18954/Flying Brick Friends

Flying Brick Friends
Date of Scene:	30 August 2024
Location:	A few miles up.
Synopsis:	Cir-El is up in the sky for a time-out. It's not going well, and out comes a shout. America arrives to give it a scout, finds a supergirl full of doubt. There's tacos and talk, laughs and smiles, and the two set off to eat up some miles.
Cast of Characters:	Cir-El, America Chavez

---

Cir-El has posed:
It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Cir-El trying to find her place among them.

Hot off her recent re-entry with some damaged rocketry, she's taken the following days to really promise to herself she's going to be as good as her Auntie. Not just in doing rings around the planet, but ~safe~ ones. Planned ones. Maybe even...graceful ones.

Like someone who has fallen off a bike and needs to get back on ASAP, Cir-El is up in the sky, which has only innocent white cotton-ball like puffs. She's up there, cape fluttering, breathing measured, and repeating some manner of head-nonsense from a recent popular movie.

"In through the nose...out the anxiety goes..."
"Down comes the sun...and tries out all the rain..."

"Wait...waitwaitwait..."

There's a loud scream from her throat. A mental image of a tumbling piece of rocket plunges through her fake calm, trailing anxiety and exhaust.

America Chavez has posed:
Can a Kryptonian ever truly belong with Earth birds and Earth planes?

It's truly a troubling query.

Beyond the philosophical questions of what it means to belong, it is very true that, on days like today, there's no better place to be to get away from it all than the skies. The privilege of the flyers of the world is untroubled, quiet blues and dappling white clouds of gathering moisture. It's one of the best places in the world to get away from the world.

Whether you need to relax, or try to work through something, or just scream it out,

or perhaps even...

"Huh."

... react to someone screaming it out.

The voice comes from somewhere to Cir-El's left, just behind her. She need only look to find a young woman around her age, dressed in a denim jacket emblazoned with white and red stripes along the shoulders, a blue tank top studded with a star at its chest, a pair of black short shorts and a pair of very themely red-white-and-blue sneakers, currently sitting cross-legged in the skies with all the casual ease of someone lounging on a sofa.

America Chavez, fellow flying denizen far from home, peers at Cir-El with a muted sense of curiosity. In lap, a grease-stained paper bag labeled 'TACOS' in crude, hastily scribbled marker; in her hand, a hard shell taco hovers, inches from her mouth.

A second of silence passes. And then, conversationally, America offers,

"Nice lungs," as casual as can be. And then she holds out that taco she has yet to start, in offering.

"You good?"

Cir-El has posed:
Cir-El doesn't have a firm grip on her reactions, because if she did, she wouldn't be wearing the one she gives America. She'd have chosen something cooler, and non-plussed. She'd have preferred to appear as this other woman.

Now that's how to be discovered, and the posture seems much more Yogi-like, which stupidly stings a little if she gets down to comparisons. "What?"

Kryptonians in the world of tomorrow seem to have less RAM than current denizens of the planet. Okay, now it's even worse. Mia blew her cool, and it wasn't even in private, and there's this kick-ass femme wearing a pretty nice set of threads regarding her.

Cir-El's eyes feel hot. Not hot enough to produce those tell-tale pinpoints of red, but her embarassment makes it feel like it. She even flicks her gaze to the left, because she's not confident in that moment.

A huff of visible air escapes between her teeth, like the radiator grill of some old overheating automobile.

"I'm super." she says with a tight throat. Shoulder's rolling back, she angles on over to hover next to Chavez. She tries conversationally, "Did you hear that just now? Some sorta...I wanna say a sasquatch. Cryptid, probably. Yeah, government sometimes flies 'em all over I hear. Keep them mysterious. Every once in awhile..." Mia reaches out for that delicious taco. "...Sometimes they just drop out of nowhere. Like a ton of furious bricks."

America Chavez has posed:
If it's any consolation for poor Mia, America takes her embarrassment in good stride. That laid back impassivity reigns supreme on her dusky features throughout the Supergirl of Tomorrow's heated, huff-puffing distress, save for the very slight uptick of dark brows.

