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Flight: that great seduction to the landbound mortals. The sky has ever called them, and precious few until Wilbur and Orville Wright got the balance correct unless their twisted genetics or applied magic allowed them to take to the heavens. Two of those anomalies defeat the purpose of fighter jets, missiles, and other conventional air transportation. They hang above the cloud deck at about fourteen thousand feet, give or take, unless Jean has absolute reservations. Up here they might not ping the ground radar of airports, and they are far enough towards Delaware that no major airports really exist. Explaining why the Air Force was scrambled is simply too dangerous to risk.
Team Redhead, airborne unit, then. The soul-thief in question rests on her back, trailing her fingers through the constant breezes streaming around in confused lines. "Enough," she announces. "I'm not taking the summer semester of classes. You and I do not need to teach a gaggle of people today. We need to have regular us days, Jean, you know that. Among saving the world and holding everything together at the seams because sanity is in short supply, we deserve a taste of fun." Her gaze is grave and measured upon her counterpart, the eldritch shade of those vivid eyes intense. "Besides, we could get milkshakes and gossip up here properly if you were inclined." That English accent makes even terrible ideas sound fair.
Firefly in the sky…
We can go twice as high…
The re were no books brought out upon this little tiny mission. A mission of relaxation, practice, and fun. More fun than relaxation. To get the mind off of things that plague and stuff that can't be handled. there were a few errant mutants still in place, the time traveler and the darkling. It… was… well. A bit much.
Then there was school; children needed this, teachers needed that. Administrators wanted this and the public demanded that. One could almost throw the papers into the air and call it quits but this? This was a much needed retreat and it was pretty easy on the pocket books. The only money that was needed was to sneak a treat here and there and fly away much to the surprise of the patrons.
"I don't think I can afford you -not to do a summer class. We need your smarts." Jean finally teases, not falling upon her back within the clouds but moving as if she were a pillar. "Us days used to be reserved at the night times but it's damn hard to do when the kids know where your room is." She leans forward and twirls, then back up again, pillared. "Have we ever gossiped though? I mean, what's new? What's fly? What's swell? Logan's back."
Too much — a time traveller is bad enough, much less one that came from a period with such horrendous music and odd fashion sense.
Scarlett hovers on toe point. Hard to assess how her life runs these days, the current counter to the teenagers in the institute plying their futures through regular lessons. Her own follow a distinct course, to be sure, but separated by days and so much woven into the fabric of their daily lives at arm's reach. The city simmers. Summer lies ahead, and with the hot temperatures, outbreaks of violence are practically certain.
"My smarts?" She taps her finger against her temple, braids pulled in thin woven patterns evocative of faraway realms ruled by Aesir. "I am burnt out on Columbia, fairly certain some fool or another will try to set New York on fire again, and those kids are likely to want to burn down the forest because they like camping." Her eyes are shut for a moment, merely listening, trying to use her other senses to determine Jean's whereabouts. A funny thing, senses. Five of them - - and she has at least six to play with - - but none so essential as comfort. "You're right, finding my room gives them too much access. Which is why I stay offsite more often than not. It's hard enough sharing space with my own kids, let alone theirs. I suppose that's new. Newer. I'm getting used to living on the party line and I don't know how you do it. But that's not a bad thing. I'm never really alone. "
If the world could hear the screeching halted movement that Jean provides within the air as Rogue speaks, it would sound like a crackle-thoom-skirrrrr! that would nearly mimic the second (or quite possibly third) coming of Christ. Jean looks slack-jawed, altering her direction so that her path, pillared still, is directly near her feet. It was as if all conversation was drowned out. The words 'my own kids,' focused on, zeroed on, and… well…
"Wait. What the hell do you mean 'your own kids?'" If there was a hands on hip moment, this was it." Is there something you did not tell me?!"
Hands up in the air like you just don't care, and the redhead rotates on her stomach, floating back into midair. For the thunder clap and corresponding lightning strike bright enough to pulverise all conscious thought, she looks relatively calm. Having several weeks to accommodate the news probably helps not a little.
Scarlett offers a wan smile that blooms as delicately as any cherry blossom, sure to last quite as long. "It's complicated." This said to a woman with her own future alternate self's offspring running around at some points or others, complicated may be an amusing term. "I adopted the boys. Brothers. The whole kit and kaboodle. They have… had… a sister, but I couldn't rescue her." That footnote falls into the void, a whisper of ash on the lips and a trace of old, burning rage behind her eyes that bleeds afresh. The bird surely knows its like, even if she conceals that somewhat. "They're not mine, biologically, in any sense that makes sense. But they never had a day of freedom and after I took care of the person who jailed them, responsibility fell on me. You might like to meet them, but they're still adjusting. Coping." Such intangible, imperfect human words, really. "I think they'd like you. Mat definitely would, though their English ranges from passable to outright atrocious. How's your Russian?"