It's A Bird, It's A Plane... ((res))

[Clark Kent]

((Told you I had a lot of Hawkgirl-related jokes. xD ))

Clark had just returned from another of his 'trial runs' at the Daily Planet; simple enough desk work this time, the obituaries column. If anything, it had only served to increase his favor with Perry, who had been slack jawed at Clark's typing speed, and declared that he'd never seen faster.

"Not that quantity beats quality," the editor had been quick to add.

Now home, Clark was listening to the news while he worked to put together an early dinner, moving at an almost sedate pace; occasionally he took a small shortcut, using his heat vision to boil a pot of water or his speed to quick-chop some vegetables. For the most part, though, his preparations were rather unremarkable... in fact, the way he was paying attention to the news was far more interesting. He didn't have enough money to afford even a basic television set yet, but fortunately there was an elderly couple three apartments over who were meticulous at catching their programs. It didn't take much concentration at all to listen to their set- creepy, maybe, but hardly creepier than the sounds he had to live with most of his life. His abilities were something he

He was in the middle of squeezing a lemon, compressing it until it seemed to vanish in his hand, when one particular story caused his head to snap up, ears adjusting to hear better and eyes widening.

"This just in; one of FlyCorp's new repulsor-propelled commercial crafts have reported total engine failure due to unexplained circumstances. The plane is currently moving too quickly to track with any accuracy, but reports estimate it is no more than seven minutes from impact. It is expected to hit somewhere in the Green Springs residential district, and emergency personnel are underway to evacuate the area; anyone within a mile radius is advised to get clear immediately. Crew aboard the craft are attempting to regain control, but-"

Clark could still hear the story developing, even as he crossed his apartment and slipped out the door in a blur of movement, checking at the very last minute to make sure the corridor was deserted before he emerged. The black velise he had been avoiding was clutched in his hand. Speeding down the hallway and through the door to the stairwell, he skipped the stairs entirely, instead propelling himself into the air with a short leap and flying through the narrow space in the middle of the spiraling staircase. He reached the top floor before the news reporter had even gotten four more words out, grabbing the railing at the very top to swing his weightless body over to the final stretch of stairs; at the top of those, he shouldered his way through the thin steel door, nearly crumpling it from the force of the blow.

Reaching the roof, he only spared another moment or two to scan his surroundings, ensuring he wasn't being watched before ripping open the valise; blue and red fabric tumbled into his hands, his entire body becoming a spinning blur as his clothes were shed and replaced with the costume he had been hiding for nearly four months. Whereas he had often imagined first donning it some form of reverence or ritual, the reality was he squeezed into it as fast as he could possibly manage, with sheer luck being the only thing that kept him from accidentially ripping it in the process. As he came out of the spin, clothes packed hastily in the small case and tossed to one side, his cape swirled through the air for just a moment, caught on the breeze. It was stretched straight a moment later, however, as Clark sprang into the air once again, hurtling upwards and becoming little more than a faint speck in the sky.

Hundreds of feet in the air, he had to stop dead to seek out the plane; turning in the general direction of Green Springs, he carefully scanned the skies, narrowing and widening his vision and straining his ears through the chaos that was Metropolis in midday. Needle in a haystack didn't even begin to cover it, but as the fearful screams and whine of the failing engines floated to his ears, he finally pinpointed the struggling aircraft, making it out as little more than a small shape miles upon miles away.

"Found you," he murmured and, adjusting his path to intercept it, he shot forward, a sharp pop echoing through the air as he broke the sound barrier and rocketed towards the distressed plane.

He just hoped he would make it in time.

[Shayera Hol]

This is a long way from St. Roch. Over a thousand miles to be precise, but even as she's establishing her role as a protector there Hawkgirl knows that she needs to expand her activities. This is a scouting mission of sorts; getting a feel for the rest of the country in preperation of expanding her activities more nationally - necessary both because she's supposed to be gathering information about the entire planet, but also because St. Roch doesn't see enough trouble for her to use her skills to their full advantage.

As she flies high above the ground, an airplane in the far distance catches her eye. Given her enhanced senses and primary method of travel, she sees a lot of them on any given day, but this one is in obvious distress. Breaking out of her energy-saving glide, she shoots ahead at full speed to intercept it. And as she does so, she attempts to come up with a plan: how can she save all those people inside?

One would think that will all the advantages she has over humans that it wouldn't be a problem, but these primitive aircraft they use for commercial flights are ridiculously heavy and her strength has its limits. Even when she reaches the plane she isn't quite sure what to do but, acting more on instinct more than anything, she catches hold of the tail of the plane. She's studied these flying behemoths and knows how they work - actually she could probably fly the thing herself if the engines were working properly - and knows that the tail is probably the most effective place for her to be if she can even manage to do anything.

