Owner	Pose
Zinda Blake	The Birds of Prey have a pretty good network, even if not all of them have officially been introduced. With a little bit of help from Barbara, Harper is able to reach out to Zinda. And once the pilot figures out how to answer the text, a meeting is arranged. The airfield is small and private, a little ways outside of Gotham. It's one of those places you never know about until you're right there. Instructions were to meet at the hangar, and sure enough there's a modern, but basic, Jeep parked outside.
Harper Row	Once plans were made, the obsessive Bluebird had packed for the trip and and leapt astride her zippy motorcycle. Any reason to open up on some straightaways and tight curves outside the city is icing on the cake. Harper's arrival could be easily detectable, the droning buzz of her transport clear. The girl aims for the jeep and pulls up alongside, dropping her speed, marveling at the location and the tarmac. Shutting down her cycle and swinging a leg over, she shoulders her pack and slings her helmet on her handlebars. A quick raking of her hair with her gloved hands is considered a necessity. A quick peek in her motorcycle's mirror and she's practically skipping towards the hangar if no one is visible outside. A little throat clearing, because it wouldn't do to make a dorky first impression. "Hey hellooooo? Candy gram...windsock inspection...propeller insurance..." she quips with a grin.
Zinda Blake	Inside the hangar is a blonde dressed all in black. Go-go boots, a REALLY short skirt, and a pilot's leather jacket with the 'Blackhawk Squadron' logo on the back probably isn't a replica. There is a P-51 in the hangar and Zinda is peeking inside an open panel under the engine cowling when she hears the voice. "Oh hey there, honey. Harper, right?" she replies, in a thick, Georgia drawl. "Come by for a little shootin', maybe? I'm just nosin' around a bit. This here lil' lady was sputterin' a bit on one cylinder last time I had her up."
Harper Row	Harper has the knapsack cheerfully slung over a shoulder, but the longish case carrying her personal weapon nearly drops from her other hand after she's staring in from the threshold to the hangar. Her head tilted to the side, perhaps nicely silhouetted by the open space of the door, might make a neat scene on a show, if not for her expression. She needs a beat to let her eyes and brain fully take in Zinda as she works on her machine. "Buh..." Hopefully this is all inaudible. "Friggen cool." Mentally slapping the side of her cheek she resumes her trot, closing the distance and adopting a fierce smile. "Yeah, that's right!" Harper gobbles in other details as she allows that drawl to linger in her ears. That's pretty fab as well. "Yeah, a little of the old..." Finger guns with her free hand as she noses at the P-51. "Holy moley, that's real isn't it. And bigger in real life. She's awesome...hard core."
Zinda Blake	Zinda Blake turns to face Harper more fully, offering a poster-worthy grin. Hands on her hips, the blonde is wearing a crisp, white t-shirt under the flight jacket. "You bet that fancy, blue hair it is!" she replies. "Lady Blackhawk, but you can call me Zinda. I have it on good authority when I bought her that she fought in the Pacific, even. And it's true; I found where a few bullet holes had been patched." Zinda closes up the hatch, then bends to pick up a rag and wipe her hands. "So you wanted to do some shootin'? I got a clay thrower rigged up around back if you wanna start with shotguns."
Harper Row	Harper adjusts her grin to something less manic, and she resists touching her blue hair. In her leather biker jacket and ripped jeans, collar and bracelets, she feels a bit shabby in comparison. Or at least abrasive. She scuffs her biking boots and sets her things to the ground, offering her hand over even before Zinda has had a chance to maybe wipe off. "Lady Zinda." She course corrects. "Zinda." she says almost apologetically. "I've heard a lot about you. Good things I promise. And yeah...I could really go for getting one of those in my hands." she bites at her lip. "They're not my go-to but they pack a punch and I've heard them go off often enough I suppose. I can't always rely on my railgun. Specialization...insects...etc etc. Oh...call me Harper...Or blue hair. My mantra this year is...I am a sponge. I need to soak up more stuff." Harper tries to dial it down, feeling cringy. "You own this whole place?"