Really, maybe that just makes it worse. But at least America doesn't seem to mind.

The Utopian vagabond just offers up that taco and waits with unerring patience for Cir-El to float her way and take it up. 'I'm super,' the Kryptonian insists.

"Uh huh. I figured," answers America, in that oh-so-dry tone that both accepts Cir-El's declaration without judgment and yet somehow simultaneously suggests bullshit on the entire 'super' idea. In at least -one- sense of the word, anyway.

Cir-El takes that taco; and as she puts forth a highly plausible Sasquatch Situation Scenario, America nonchalantly pries open her TACO bag and pulls out a fresh, piping hot offering of taco, meat, and all the fixings.

"I heard they're a real problem around these parts," says Cir-El's new flight-capable friend, without even so much of a bat of the eye. Not even when 'these parts' happen to be 'the skies way way above solid ground.'

"Hear they like to show up when someone's having a super day and just ruin it." America takes a bite out of her taco; chews; swallows. "Real pain in the ass fuckers like that."

America looks sidelong pointedly at Cir-El here. And then: "America. America Chavez. You?" She waits exactly one whole second before amending: "Besides 'super,' I mean."

Cir-El has posed:
Cir-El is fully on board Flight BU11SH1T direct from nowhere to elsewhere. She even nods along, faking a curious peering about herself, as if a hairy abomination may streak past like a comet while they hover.

Her fingers carefully craddle the taco, hefting it towards her mouth and nose to give an eager snoofing. It looks like she's about to lick it like she's been rolling a cigarette. It doesn't come to that as she's not that fresh off the escape pod. Her maybe-Uncle would probably laugh at a joke with that kind of pedigree. That has her grimace and stop acting super weird.

She samples the take-out food that America took-up and offered. She eats with the manners of someone not afraid of crumbs or spillage. Cir-El eats with gusto. Muffled agreement towards this kindred spirit up in the clouds who has the wisdom and delivery of a guru who definitely has it sorted out. Though she nearly chokes on a piece of something when her sky-companion slides in a particular observation.

Cir-El's fingers and palms swipe against one another now that the cargo has been stowed, and she greasy-fingers through along her temples. "America Chavez." she repeats, trying it on for size with her own mouth. It's a pleasant exercise.

When it's her turn, she does ~not~ put her fists on her hips and push her shoulders back. She does have to smile though, and it's a bit impish. "Cir-El, when I'm not having a bad day. When I'm having a bad day..." she lets that drop off until it reaches terminal velocity far below. More realistically just a few seconds before her yap is going again, preceeded by a sigh. "If I fudged your vibe out here, I'm real sorry. Thought I'd go somewhere to drops all my...y'know...all the fucks to be given..." she whistles, mimicking something, again, doing the bombs away. "Have I got that phrase right, at least?"

America Chavez has posed:
If there's one thing about icebreakers, it's that they can come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes... -sometimes-, it's really just a matter of stumbling into the exact sort of insane recipe that just -works-.

There's really nothing specific about Cir-El suddenly snorfling at her taco with gusto on the verge of applying a big fat tongueswipe to it that -should- break down barriers besides, perhaps, the patented absurdity of it. And maybe that's what does it -- or maybe it's just the way she looks inspecting that taco. Or maybe how she's -just on the cusp- of tonguing hot fresh taco in a way that may perhaps contain too much innuendo to rightfully describe without self-censoring.

But whatever it is, exactly, whatever the magical ingredients that unlock that perfect formula, it does the trick: America suddenly snorts at the sight and the imagery around a mouthful of her own taco, exclaiming a muffled "mierda!" as she kind of spits out a few chunks of cheese and lettuce and meat into the great wide heavens around them, and just -- laughs. It's a rich, low, brief thing, but one that squeezes her eyes shut with amused mirth as she shakes her head.