Holding tightly to the plane, she opens her wings as much as she dares; she's far tougher than any terrestrial bird and they can take a lot of strain, but even they have their limit so she can't risk opening them all the way. Hopefully she can reduce the plane's speed enough for the pilots inside to bring it to a more controlled landing.

However, as the plane reacts to the increased drag, she realizes that it won't be enough - the plane is just too big for her efforts to make enough of a difference. When that realization hits she quickly tries to come up with a better plan. Maybe she'll have to simply break in, grab as many of the passengers as she can carry, and save those lives at least. But that would be a desperation move - surely she can come up with a better plan than that!

Think, Shayera, think!

But her thoughts are interrupted by a small something coming in at a high rate of speed. What in the world - how does a man fly without wings?

[Clark Kent]

Traveling faster than the speed of sound, his ears could only catch the faintest, jumbled snippets of the plane's prayers and conversations, as well as the sound of its vaunted repulsor engines trying- and failing- to start again. It took what felt like an eternity for him to reach the craft, and the first thing he saw when he drew near was that he wasn't alone in the skies; another figure, female, was clinging to the craft as well, and- he blinked twice before believing it- she seemed to be getting around with a pair of giant wings on her back. At first, Clark worried that she might have been the one responsible for the plane's sudden descent- he could see she carried a weapon, even from this distance. But upon seeing that the plane didn't seem to be damaged, to say nothing for the fact that he couldn't imagine her sticking around on it had this been an attempt to bring down the craft, he chose to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, he had enough problems.

He decelerated sharply as he closed the last five hundred meters, matching the speed of the plane's descent and what little forward momentum it maintained. He came out of supersonic perhaps a hundred meters above Shayera, and at first he didn't pay much attention to whether she'd noticed his arrival, blue eyes widening as the sheer size of the falling craft sank in. Though he wanted to try and do something about the plane now, looking at it, he wasn't entirely sure what he could do. He was entirely untested when it came to these sorts of stunts, and it occured to Clark that this woman, whoever she was, might have been here for a reason other than providing witness or catching a free ride; if she had something in the works, something that might help things work out, his interference could doom the plane rather than save it. So, his impatience aside, he angled himself downwards to get within shouting distance of the winged woman, accelerating just a little to close the distance without making it look like an act of aggression

"I don't suppose you have a plan to stop this from hitting the ground?" he called out, body twisting downwards to face her, now back to matching the plane's descent. His cape flapped back in the wind, the very tips on level with the base of his neck and leaving his costume, and the prominent symbol, on display. His mouth was dry, and his heart was jackhammering in his chest, but despite the anxiety he managed to sound confident, even casual; as if this chat with her was a matter of courtesy rather than necessity.

Still, 'Hello' seemed a bit inappropriate right now.

[Shayera Hol]

Watching the man as he arrives, one thing becomes clear to Hawkgirl: however he's doing such feats of speed and flight, he operates on principles that she doesn't immediately understand. But that doesn't throw her off too much - she is, after all, recently arrived from an alien world capable of space travel, so she's already seen some pretty strange things in this universe.

When he comes close she visibly tenses, naturally inclined to be aggressive when she's uncertain of the situation she's in, though his question immediately causes her to put that on hold - if he wants to help her with the plane, then he's okay in her book. At least until the plane is no longer in peril, for better or for worse.

And it would be difficult for him to ask a better person for advice in this situation: who else would know the principles at work on an object falling through the air than she would? "Are you as strong as you are fast?" she asks back, before hastily explaining, "We'll need to level it off. But not too fast or the wings will break off. But not too slow - the ground is coming at us quickly. If you push on the nose I can keep it steady and straight. But if this doesn't work we'll have to grab who we can." Her own voice is serious and determined but not the least bit anxious, as if the situation doesn't phase her in the least. You'd think that she was completely used to doing this sort of thing.

Based on the physics of the situation, they should be able to pull that off if he has the brute strength for it - something she can't know by looking at him, but he's obviously a man with unusual talents. But even so she's sure that it'll be close one.

[Clark Kent]

Clark nodded for a moment, but as he surveyed the plane, a problem came to mind; it was just a little too heavy to glide unaided, some of its aerodynamic ability sacrifised for sheer bulk. In particular, what she mentioned about the wings breaking off was more than a little alarming; if that happened, not only would the people on board the plane be killed, there'd be untold damage from shrapnel and very large wings hitting the ground at high speed.

"If it hits the ground at this speed, it won't matter how level it is," he replied, managing to sound surprisingly confident given the knots his stomach was tying itself into. "But you're right, it needs to be straightened out. Just... let me try something... don't let it flip over."

It was the best answer he could think of, and with that he pulled away from the winged woman, turning his full attention to the much larger issue at hand.