Zinda Blake	Zinda Blake grins at the introduction, getting most of the grease off before accepting the handshake with a firm grip. Her head tilts a little and she takes a closer look at the blue hair, the piercings, and also the girl's intense eyes and determined expression. "Railgun? Never tried one of those." she offers. "An' yeah, I own a whole lotta places like this. Comes from about 70 years of compound interest an' an active share in a really old company." She leans in closer, then. "That, an' they pay me a lotta money NOT to come to board meetings an' distract everybody with my fashion choices." Wink. "I'll take you for a ride later in one of these lil' beauties, if you want. C'mon." And with that, Zinda leads the way past the P-51. In the shadows behind it sits a P-38, and probably another plane or two off to the side. She heads for the back door.
Harper Row	Harper blurts, "Oh heck yes." No thoughts, not questions about safety, just an affirmative. Harper bobs her head like a pigeon, her gaze drawn to the other planes, and then double-times it to catch up with Zinda. "You're a bird that can really fly then." Harper comes abreast, dragging her things with her, possessive and protectively. "If you're interested, maybe in thanks when you show me yours, it's only fair I show you mine. And get a feel for it. Birds of a feather, should be fine, right? And you can see where I might have picked up some bad habits...like...um, different recoil or something." Catching her lip ring, she tests her enamel briefly. Harper thinks over the concept of compound interest, the time span, the implications. There's questions, and they're going to burble out. "I bet you'd rock the heck out of meetings. Would purr like a well oiled machine. What I wouldn't give to have a garage this size to get my hands messy in when I gotta tune up. Plus...wouldn't have to assault bystanders' ears when I curse. Heh."
Zinda Blake	Zinda Blake laughs at the comment about her in meetings. "My skirts are too short an' I'm distracting." she replies. "Or so I've been told. They also don't like it when I call people out. But an asshole is still an asshole, even if he's wearin' an expensive suit." She shrugs at that. The pilot's strides are brisk, the short skirt swishing with her confident walk. Out back there's a clay pigeon machine, a couple of chairs, and a pair of short-barreled, pump shotguns leaning against them. "I can really fly, and I had one of the highest kill counts in the War." she replies. "A lotta people forget that I was also shot down a few times, and had to fight my way back." She gestures to the shotguns, then. "Go ahead and pick one. Both the same model... 12 gauge, since we ain't foolin' around."
Harper Row	Harper gives both boomsticks a hard look. She chocks her hip and tilts her head, making her faux-hawk fall over one side of her face. "Lefty." And she goes to pick up one of the 12 gauges. She's not a complete newb so doesn't start swinging it around like a loon. A hand plays along the barrel length as she tests the weight in her other hand. "Right. Not foolin around." Her lips press together tightly, holding the street-sweeper. She turns to regard Zinda, and there's some hero-worship kind of curiosity in her eyes. The amount of experience the other woman must hold, and the trials she went through, like a foreign country the Gothamite has yet to experience for herself. ~Kill count~ plays over in her head like a recording on repeat. It makes Harper tense up some in her body language. "That must have been...hard? Not the meetings...I mean, the War, the fights for your life up there, and on then ground. You didn't, like, just handle some goons in a dark alley. Hard core." No fooling around.
Zinda Blake	Zinda Blake picks up the other shotgun, standing so that Harper can watch as she checks that the chamber is clear before picking up a box of shells. "It was a job, sweetie." she replies almost casually. "The hard part was the long days, short nights, bad food, an' waiting from one mission to the next. I flew over 450 sorties and had 103 confirmed kills my last year of the war. Not countin' the one I bagged before gettin' sucked into the time vortex." Zinda starts jacking in shells, then. "Nice an' slow, like this. Smooth, so you don't tear up your fingers. So tell me 'bout yourself, honey. An' why you got them things in your lip."
