Welcome to Gaia! ::

Troxel received the call a bit later in the night than he’d have liked. Being on call for the job he moonlights at did not leave the best of tastes in his mouth- but it kept bacon on the table and the bills at bay. Search and rescue was a nifty little thing to keep his flight hours high. Hell, he did want to retire by 57. He rolled over and slapped at the phone screaming at him. The tiny on call bed, too small for his Sasquatch frame, creaked in protest while he reached to the bunk below and slapped awake his co-pilot. From the grunts and curses filtering through the thin mattress- it was safe to assume he was just as displeased as Harrison. But the call came through and it was game time.

Harrison slowly lifted himself, stepping down the small ladder and half tumbling over to his flight suit. Pulling it on with a yawn, storms have been ravaging the coast for days now- they’re small collective of flight teams have been dealing nights out as evenly as they could. However Harrison, in all of his wisdom, decided that he wanted to exceed his quota. No, he had thought, it’s just extra hours- climb that ladder faster than before. That and yenno, those tiny prideful feelings he feels, knowing he’s helping. He smiled at that. s**t, some hero he was. He had long since lost the warm fuzzies of hoisting another person in need out of a sticky situation. The pilot sighed, and kicked his co-pilot again.

“Nix, get up. We’re on,” Troxel said, zipping his suit halfway.

His co-pilot for the evening, Gary Nixon, was about a decade younger than him. A new recruit- promising in his work as a pilot. He had good control, a good eye – they worked well together.

”Coffee…..” Nixon groaned from his bunk, slowly rising and looking to Troxel. The aviator stood in his full six foot three glory. Half dressed, toothbrush in hand.

“Main office has a keurig and you know it,” Troxel responded with a grin and moved to the door, “see you downstairs, killer.”


The emergency had been called in at 0300- a grand total of four hours into his shift. Harrison looked over the flight plan and sent the request for the mechanics to get the bird tugged onto the tarmac. Apparently a young woman had gotten herself lost in the storm, now decided to waste government funding to go grab her hypothermic and broken self. Urgent medical care required of course- apparently she wasn’t in too great of shape. Troxel scrunched his face; at least the island portion of the argument was valid. Aerial support was faster. He threw back the rest of his stale coffee and grabbed his flight helmet and kneeboard, making sure to stop by the mechanics on the way out to the tarmac- s**t was it pissing rain.

Nixon had completed most of the preflight check- leaving the cockpit check to Trox. He grinned- adrenaline finally filling his veins as he fastened himself in, flashlight between his teeth to finish off the calculations of fuel, weight, wind, rain and other adverse affects that would make this a painful flight. He loved painful flights. As soon as Nixon spilled into his seat and the flight medics on board were secure, they fired her up.

“Tower, this is Dustoff 23…”


It wasn’t a terribly eventful flight to the pick up location; aside from the winds knocking them around- what should have been a 25-minute flight took 40 what with weather and tower throwing them all over the map. They weren’t able to push 100knts at any point during the trip. Nixon handled well in the adverse weather. He had controls for most of the flight to the site- Troxel would take them on the way back. He’d been flying for at least 15 years now. To say the least he’s seen a fair amount of weather. There was something about this storm, these winds that made him particularly uneasy. Something he hadn’t felt in a while. Homeland Security was a solid gig but they abided by the cautious aviator’s rules. Very rarely were there lives in the balance, and all their flight patterns had a healthy sheen of bored hanging off of them. But this was something else.

They weren’t able to land upon reaching the site either- the trees, the ocean spray. It was killing their power and sucking down fuel. However down the medics went on the hoist. Troxel’s forehead dripped under his helmet trying to keep the bird as steady as mechanically possible in the storm. Jaw locked and glaring at the instruments like they were constantly wronging him.

Amongst the radio traffic and confusion he picked out Nixon’s comment.

“She better be ********’ hot.”

He laughed.