It was a plane. And not just a plane, but a full-on Jumbo Jet, a passenger plane specially designed to be massive, and hold a great many people inside. It had two levels for God's sake. Clark knew he was strong, knew he was very strong; he had hoisted up the front of his father's pickup truck when he was fourteen, and had even taken his mother in a ride through the sky, in that same truck, just before he'd left Smallville. But even after high school, he had spent most of his time trying to hide his abilities from everyone else, to keep any use of them subtle and small-scale. Even all alone in the middle of the tundra, he hadn't felt compelled to try pushing around glaciers; he had never before had to strain himself, never really had to push his limits when it came to raw strength. In essense, Clark wasn't sure just how strong he was.

And, again, it was a big plane.

But even as his mind was racing, trying to find some alternative solution, some trick of physics or gravity that could pull this off, he could hear the people inside the craft. He heard the screams, the cries for help, the whispered prayers and muffled sobs, the calm but strained voices of the flight crew as they tried to get the plane under control. Their efforts aside, and despite the attempts of the few level heads to calm the rest of the populace, chaos was quickly descending inside the plane as fear started to overcome reason.

Come on, Clark, focus, he told himself, jaw tightening as he, finally, took action.

"You steer, I'll hit the gas!" he called to Shayera, one last attempt to impart some assurance.

Arms pressing to his sides, he angled towards the rear of the plane, accelerating carefully as he swept past the open windows on the right side of the falling craft, the second level. To any inside, he passed by slowly enough to be spotted, blotting out the sun in his wake, but it took a few rows before the paniced populace noticed. As he had hoped, the reaction was almost immediate, and fear began to turn into surprise and curiosity, voices calling out to those in front to keep an eye open for his passage. He could hear a variety of voices rattling off a description of the man who swept past, but he continued to push forward, finally reaching the wider windows of the cockpit.

The pilot and co-pilot, embroiled in their controls, didn't even notice the man flying outside their side window until he rapped on the glass firmly, nearly startling what few wits remained out of them. As they spun around to stare at him, mouths agape, he waved, and then pointed towards the back of the plane, his finger angled slightly downwards. Their confusion only deepened, but after he pointed in that direction a few more times, emphatic, the co-pilot seemed to catch on, managing a stunned nod.

Hoping the man had actually understood what he was trying to say, Clark carefully maneuvered towards the underbelly of the craft, buffeted several times as he passed through the plane's slipstream as he glanced towards the ground to try and guess how much time he had left. It was much closer than he would have liked.

Glancing up and licking his lips a bit nervously- nobody could see the gesture, after all- he marshaled his strength, spreading his arms out and lifting his palms. Lacking much of an alternative, he found the strongest, most reinforced part of the hull he could, about halfway down the length, and then pressed up with all his strength, grunting as the seemingly unstoppable force that was the plane's mass and momentum fought against his own sheer will. He had never, never strained so hard in his life, and at first he was worried that he wouldn't be able to make so much as a dent in its fall, that this plane was going to crash anyway, with him its only survivor...

"Come on..." he growled through gritted teeth, feeling the metal slowly giving way under his palms, shoulders and heels, both muscles and mind straining to push him, and his burden, aloft.

"Slow... down... now..."

And then, gradually, that immovable object began to... finally... slow down... just a little...

She had better be having an easier time up there...

[Shayera Hol]

"As we level it out the wings will transfer much of the vertical momentum to horizontal momentum," Hawkgirl comments on his reply, but whether or not he understands the physics of the situation doesn't really matter to her as long as he agrees with her plan and is capable of doing his part of it.

She remains where she is until she can see him coming close to the front of the plane, when she closes her wings most of the way so that she can more easily change her position. Pulling herself along hand over hand, she positions herself so that she's right at the top of the vertical stabilizer and, gripping hard enough to dent the metal a little, she spreads her wings partway again so that she can act as a sort of a second horizontal stabilizer - one that can respond instantly to the situation and is controlled by someone who understands flying much better than the pilot and co-pilot combined.

When the people flying the plane follow the blue boy's instructions she grunts at the effort of readjusting her wings to compensate, but after that the adjustment makes it easier for her focus just on keeping the plane from rolling. For a human mind, it would be very delicate and technical work, but after having spent a good portion of her life in the air and with her own two wings it's really more a matter of instinct. No, the really hard part is simply keeping her grip on the smooth surface of the plane as she throws so much force into her movements. And the strain on her wings is painful even though she's being careful to not do them any permanent damage.

As time passes with no change in the plane's trajectory, Hawkgirl is halfway to calling it futile when she starts to feel the effect of the man under the plane. "That's it, keep going!" she says, not knowing whether or not he can hear her but not really caring. Instead she finds herself looking ahead even though the ground is still a ways away, looking at the path ahead of the plane to see what it might hit. Any sort of a structure would be terrible - she'd have to assume it was inhabited, and it would probably result in a crash that would kill anyone inside and the passengers. They need a park or a field, or something. They're probably going to be very limited in their options with how close this is going to be regardless, but she is right next to the rudder and can steer a little.