Harper Row	Harper starts to copy Zinda's procedures when handling the weapon. That critical part of checking the chamber and then delving her fingers into the box for her own ammunition, keep the shotgun safely pointed away. She finger-thumbs in a number of rounds, measured and secure. The sound of things sliding into place is pleasing, the act like a ritual. There's an excellence in doing a thing well and properly. It's what she's here for. "I can't imagine a job like that. That's really...crazy. I mean, that with respect. I'm glad you don't have to do that anymore. Glad you're here and now." Harper switches gears towards herself, as brief and bullet-point as she can. "There's not much to tell. I mean, not in comparison. No weird vortex." she offers a wry grin, her piercing glinting. "Like a lot, had a bit of a rough growing up. At least I had my bro after my dad finally got put in the can. Helped me be responsible. Well, more responsible." She takes a breath. "The caped crusader was always a bit of an obsession. I wanted to help like he helps out folks. Especially my bro, Cullen. He got into some bad bullying and hazing, and this..." she gestures with her free hand about her face. "Well, I thought I could take the pressure off him if my plummage was just as...or moreso...edgy and extreme. It grew into a statement and a personal style. The piercings were me doubling-down, and enjoying...accentuating parts of me. Earrings are great, and I guess I thought I could go further. Maybe it's like those that like getting a tattoo, and they get more. The body can be a canvas. Even if it's just got one patron." Harper gives a small shrug, like a teenager. "Has opened some doors downtown when I need to fit in a certain crowd. It probably doesn't look very elegant?" she asks, with a small wince.
Zinda Blake	Zinda Blake watches the blue-haired girl with the piercings, her smile soft. There's no judgement in those blue eyes, and when her shotgun is full she puts the box down. "When I won my first air race it was as 'Blake Zinder', an' I dressed like a guy with my hair up under a cap." There is also a sign of approval in her nod as Harper tells more about growing up and her brother. "Never got a tattoo, personally. Not opposed to 'em, but jus' never found somethin' I liked enough to wear permanently." The blonde shrugs, then lets her gaze wander as she adds. "Maybe a Blackhawk tattoo...." Stepping over to the clay-thrower, she offers. "When you yell 'Pull', I stomp the button and it'll throw two clays out there. See if y'all can drop 'em with jus' two shots. I'll go first." Zinda stomps the red button, raising her shotgun and jacking the first shell into the chamber. <BOOM> <BOOM> Nothing but yellow shards.
Harper Row	Harper opens her mouth as she listens. There's a lot she didn't know, but she's impressed. And apparently impressionable from how she's hanging on your word. She follows you at a distance, not to cramp your style or invade safe shootin space. "Maybe." she murmers and watches, shotgun held at the ready. Her pulse is rising, because now skill is coming to the fore. Because she should be paying strict attention to the matters at hand. She flinches at the explosion of sound, blinking as the targets are blasted to pieces. She offers a small ~hoot~, cheering at the double-whammy take down. The smooth motions she perceives are awesome, and they get her blood pumping to measure up. "Okay!" Harper goes to stand nearby, stepping up to a mark. Her hips sway from side to side as she plants her boots, bracing her shoulders and blowing out her cheeks. "No problem." "Puuuull!" Harper shouts, racking and swinging up the barrel and taking quick aim at the targets. She lets loose, and she misses the first. Either not having enough reaction time, or jitters. But she follows through with plugging the second that is sent, blowing it to smithereens as she shoots. She resists following up with a third shot, keeping to just two blasts. "Frig!"
Zinda Blake	Zinda Blake lets out a hoot when Harper drops the second. "Now that's what we're talkin' about, honey!" She'll prep another two clays, and the two women will go through a full box of shells in no time. "Thought you said you've never done this before." Zinda offers, her smile playful. "Let's give your fingers an' shoulder a break for a minute. If you're up for a few war stories, that is." It's going to be a long afternoon of bonding over guns.