in a loose curve near her path.
*
She pierces the cloudbank on the way down, hands extended to her sides in a classic swept back, delta formation. No wonder those braids are so intricately woven, thin and complicated; she needs them to keep her face clear, and worse than that, to avoid having a snarl of fox-red that would confound any brush's ability to get through.
Keen-eyed as he is, Warren no doubt can see her flying garments are patently ridiculous. Opaque leggings, a mini-dress little better than a tunic, not even much of a coat to speak of. At least that thin leather trench is belted around her waist, and her gloves one concession to the cold of altitude. Only near the nadir of her arc will Scarlett open her eyes, palm rising to shield them from the whispery glare… and there he is, a figure on the wing outlined against the star-dark night. Lips part and the shock of it sets her to bottoming out the curve instead of steeply rising, slowing by friction that puts her on her back parallel to the ground at several thousand feet.
*
Warren's flight suit is its own sort of ridiculous. A body suit with red through the arm, legs, and a cowl piece that frames his face but leaves his blond hair exposed, if somewhat pushed back. A "T" of white covers the rest of him, through the shoulders and down his body. White boots complete the outfit. He levels off when she does a small distance away. He pumps those powerful wings and rolls to one side, giving him a moment opt wave her way before he turns the move into a bank that carries him away and up.
*
The young woman staring up at him gives the man a salute; familiarity has been found with that suit before, and she has an inkling of its veracity. No white robe and harp? Check. No scythe? Excellent. Rolling in a tight formation, Scarlett performs a comparatively sharp course correction that no jetfighter in this era can hope to match, and few people might even attempt out of fear of their internal organs rupturing. She does it without a second thought, pulling straight up and arrowing smoothly after Warren, cutting right through the midpoint of his arc. Might as well say hi the old fashioned way.
*
Warren glances back and is surprised to see the tight maneuver. He can't really hover, but he drops his speed as far as he can when he sees her coming his way. Hard to talk over rushing wind. He calls out when she gets close. "Nice night! And Nice moves!"
*
Hovering is more in her purview, but there is nothing to stop her from roughly pairing herself to his flight speed. Naturally those downdrafts create challenges, bobbing Scarlett about like a cork in a disturbed pond, but she can try to adjust easily enough. "Tad chilly!" One might prefer the hotter climes of summer, but do as one can in the depths of December all the same. Her voice has to pitch loud; she has neither Warren's hearing or his keen sight to compensate, only the means to amplify is cupping her hands around her mouth. "Thanks! Avoid west — too many planes!"
*
Warren nods at her words and gives a bright smile which she may not be able to see in the dimness. He calls out, "I'll keep that in mind!". He laughs as he realizes who he is looking at. He calls out, "At least there's no big dogs up here, right?" He He beats his wings to pick up some speed and gain altitude.
*
The spin of movement leaves her chasing him, fiery shadow to match Warren's pace. "No dogs," Scarlett agrees, the laugh stripped from her lips in rapid succession. She shakes her head, braids streaming off her scalp. Peeling away from the winged man, she shoots ahead of him at a fairly rapid clip and then comes to a complete stop, buoyed up by hanging fully in place. It might make the process easier or harder, this way.
*
Warren pulls up and backwings into a near stall near the hovering woman. He chuckles and calls out, "At now you know why I didn't use my own shirt on his leg!" He has to start flapping again a moment later. Although he cant hover, he can spiral around in a fairly tight circle so that is what he does, keeping just far enough to avoid buffeting her with his wings or the powerful gusts from them.
*
"Too conscious of your appearance?" calls out the redhead, laughter on the air. Air tumbles around her, currents buffeting her as she hangs in place. She can rotate with him, arms tucked tight to her chest. "Are you well? The woman there was deeply troubling."
*
Warren gives a nod, "Too public. The wings are a lot to explain." He shakes his head then at her other words, "She was a bit disturbing, yes. She seemed so unconcerned with the consequences of what she had done. And they call us the freaks."
*
A nod follows this, and the agreement implicit in the action brings a somewhat dark expression to the girl's face. Memory conceived between them warrants a look of dismay languishing deeper than she might care to admit, though her nose wrinkles slightly. "I doubt she is normal, had I to guess. However, it is rather cold." Looking up, a grimace teases over her features before Scarlett gestures groundward. "I'll need to descend, I think. Good evening to you, oh angel of the upper atmosphere."
*
Warren is in his element up here, and reveling in it. He calls back, "Safe flying. I wouldn't be surprised if I see you around." His wings up, driving him higher into the night sky, where he soon vanishes behind a wisp of cloud in the darkness.