[Clark Kent]

It was working. He could feel the plane's descent slowing, feel the erratic flight stabilizing, and before long the slightest tug informed him the pilot, or maybe Shayera, was turning the craft. A fall that normally would have taken two minutes had now been going on for nearly eight, which hopefully was giving those down below more time to react to the plane's unscheduled arrival.

Skin flushed, every muscle in his body bulging from the effort as he adjusted his posture to help keep it level, Clark risked a glance downwards and saw that the pilots, lacking a runway or even a clear space, had aimed them towards the next best thing; a broad, eight-laned highway, a straight stretch that extended for... well... maybe far enough.

Ohhhhh boy...

It had obviously been cleared out in record time, as even as they drew near Clark could see cars fender-bending their way off every available ramp, whether it went in the right direction or not, policemen on foot and in vehicles coordinating the exodus. Fortunate, because he realized that he was rapidly running out of time.

Nonetheless thanking the heavens for being blessed with people who could think, Clark's relief only increased when, as he had desperately gestured for earlier, the massive landing wheels began to extend. He knew perfectly well that when those wheels touched down on the road, at this speed, the shock of the impact would probably turn the entire plane into a battering ram for anyone on the outside, but rather than disengage at the last moment, he rode it all the way down, using every ounce of force he had to slow its fall right until the end. As expected, when the plane hit the ground, the resulting shock jostled Clark hard, knocking him clean out of the two-inch thick groove his body had formed in its hull, and hurtling him down to the pavement below.

His work wasn't finished, though, as even though the pilots hit the brakes with all due haste, throwing smoke from the tires, for a heart-stopping moment it seemed it wouldn't have enough road to shed its speed. Clark seemed almost to bounce when he hit the ground, leaving cracked concrete in his wake as he took to the air without delay, hurtling past the decelerating plane. Spinning in midair and facing the oncoming nose that bore down on him, he stretched his palms out, bracing himself as best he could.

At first, he seemed crushed against the nose of the charging aircraft, his body unable even to cover the entire front of it, but soon after it made contact with the caped hero, the plane slowed sharply, his hands vanishing up to the wrists in the nose's metal shell.

And then, fifteen feet from the bend in the road that would have meant an off-ramp exit... the plane stopped dead.

The breath coming out of him in a sharp, relieved rush, wanting nothing more than to cut his 'wings' and flop onto the street with relief, Clark nonetheless straightened his back, pushing himself a few inches higher so he could see inside the cabin. He was greeted by the sight of the pilot and co-pilot, both clinging to their controls as if they feared the plane would take off again should they let go, their eyes wide and uniformly staring at the black-haired head that had just popped into view. Giving them a smile and another cheerful wave, which the co-pilot returned with a stiffly raised hand, Clark gave another light push to carry him over the nose of the craft, lifting back into the air and resisting the urge to glance back at the crowd that had begun to gather some distance from the plane.

There weren't exactly cheers from their midst, little besides murmurs in fact, and a few gasps when he took to the sky again; after all, nobody really knew what to make of the strange man who had suddenly dropped a plane in the middle of their commute.

After sparing a brief glance downwards, though, his eyes went out once more, searching for the strange woman.

...not that he should be talking.

((By the way, wasn't sure if she'd be clinging to the plane post-landing or not, so crowdly reactions towards her are totally yours to write! n.n *thumbs up* ))

[Shayera Hol]

With no clear space ahead, Hawkgirl is at a loss as to how they're going to manage to get the plane on the ground without smashing into something - which would likely kill anyone in the way and all the passengers inside. However, when the flaps move to turn the plane, she turns to look at where they're headed: a nearly clear freeway. Well at least if they're going strap wings to several hundred thousand pounds of metal, they have some sense in how to manage the inevitable problems. She carefully angles her wings to assist in the turn, keeping the plane steady in spite of the unnatural pressure being applied by the flying man.

As they get closer, Hawkgirl tries to gauge their speed against the available length of the freeway but can only judge that it's going to be close. But then again, all she could be sure of this entire time was that it was going to make for a dicey ending. As the ground comes all too close, she adjusts the grip of her already aching fingers, then angles her wings so that she's once again functioning more to slow the plane than to steer it - any attempt to steer it once it's reached the ground would be useless.

It's a bumpy ride, and try as she might to hold on, her grip gives out partway through. At first the drag of her wings leaves her behind, but the plane slows down much quicker than she does and as it grinds to a halt she catches up, gliding because her wings are too sore from all the strain to want to flap. Exhausted, she uses the raised part of the top of the plane just above and behind the cockpit as a convenient landing spot, and her wings immediately droop behind her so that they're resting on either side of the plane instead of neatly folded behind her as if even that effort is too much. She's breathing hard and rubs her fingers against each other to reduce the ache. At least her legs are okay - two out of the six of her limbs are fine.