"Fuck," she exhales past her brief stuttering, "you know how to treat a taco right, girl."

This, of course, is a compliment.

The Utopian self-exile's good mood endures as she watches Cir-El messily inhale her food. It's a much smaller, more understated smile that lingers on her lips -- but that she's smiling at all is really an accomplishment in and of itself.

Otherwise, though? She's quiet after her little observation, taking another bite of her taco to chew on as she casts her pointed little look Cir-El's way. 'Cir-El.' She clocks the implication of the name - it's obvious enough, really - but says nothing at the moment, instead just watching the other young woman as she works her way through her apology. Cir-El whistles, asks that question, and America arches a single brow.

"Good enough," she says matter-of-factly. "You're making it your own. I respect that."

But as for the rest...

"I don't own the sky. No one does. You oughta do what you want whether I'm judging over your shoulder or not." America's shoulders roll easily; she finishes off her taco, wiping her hands with a calm one-two swipe. "You wanna eat some tacos, do it. You wanna drop all your fucks, do it." Dark brown eyes slide s l o w l y Cir-El's way. "... You wanna scream your lungs out like a sasquatch, do it. Who cares what I think?"

She holds that stare for a few moments, before asking the critical question: "So. What -do- you wanna do?"

Cir-El has posed:
Cir-El lowers her chin, her blue eyes framed by her own expressive brows. An intensity that's borne of curiosity, and growing fascination. Her grin gets wider, easier and genuine. She's not sure what's changed, but she's glad for it. Whether it's what she did or leasing a piece of sky in peace and fellowship.

There's also the matter of the tone of that laugh and the richness, unique qualities that she shouldn't linger too long on and lose sight of the moment. "Find a jacket like that." she quips.

Cir-El proceeds to begin a slow orbit of America's position. "A jacket like that would make my Bass happy. Oop." So there's that small matter of remembering to separate her lives, the facade and the for realsies. Cir-El tries to cover by wrinkling her nose and slapping her own wrist for show. "Ackkkshuuully..." she drawls.

"I wanna screme." she states with a lilt and does place her knuckles at her hips, going for a pose that ~would~ serve on a piece of propaganda. "Now that I have sampled one of your earthen delights, I find emboldened to do just as you say, and give one big long supersonic fuck to something I should have done earlier. Drop it, like it, is, hot." she enunciates with as straight a face as she can.

"Wanna scream with me at stupid speeds?" she offers with an empty hand. Whether it's to hold, to high-five or bap, it comes with a toothy smile and a gleam in her eye.

America Chavez has posed:
Find a jacket like that. A jacket like that would...

Cir-El has rotated to America's right by the time that strange slip-up spills from her lips. The star-spangled adventurer peers at Cir-El in that quietly incredulous way of hers; for as lackadaisical and ambivalent as she comes off, there's still a natural sort of intensity to those deep brown eyes that seem to pierce right through Cir-El in unstated scrutiny.

... Scrutiny, however, that never goes voiced. Maybe she just doesn't care to know, or maybe she's just respecting Cir-El's attempts to move away from it; whatever the case, she just rolls along with Cir-El's wrist-slapping pivot towards a very different desire, shoulders rolling forward with nonchalant acceptance.

That hand is offered. And America eyes it for a second or two of quiet (with the mildest detour to incredulously mouth "'drop it, like it, is, hot'?")... before she tucks a hand into her jacket pocket, and slowly stretches into a 'standing' position. Glimpses of little star tattoos on the inside of her wrists can be seen as she raises her hands to pull back that thick mane of curly brown hair, tamping it down into a semblance of order in a simple ponytail.

And then...

America shrugs out of that jacket and, with one smooth motion, swings it about to drape it over Cir-El's shoulders.

It might not be the best fit in the world, especially for someone rocking a cape, but it's still offered up all the same, before one tanned, strong hand reaches out to take Cir-El's in its confident grip.

"C'mon then," she says, the right corner of her lips quirking up.

"Let's give the longest supersonic fuck you got, Super."