After the patient and crew were secure, Troxel soared for his safe altitude. Dirtying the isolated comms with a ‘Yeeeeeeeehaw’, bringing them up. The nearest hospital was less than 4 klicks out. They’d make it in good time, land and do a hot deposit in Gambino General before booking it back to the hangar. Isolated comms were reserved for the medics bumbling over the patient. Troxel liked it that way- at least for now. There was a lot of radio traffic from the back, a hectic white noise behind Nixon calling GGs ATC requesting authorization to land. It was granted without hesitation.

It had been a few days since the storm and Harrison’s flight hours have been expended on medical transportation and search and rescue missions. With clear skies and VFR, it’s been a pretty easy walk. However to Troxel, that is boring. His crewmates were also itching for something a little more risky, edging Top Gun standards. But he wouldn’t get too greedy, Troxel thought as he washed his face in the tiny bathroom. He hunched to completely clear the soap off his hands. Couldn’t get too greedy at all- after all he was indeed getting flight hours. He dries his hands, crumpling the paper towel- shoots! And a score.

As Trox exited the bathroom he felt his pocket vibrate- a sure notion from the work blackberry that there was an email.

TO: HARRISON.R.TROXEL@DMED.GOV
FROM: BEVERLY.T.ANDERSON@DMED.GOV
CC: UNDISCLOSED RECIPIENTS

SUBJECT: MAIL PICKUP RM 302.

Hey all,

Jeremy informed me your team from the storm has one of those thank you letters. Also new Flight helmets are in for those that need them.

V/R

Bev


Odd, he leaned against the wall and replied to all but the original sender suggesting that whoever is heading down to get their helmet should swing and pick up their fanmail- s**t they never got letters like that. It’s kind of embarrassing really. He chalked it up with a ‘well, hey. If it helps them sleep at night…’

That day marked the end of their fifth and final night on call- which of course meant a heavy night of celebration. Somewhere in the mix, their letter of thanks had been called up. A response was obviously required because they were so far and few between. Besides, their boss loved the shaking hands and kissing babies routine. The question was who. Troxel was a large man who had absolutely zero desire to partake in any of the younger folks games but when the game of darts came into play? He was a goner.

To say the least, Harrison was competitive. Any game, any sport, he lived for the thrill. He was also six foot two and lean. Very lean. There must have been a gross underestimation of how much alcohol he had consumed, or someone kept refilling his glass each time he went up to throw a dart but he couldn’t see left from right after the first three rounds. For the first time in a while, he lost. His punishment? Visit the lady who sent the mail. Be cordial, bring her flowers and a get-well card and get the hell out of dodge to sleep off the remainder of his hangover.

He reminded himself to never go near gin for at least a month. In fact he’d rather just swear off all liquor in general. He glared hard at the particulate pattern on the green and white tiled floor as he slapped his visitation badge onto his shirt. He was suffering and it showed. At least he didn’t smell of alcohol anymore and he looked relatively put together. About as put together as Harrison Troxel could look with his relaxed but athletic visage of cargo shorts, performance shirt with a muted graphic of a cliff face pictured on the front, topped off with a simple ball cap advertising his government job as a helo pilot. He knocked on the frame of the open door and squinted at his get-well card, signed by the crew. His eyes flicked up and looked in with an inquiring look before speaking with some mote of confidence.

“Uh- Miss ‘duh lassy’?” he requested from the doorway before stepping in, uncurling a bit and standing to his full frame- relaxed and unimposing, “Harrison Troxel- I’ve got a letter here from the crew.”

Harrison looked perplexed at the name and paused, you could see the stutter step in his mind as he hunched a bit. He had that certain tic. The one that tells him to take up as little space as possible- namely due to Doucette’s stature. He focused in on her, eye flicking up to the other female in the room only briefly. He pursed his lips before realizing that the silence had wandered long enough into awkward territory. This wasn’t his default setting. He reached out a hand to mirror Doucette’s good hand- wouldn’t want to shake a cast. He slummed on a slow but easy smile for the smaller woman and stepped back- lifting his hat and scratching at his head while he spoke.

“Doucette, that sure is a rare name. Don’t think I’ve heard the likes of it,” He paused, replacing the hat and setting down the flowers and balloon with a weighted string down by the others. He snickered.