Focused on her various aches and a bit overwhelmed that they'd actually managed to pull it off, Hawkgirl pays little attention to the people milling around on the ground, though she's getting her fair share of attention. It's debatable whether having wings or being able to fly without them is the odder sight. But to a degree she's used to being stared at - even though the residents of St. Roch are getting used to her appearing when there's trouble, there's always the staring. She doesn't want to imagine what it would be like if Thanagarians didn't have a reasonably human-like appearance aside from that detail. Then again, it probably doesn't help how she so rarely removes her ferocious-looking helmet.

She does notice when the flying man comes into view in front of the plane, and she immediately comments, "Airplanes have got to be the most ridiculous inventions in the universe." Of course, being from a race where everyone has their own set of wings, such things weren't invented until they started exploring space and were never used for mass on-planet transit so that's more of a matter of cultural differences in opinion.

[Clark Kent]

"Most of them don't have an alternative," Clark pointed out, clearly having no trouble hearing her over the growing buzz as he drew nearer. His blue eyes gleamed with obvious curiosity, and it was taking every iota of politeness- and self-control- not to just X-Ray her and determine just how human she was. If she was indeed inhuman- or, better, was from another world entirely- he intended to discover it through honest questions and conversation, not through methods that might offend her.

Hovering for just a moment over the plane, he drifted a bit closer before touching down five feet from the prone hero, red boots making an audible 'clomp' as they settled on the hull. He was more than a little tired himself, partially physical and partially emotional as the sheer stress and pressure of this daring little stunt finally gave way to relief and the sweet feeling of success. He was actually tempted to sit down in front of her, maybe cross his legs as if they were seated at a campfire rather than atop a failed commercial airline jet in the middle of a gathered crowd on a sealed off freeway miles away from any airport. But something about the eyes watching him, the numerous questions and, yes, judgements, kept him from relaxing too much. Instead, his arms crossed over his broad chest, somehow both a self-conscious and a confident gesture as his face turned subconsciously towards the setting sun. Even the weakening rays felt good on his skin, in a way that probably wouldn't have been noticed by someone who didn't share his particular dependence on it.

"Thank you for your help," he added, smiling in what he hoped was a friendly manner as he considered the winged woman in front of him. "The plane couldn't have been stopped without you, and the passengers are the better for it. I think it's a safe bet that we both have questions we'd like to ask," at least, he hoped it was the case, "but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not do it here. The skies are about to become very, very crowded."

Already he could hear choppers drawing near, a sound slightly too soft for human hearing, and nearly smothered by the sirens and conversation of the crowd below. They still weren't sure what was going on, even though the equivilent of a centennial celebration was taking place inside the plane itself; the prospect of being alive after coming so close to death was obviously intoxicating, and a part of Clark was tempted to greet them when they finally got out of the aircraft.

But this was too much too soon, and though he was more than willing to have pitched in as he did- he held no regrets at his involvement- he wasn't quite ready for the second stage; revealing just who he was to these people. He knew the day would have to come, but not only had he just come to a better understanding of what he was capable of (a plane, for God's sake,) he was faced with a strange new face, and questions that needed answers. He was about to suggest they take off immediately, but considering her state, to say the least for what she had just been through, he accepted the possibility that she just might not want to start flapping just yet.

But to someone with his hearing, the approaching thrum of news choppers was starting to sound like a full marching band performing a symphony in his eardrums. A glance to the east confirmed that there wasn't much time to hang about; even without telescopic vision (or 20/20 vision, for that matter,) it wasn't hard to see a few small specks in the distance, slowly growing bigger as they drew nearer. No doubt they had been in the air already, prepared to rush to what was thought to be this plane's inevitable crash site; that it had just been saved by two decidedly inhuman entities probably had most of the reporters salivating.

"I guess you're going to automatically dismiss this idea," he added, a bit of wry humor creeping into his voice as he raised an eyebrow, "But considering you countered the inertial force of an airliner's jumbo jet, if you need a helping hand getting back off your feet and to a safe distance, I think I can offer you a lift." To sweeten the deal, and hopefully help put her at ease, he added mischieviously; "It'll give you a chance to see if I'm hiding a jetpack under my cape, after all."

[Shayera Hol]

Hawkgirl's hearing may not be on the same caliber as his, but she can hear the murmurs of the crowd all too easily. Their intentions toward the plane are probably not as clear-cut as one would think - it probably won't be until the pilot and copilot are interviewed and confirm that their involvement was of the helpful nature and not the harmful nature, and for that bit of information to be spread around, before anyone will be absolutely sure what just happened.

