ArchivedLogs:Splashdown

Splashdown
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Shane, Joshua, Cyclops	2015-10-12 "What the fuck kinda rescue operation /is/ this?"
Location <PAC> Tropical Storm Nora - Central Pacific
Five hundred miles southeast of Hawaii is not the place to be this week. From above, the storm does not look very impressive. Its structure is haphazard, with no visible eye, so that the uninitiated might think it nothing more than an immense cluster of dense white clouds. Down below the deceptively peaceful-seeming cloud cover, however, the cyclone rages. The sun came up almost two hours ago, but at sea level here the skies are still dark. Torrential rain lashes down at the roiling water from low, gray clouds, and the wind draw strong across the cresting wave-tops. Storm or no storm, the X-jet seems to handle pretty well through the turbulence. It's not a large team today. In the pilot's seat, Scott seems placid, unruffled by the tumult he steers the jet through. Beside him, Joshua -- no, nevermind, there /was/ a Joshua a moment ago but his seat has just been vacated. In the back, Flicker is dressed in his uniform, unbuckling from his seat as they sweep down lower. "You ready?" He's looking over at his teammate with an outstretched hand, a lift of brows. The question may not have been intended for Scott. But even so, an answer comes from the front. Quiet and assured: "You're ready." Sitting across from Flicker, Shane just looks -- more wide-eyed than usual, eyes opened to enormous black pools that take up the majority of his thin face. His gills are fluttering quickly, but press down flat when Scott speaks. "Oh. Sure." His voice is level, chin jerking up in a quick nod. A moment later he offers Flicker a grin -- toothy, albeit smaller than his usual. His hand stretches out towards the older X-Man. "Are /you/? I don't see your gills." The yacht had capsized shortly after sending its last mayday earlier that morning, and since then drifted many kilometers on storm-tossed seas. The half-dozen teenagers aboard huddle in the filthy upturned cabin as it slowly takes on water. From a distance, through the driving rain and spray, its white keel bobs erratically and at a glimpse could easily be mistaken for a dense bank of foam. Flicker's brows lift. He leans forward, clasping Shane's forearm firmly. "Who needs gills? Got you at my back." He jumps them out of the plane in a rapid shift, flitting down-down-down into the storm below. The already dizzying whirl of his jumping grows an added lurch to it, buffeted intermittently by wind in the moments when he's paused long enough for it to /hit/ them/. Stopped here and there for only a second to scan their surroundings. "Not here to save your sorry ass. How 'bout you just do me a favour and --" Whatever this favour is, it's lost as they launch out of the jet, though. Shane grips Flicker's arm tight, his other arm curling around the teleporter's waist. The howling of the storm around them eats the rest of his words. He slackens his grip enough to turn his face, though, inner eyelids sliding closed and his nostrils twitch-twitch-twitching in the air. As Flicker moves, he guides; more by smell than by sight in the heavy rain, wordless but tugging and pointing in the direction of human scent on the fierce wind. Less precise than it would have been in /not/-a-gale, but eventually close enough to the unsteadily bobbing ship that Shane simply lets go, dropping into the water beside it. The water immediately surrounding the yacht tastes of urine, stale alcohol, and fear. It is difficult to see much through the filthy, fogged-up portholes, and the entry to the cabin is underwater, pushed tightly shut by the water pressure outside. The water carries the sounds of the trapped teens' frantic conversation: "...been hours, no one is coming to get us." "/Fuck/ you, Andy, this was /your/ fucking idea. Typhoon party my--" "We'll be okay," a calmer voice cuts in. "We just have to wait this out. They'll find us once the storm passes." There's a moment of concern when Flicker drops Shane down into the water. Hovering over the churning surface. But eventually blipping down to one of the grimy portholes. His mechanical hand raps more solidly against the glass than a flesh one would. "Hey -- can you hear me in there?" His voice is pitched loud over the howl of the wind. "We've come to get you out, but you're going to have to sit tight for a couple minutes. How many of you are in there?" Shane's breath stops, when he hits the water. Mouth closed, inner eyelids closed, nostrils closed; his gills open wide, though, as he circles the half-sunk ship beneath the water to take stock of it on all sides. He pauses, by the cabin door, fingers closing around it to give it a testing pull with his not-inconsiderable strength, gauging the pressure against with the yacht only shallowly submerged. The upended boat lists slightly in the water as its passengers all scramble to the porthole from whence had come the hope of their rescue. Someone wipes the glass from the inside with a sodden sleeve, which affords Flicker a dim view of several youthful faces crowding the porthole, but no more. There is a confused clamor from inside the cabin as many voices speak over each other, loud to Shane's ears and faint to Flicker's: "Please get us out of here!" "Oh thank God, thank the Coast Guard, I don't even care who--" "How are you gonna get us out, the door's underwater!" "/Shut/ the fuck /up/, Andy!" In the midst of the hullabaloo, a pair of smallish hands press up against the glass, one with all fingers splayed, the other with only the thumb extended. A much quieter voice, probably audible to Shane if not Flicker, repeats, "There are six of us." Under Shane's clawed fingertips, the door begins to unseat from the gasket that lines its frame. As soon as the pressure seal is broken, water starts pouring inside around the door. Not rapidly! But noticeable enough that the teens inside shriek with alarm. "Hey -- hey. It's going to be okay. We have a plane waiting to get you back to land, okay? And my partner and I can get you there. He's going to swim you out, and I can get you onto the plane." Flicker's (flesh) hand rests against the