“Y’do know that this is our job- right?” He gazed over the trinkets bidding good health and speedy recoveries and thought back to when he was shot through the stomach. Pretty things deserve to be surrounded by more pretty things- he thought, raised brow. Instead of aviators poking fun at ‘what are the chances?’ and those bleak hotel rooms. Maybe he received a letter from his mother. He couldn’t remember.

Trox pulled himself back to the present and canted his head slightly, regarding the smaller woman.

“Like… we get paid to fly out into storms and” pauses, censoring himself, “and do these things. And listening in on the comms it sounded like you needed it,”

He kept a smile firmly on his face, because he was kind of a tall and imposing man. At least he was cognizant of that fact. The more relaxed he was- the less awkward the whole visit would be. Now with card and gifts deposited his debt to his crew was paid. His one sided smirk tried to shine through the smile doing something weird with his dimple on his right cheek. He felt the muscles pull.

“Regardless. We enjoyed your card. It was nice. We never get-“ Mental censor, “stuff like that. We all chipped in for the things here and everyone but Johnston signed the card. His wife’s pretty well on her way to having a kid.”

Harrison had spied the floating girl, glowing rune and all. He just hadn’t processed what he was seeing. The pilot’s eyes bugged slightly, lips pursed as he focused on the girl trying for the balloon strand. H wanted to help but at the same time was a bit too paralyzed to do anything regarding the odd interaction. Slowly he crept his eyes over to this Doucette and licked his bottom lip trying to regain control of himself. Say something witty, Trox. Don’t draw attention to the fact that your palms have begun to sweat. Despite the air conditioning he felt a bead form on his forehead. Harrison took his moment, bit his lip hard and squinted a little at the smaller woman.

“Revontulet,” his eyes flicked over to the Raevan then back to Doe, “… y’all like your names ending with ‘ette’ …”

Force a smile, ah. There you go, charming. Nothing wrong here. The surface was cool despite the tumultuous thoughts volleying around Trox’s head. She was missing her torso… and what followed. Harrison paused before reminding himself that missing ribs down is sort of a big deal and the floating girl? She probably knows that. He made tiny squeak with his lips accidentally as he pondered. He was a lip chewer, which promoted a near constant use of chapstick. Honestly he just needed to focus on the conversation at hand. Play public Samaritan. He took that moment to reach a long arm over and help the raevan pull the balloon down to her.

“Don’t fly away, Revontulet,” He tested the waters before returning back to the Raevan’s guardian.

The question that followed next gave him pause and allowed a near full body flush- starting at his neck. Same question his mother hounded him over. He covered his embarrassment with a laugh, hands returning to his pockets easy and furrowing his brows at the ginger woman, taking in a deep breath and coughing.

“Uh… no. No kids,” He paused, looking from Raevan to Guardian and scratched an eyebrow compulsively.

“Despite my mother’s need for grandkids,” He shook his head. “Not yet, not for me.”

He paused and fiddled with his hands because he had just emplaced his application at LAB 305. He doubted he’d ever be selected regardless. He thought of the conversation with his boss, the one outlining his lack of attachment and how that looks bad. How as a pilot he was riskier than most because nothing was there to tie him down. There was a mental huff in recollection. He was risky because risky got the job done. He wasn’t stupid. Trox quickly pushed the conversation from his mind lest it start showing on his face.

“I do have a dog…” He offered, sheepish look from under the baseball cap.

“Fox fire, huh?” Troxel started, nibbling on the tip of his thumb while regarding the raevan. He flicked his gaze back to the guardian, “isn’t that an internet browser or something?”

He was just making fun. Harrison had learned to do that, take an awkward situation and rustle up some banter until his level of comfort rose to a happy range. He bent his knees ever so slightly in order to avoid locking out and falling over. That was the problem with being tall, plus it made him take up less space. It was a cute story, nonetheless, researching for the kid’s name… if it was a kid. He hummed and bit his knuckle in thought, partially trying to keep the question of ‘what the flying ******** are you?’. He had to keep this visit kosher and friendly and all that promotional jazz. He regarded the raevan again, biting his tongue.