And given how she's been pushed to nearly her physical limit, she'd rather go and rest than wait around for someone to start asking a few proper questions - most of the ones regarding her will be answered anyway as soon as someone from Louisiana hears of this and is able to connect the winged woman who stopped the plane with the one who has been appearing around there a lot recently. And its true that they both probably have a lot of questions better asked and answered when there isn't a crowd watching.

Glancing over in the direction of the helicopters, which she can see easily with with eyes that are, once again, much better than a human's but not as good as his, she mutters, "News helicopters - vultures of the city." Her breathing has already slowed somewhat as her body realizes that the hard work is over, and she smirks at his offer, "As long as I can fly, I will fly. I'm sure you understand." She has her pride, after all! She's not about to be helped away from such a great triumph like an invalid just because she's exhausted.

Lifting her tired wings off the plane, she gives them an experimental half-flap. Yep, they still work, so she'll not be accepting any help. "If you know of a good place to talk, lead the way. Though for my sake, not too fast," she says, weary but ready for more. Just needed to catch her breath is all - yeah, that's it. Though it is a bit disconcerting to her to suddenly meet someone who seems to be better than her at everything; that's definitely something she has a few questions about.

[Clark Kent]

(('Better than her at everything.' xD I'm feeling guilty now! ._. She beat Soloman Grundy, remember you!))

The emergency response teams had begun to gather around the plane now, most of them working to get at the access hatches and help the passengers off. One fire brigade, however, clearly had other plans, as they were approaching the jet with a large folding ladder, beginning to carefully extend it up the side of the plane itself. A small collection of policemen and firefighters were gathering at the base, eyeing the pair as they waited for their chance to climb up after them.

"Fair enough," Clark replied with a small chuckle, giving the crowd one last glance as his boots already began to lift off the deck, lifting him above the plane at a slow, sedate pace and grinning to himself at the chorus of 'wait!' and other protests that echoed from below. It wasn't until he was sure Shayera had taken to the air herself that he accelerated to a more productive pace, body twisting away from her and lifting a single hand as he first sought to gain some altitude. Once they had topped the height of most of the surrounding buildings, he adjusted from a vertical ascent to a brief pause in midair, entire body spinning slowly in place as his eyes focused on their surroundings, clearly trying to decide exactly what would constitute a 'good place.' After all, the only place he could have even considered private- especially in his outfit- was halfway across the planet, a trip he wouldn't have suggested even on a good day.

Choosing a direction that would take them towards the coast- there weren't any news stations between them and it, and therefore less likely to be news choppers- Clark mentally decided that fifteen miles would be a suitable compromise between ease and effectiveness, figuring that as long as they kept up high enough, they wouldn't be tracked to their landing point so easily. Of course, one of the downsides to wearing bright colors was that there remained a chance they'd be seen at anything short of sub-orbital flight, but at the very least any helicopters There were a cluster of tall buildings in the distance, near-skyscrapers used for a handful of businesses, and to Clark's mind they seemed more than suitable for a chat. Unfortunately, at this speed it would be quite a while before they even drew near the structures, and at this point he wasn't quite willing to wait the entire trip.

Destination selected, Clark pulled back enough to draw level with Shayera, keeping enough distance to give her wings plenty of room to work with, but close enough so he could speak without having to raise his voice overmuch. There was also the small matter that he wanted to be within grabbing range, just in case her assurances proved to be wrong- did bird women have to worry about wing cramps? At first, he was silent, the sheer volume of questions falling atop each other and leaving him unsure of what he should ask first. There was also the small matter of his own uncertainty; he hadn't decided how much of his own identity, his origins, or even the nature of his abilities he was willing to disclose. It was that, in part, that kept him from the public eye just yet, but he was starting to see this woman as an opportunity to... well, practise.

"So," Clark began, selecting what was probably the most obvious point of conversation. "You have wings."

[Shayera Hol]

((Don't worry, she just hasn't figured out how much smarter than you she is yet! And forget Soloman Grundy - in the animated series she killed Icthulhu, the squid god. As in the god her ancestors worshiped. Beat that, blue boy.))

Though a part of her dreads the thought of moving her wings again, Hawkgirl isn't particularly keen on the idea of being swamped by the impending media blitz, either. Sure she'd like to get some attention, but perhaps not that much all at once. Besides, appeasing her own curiosity about the man who helped her seems much more interesting than being interviewed, and worth the ache to the wings.

Giving her tired muscles one last stretch, she takes off after him, fighting her weary way up to the level of the rooftops before easing her way into a more comfortable glide. Knowing that he'll probably match her pace since he doesn't seem as tired, she goes just a little faster than she knows helicopters like to within city limits - in other words as slow as possible while still preventing the news helicopters from trying to follow them. And though that's still much slower than she's probably capable of if the fact that she'd caught up to that falling airplane is any indication, she doesn't now seem bothered by the strain. This reminds her of basic training, actually...

Seeing the direction he eventually looks, Hawkgirl glances that way and nods, needing no further explanation about their destination. She's content to be silent, focusing her attention on keeping her wings moving despite their protests - and actually a little light work like this will probably be good for them after the strain they just went through: less cramping as they recover, according to theory. So it isn't until he talks that she glances over at him.

Unlike him, she doesn't have to worry about telling her story. Or at least, her cover story. She's had occasion to introduce herself to a number of humans already, and they always ask about the wings. Always. "All Thanagarians have wings," she replies, "And Thanagar is a planet a long ways away from here. Doubt I'll be able to get back. Your turn." That's her story in a nutshell, at least, though she's sure that he'll have many follow-up questions. But it's nice for once to be having this conversation with someone else whose very presence raises such questions.

[Clark Kent]

((...he lifted a mountain? Made of Kryptonite? Into space? >.> <.< ...okay, you win. -_- ))

When she revealed her origins, and specifically mentioned a 'planet,' Clark actually halted in midair for a moment, falling behind her as his eyes widened in an attempt to process what he'd just been told. The moment's hesitation only lasted a second, however, and he was quick to return to her side, a burst of acceleration closing the gap in no time at all; though he wanted to ask six or seven more questions right away, her last words once more forced patience upon him. Rather than just snap out an answer that might get him past the requirement as quickly as possible, he did give some thought to it, finally deciding on absolute honesty when it came to where he came from. He had already drawn lines in the sand, of course, as no matter how much he would have liked to trust her utterly, he wasn't in any sense ready to introduce the bumbling, bespeccled Mister Kent to her. For one thing, telling her his alternate identity would, in many ways, defeat the point of having such an identity.

"Well, all Kryptonians can fly," he replied after a long moment, failing to mention the special circumstances involved. "To the best of my knowledge, at least... as for Krypton, it's a long, long way from here as well. Or at least it was. It's... gone now. Destroyed a long time ago; I guess there's no going back for me either. Also, it would be rude for me not to introduce myself, I imagine. I'm..." a brief pause, "Kal-El."

Somehow, it was a little comforting to encounter someone from another world; growing up in a small town in Kansas, he hadn't exactly been surrounded by the odd and unexplained. In fact, Smallville had been in many ways the embodiment of a normal, well-adjusted community, which at times had made the young Kent feel all the more like an aberration.

Of course, at least he looked completely human; it had made hiding his origins far simpler, and it remained a fact that had always struck him as nothing short of bizzare, considering just how different his people were from humans on the inside. All those different abilities, technology, society... and yet a virtually identical physical appearance. Seeing Shayera, though, he was beginning to wonder if maybe the universe was a little more orderly than one would expect; aside from the very obvious difference, she could certainly have passed for human with little difficulty. It was this thought that brought yet another question to his mind; unless she was able to tie those wings very tightly to her back, she can't have been out in the public for too long. So why was she here now?

"All right," he continued, sparing a glance over his shoulder at the now-far-distant freeway they had departed. "What brings you here to Earth, then? I mean, I imagine that you would have stood out a little if you'd been here for any length of time, but I can't say I've heard of a winged woman anywhere... well," he added, a bit of a wry smile crossing his face, "stories of angels aside."


((That raises a question I never considered. How well known WERE Kryptonians before they went boom? o.O Was never sure if Clark's ship spanned galaxies in a few years, or if his aging just slowed during the trip for whatever reason; i.e. how recently Krypton was destroyed. xD The fact that they were nearly all wiped out by the loss of one planet suggests they weren't really social.))

[Shayera Hol]

When the man suddenly stops, Hawkgirl glances back at him over her shoulder, but doesn't otherwise do anything - she can stop pretty abruptly herself, but she doesn't want to put her wings through any fancy maneuvers right now. She half-smiles to herself at the reaction though. She'd suspected that he was an alien, because he'd have to be a pretty strange human to have his abilities, but for an alien to be shocked by her story he must be pretty sheltered.

"Krypton? Can't say I've heard of it - sorry to hear that though," she comments, though if both Thanagar and Krypton are far from earth then it makes sense that they wouldn't know of each other, especially if they happened to be in opposite directions. And it's not like she's been able to gather much information about the surrounding planets with how little the humans here can do by way of space travel. When he gives his name, she replies with, "My name is Shayera Hol, but since I got here most people call me Hawkgirl - easier to remember." And she's guessing it won't be long before they give this guy a nickname too - who's going to remember Kal-El?

She visibly rolls her eyes at the mention of angels, "The last thing I expected when I ended up here was that I'd get mistaken for some divine being." As Thanagarians are pretty much atheists, she finds that whole concept ridiculous - though she has to admit that being mistaken for an angel isn't so bad most of the time aside from that, since it actually gives the person an idea similar to the truth for her reason for being there.