“So you’re a helper, helping Doucette with? Is that why you’re--?” He waves from the torso down, insinuating the torso-less plea. Way to go Trox. You left all your tact elsewhere today. He cringed, knuckles pressing to his face, making the freckled cheek pinch and bulge up. He glanced back over to Doe as her conversation continued.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Every once and a while she’ll coerce my father, who is convinced I’m gay, to ask me about carrying on the bloodline. It’s all really goofy actually.” He snorts, rubbing that cheek now, dropping his hands and crossing them in front of his chest. Gesturing with one hand from elbow to fingertips for a while.

“But you at least have a- what did you call her? What did she call you?” He turned to Revon then back to Doe as he snaps his fingers, “Charge. My old dog really doesn’t fit the grandchild bill. They aren’t for everyone. Maybe you should try a bird? Or fish?”

His train of thought transitioned from wards to prospect pets for the odd floating girl seamlessly in Trox’s mind- however in reality it was a bit of a jump. He was so content with the company and conversation that he didn’t even notice the jarring lane switch in the conversation.

Harrison laughed then, hands crossing over his chest again and scrunching his face. His parents were devious in their designs of him to marry and produce babies to fawn over in photographs and spoil. Devious and intricate. He hummed, looking over Revontulet. She didn't seem too pleased but on a similar faction she didn't seem all too displeased either. Of course he had to acknowledge the Frei, stare the unknown straight down the barrel- well metaphorically. Trox did a slight hip wiggle to remind himself of the handgun pressed to the small of his back. Yup. Still there.

Right, the raevan. He licked his lips slightly and squinted as Revon made her stance. Not a helper, she is helping. But what did that even mean? Weren't they synonymous? Confusion was an easily distinguished on his face. Was this girl some robot all high-tech-- no way. He mentally rolled his eyes and considered the girl. This was Gaia- s**t was just weird here sometimes.

He ignored Doucette's chiding of the floating girl and instead treated this as a formal introduction between the two. His coworkers kids did this- probably because they felt left out. It does suck to be in the room and have 66% of the occupants discussing the other 33% as if they weren't there. He'd been in that situation long ago. Formal introduction it is then.

"My name is Harrison. I'm a pilot," He said as he held his hand out to Revontulet, "I flew the helicopter that rescued your... Doucette. So we're both helping I guess."

He canted his head because he couldn't let this go. "So we're both helping. I'm an aviator, and you are a charge to Doucette-- frooom?"

The aviator held his breath as he was approached, the cool hand pressing into his hand. He was afraid to move, flex or grip really, worrying for those delicate bones. The ethereal feeling of the Frei’s palm was smooth and cool but anything but soothing. He counted the seconds following the handshake, the silence growing with each flick of the secondhand. He gave what he hoped was simply a confused look to Doe and then looked back towards the floating aurora. She was asking questions now- or was she stating facts. He couldn’t tell with the tinkling voice. Trox bit his lip in concentration and ducked his head a bit to catch how Revontulet’s lips were moving. They appeared to have a similar numbness to them as the rest of her touch however they did offer aid.

“Pardon, you’ll have to speak louder I’ve had 20 years of roaring machines,” He gave a tiny chuckle- almost nervous. “Uh. Yes, I flew the large thing- you followed? I wish you hadn’t have done that. ‘S very dangerous, yenno? Those large rotors spin very fast and could suck somet-one like you up in them.”

He hissed and mentally chided himself for treating the Frei like a child again. He also wanted to pull his hand away but left it in the Raevan’s grasp- every muscle tense. He scrunched his face and looked to Doucette [who’s lips moved a bit more than the floating girl] and licked his lips. He’d read about Lab 305, his mother had sent a joking email. He’d have to look into it given the discomfort the small woman was exuding. He did raise an eyebrow in question before dropping the subject entirely. He wiggled his fingers in the Raevan’s grasp as a way to deter her or at least get her off his hand.

“Why yes, Revontulet, I do have tiny tiny lady wrists.” He chuckled, looking back down towards his freckled arm and hand, “Not for lack of trying, mind you.”