Shrugging that off, she focuses on his question. "It was an accident - I was a peace officer on Thanagar, and I was tracking a gang of criminals that were trafficking in forbidden technology. And all I know is that I got hit by this blindingly bright light, and the next thing I know I landed in this swamp in Louisiana. I'm not sure what it was, but that sounds like pretty forbidden technology to me. That was a few months ago," she explains easily. The trick to a believable cover story is to forget that it isn't the truth except when you're actually completing your mission. And Hawkgirl is certain that nobody on this planet would appreciate why she's really here.

"I assume that you being here has something to do with the destruction of your planet?" she asks. She doesn't need to wonder how he's been hiding herself, though of course she's been on the look-out for any other aliens hiding out on this blissfully unaware planet. Obviously he's lucky enough to be able to blend in, which is nearly as irritating to her as the rest of his obvious advantages. Then again, her job is to determine what the defenses of this planet are, so if this guy's going to be flying around then finding out more about him is a part of her job.

[Clark Kent]

((Hmmm... maybe somewhere down the road the revelation of her real purpose could come into play? Could stir up the waters some, trust-wise. n.n ))

Clark was a little dissapointed that she hadn't heard of Krypton, having half-hoped that she may have been able to provide a little more information. While the Fortress was a veritable font of knowledge, and its interface incredibly sophisticated, dealing with the simulated Jor-El was still more akin to multiple-choicing a phone hotline than speaking with a living, breathing sentient being. That extensive database did remind Clark to inquire about Thanagar the next time he stopped by the Arctic, however; the Kryptonian race was better renowned as a group of surveyors and long-range examiners than as a bunch of social butterflys. Though they obviously had never contacted the Thanagarians, it was always possible they had taken note of them at some point in their history, even if it had just been a long-range probe of the solar system a thousand years ago.

That thought cut short when he realized they probably wouldn't be identifiable as 'Thanagarians' in that event. Pity.

"Hawkgirl..." the concept of coming up with a name for himself, some heroic title that would make him a little easier for the public to bear, had occured to him years ago, when he had decided that performing the occasional secretive deed wasn't the right course. He had already decided then to bear the crest of his family, to honor those who had sacrifised everything to ensure their son would live; the colors, simple and bright, had been intended largely as an assurance, showing those who saw him that he had nothing to hide.

But a name eluded him to this day, some moniker he could use; certainly, it would be less confusing to have something that started with the 'S' his crest looked like, but any name that came to mind either sounded too silly, or too egotistical, to ring true. Shield-Man? Stupendar? Swift Saviour? The Red-Blue Blur? (He had burst out laughing at that one.) He couldn't really think of a name he'd feel comfortable giving to the public; and so he had decided to let them take control of that choice. He hoped that, sooner or later, some inspiration would present itself, a title that he'd feel more comfortable taking as his own.

"I was sent here shortly before its destruction," he finally replied, hands pressing to his sides as he seemed to shrug a little; he was cautious enough not to mention just when he had arrived, or even to hint that he had been but a toddler. "My family, they were forbidden from leaving by a council that didn't believe there was any danger... so they sent me instead. I arrived here, tried to blend in as best as I could, and from there I spent a long time just trying to keep my head down. Still. Not enough, sometimes, to just act like everyone else; for a long time I've been capable of more than I pretended, and recent events have convinced me that maybe I should do something with it. Something constructive. Well." He glanced over his shoulder again; the news choppers had reached the site of the landing by now, and though a few seemed to half-heartedly move in the direction the pair had flown off, he and she were now too far to be spotted with human eyes. "Something slightly less destructive than letting a plane crash, at least."

Clark had always had mixed feelings about the destruction of his home, and of his biological parents. On the one hand, he had no memory of Krypton, no recollection of places or people that he could miss on a personal level; when he had first been faced with the image of Jor-El for the first time, he had felt only the faintest familiarity, a sense that he had perhaps seen those features before, heard that voice. But, raised by good and loving parents, the best people he had ever known, to this day the death of Jonathan Kent still hurt him far more than the loss of his entire race. But, on the other... there was the prospect of being well and truly alone, the only Kryptonian left alive... perhaps even the only one who had ever set foot on it. Maybe Clark couldn't quite miss what he had never had, but he could still yearn for what he knew he would never find.

Still; it felt very, very good to actually talk about who he was, to explain where he had come from, and why. In many ways, it had been similar to the feeling he'd had standing on that plane, his face and powers exposed to the eyes of hundreds. So few people knew what he was capable of, had ever heard of Krypton, and even as he explained what he knew to this fellow being from another world, he felt as if some long-forgotten knot was loosening.