glass, briefly, pressed up against the other side of the porthole from the splayed hand. "Just sit tight and stay calm. He looks a little different, but we're here to help. He's a /really/ good swimmer. We're going to get you to safety." For all the raised pitch of his voice, Flicker's /inflection/ stays calm. Continued speech as much to give the people inside something to focus on as anything else. "What are your names? I'm Flicker. My partner is Shane." When the door starts to give, Shane's fingers grip harder. Yank harder. Straining enough to yank it open against the weight of the water that presses up against it. He slides in around the door, pouring in with the water that flows into the cabin. Barefoot, shirtless to keep his gills freed, he's just in black wetsuit-pants. His head breaks the water first, dark eyes scanning the cabin quickly. "Hi. I'm Shane. I'm going to get you out of here." He is rather self-conscious about not showing /teeth/ when he talks, calm and steady. While Shane works at the door, Flicker's talking seems to bring some measure of calm to the six trapped behind it. His question, though, causes some of them to hesitate. The quiet voice replies first. "Iska." Removing their hands from the glass, the owner of the voice voice pulls themselves up against the window and peers out through the larger handprint in the condensation. They can probably see Flicker somewhat better than vice versa, for the latter can discern little more than a dark, dark brown eye set in a dirty, youthful face. "Brian," says a much deeper voice from the back: the one who keeps telling Andy to shut up. "my brother is here, too, but he got knocked on the head when the boat flipped." "Takeshi." "Jonah." Then, reluctantly, after a long pause: "Andy." As the door gives way and the water inside starts to rise in earnest, the teens scramble to get higher handholds. The partially submerged interior of the cabin is cluttered with beer cans both empty and full, along with food containers, defunct electronic devices, and all manner of nautical memorabilia. It also tastes faintly of human blood, and even before he surfaces Shane can see that one one the teens is supporting another. When he does surface, he is greeted with only two shrieks of surprise. "Take Eric first," says the big fellow holding up a smaller, semi-conscious boy with a nasty-looking head wound. "He's hurt." Andy (after he stops screaming) looks as though he wants to dispute, then, looking at Shane, hesitates. Then glances at the water level. "Fuck that, get /me/ outta here. My dad can make it worth your while." "We've got first aid in the plane, too. Let's get your brother out first, alright? Shane, can you take them two at a time?" Flicker jumps away from the porthole, flitting over to find an unsteady resting place on the ship just above the waterline, somewhere over where the submerged door is. His hand wipes at his eye, his form shimmering and hard to make out -- restless as he blips back and forth in place to keep his footing in the driving rain. The look Shane shoots to Andy is hard to discern in the dim cabin. Brief. "I won't be long." He holds out an arm towards Eric and the smaller boy. "Here. I can take him. -- Iska, was that it? Do you think you can hang on around my neck? We only have a very short swim before we get to Flicker. I'll be back straightaway for the rest of you. Get ready." Distracted by Shane as they are, the teens do not seem to notice Flicker vanishing abruptly from the porthole. Hanging onto an open cabinet door in what was once the yacht's kitchenette, the big fellow delivers his brother to Shane. His eyes are wide and his breath quick, but he does not shy away from the much smaller shark boy. "Thank you," he mumbles. Iska pushes off of a bulkhead and toward Shane, moving through the water with an easy grace that bespeaks a lifetime of swimming. The skinny arm she crooks around Shane's neck is tense, but she continues treading water. Her dark, dark eyes fix on Shane's gills as she sucks in an impressively deep breath and nods to indicate her readiness. Shane curls an arm around Eric, pulling the other boy up in against his chest. When Iska nods to him, he wraps his hand up -- cupping it around the semi-conscious boy's nose and mouth as he dives back under the turbulent water with his cargo. For all his tiny frame he moves surprisingly fast, navigating the churning dark waters swiftly to pull them back through the door and up to the surface. "Flicker!" He doesn't even wait at the surface of the water, releasing his cargo and -- mostly trusting in the other X-Man to /get/ them as he dives again, speeding back into the cabin. Flicker /is/ waiting -- though quick as he is it's hard to tell he wasn't just /there/ at the water's surface when Shane arrives. One hand curls around Eric's shoulder's; his mechanical hand is offered to Iska, pulling them both up onto the side of the ship. "I'm going to take you both to the plane," he's already starting to say. "I teleport. It's going to be quick, but it's going to be disorienting -- I apologize for that. You ready?" If Eric understands Flicker's words, or what has just happened, he does not express it except with a sputtering at the seaspray bombarding them outside the dubious shelter of the cabin. Iska's eyes are a little wide as she clings to Flicker on their precarious perch, but she nods. "Ready." Back inside the cabin, the water has risen dramatically. Andy is busy (not altogether coherently) defending his reasons for wanting to go next. Brian, no long occupied with holding up his brother, looks just about ready to deck him. Flicker's teleportation is a whirling disorienting rapidfire thing, as promised. The world lurches around them. Disappearing-reappearing-disappearing. Blip-blip-blip. It grows less jerky -- though no less rapid -- when they burst back /above/ the storm, leaving it an oddly tranquil sea of calm-white cloud beneath them. In this peace the jet circles. Flicker's grip on the teenagers is secure -- it likely doesn't make it any /less/ nerve-wracking to be brought on an evident collision course with a very fast-moving plane. /Evident/ collision course. His last jump lands them neatly inside. Gets Eric settled in a chair. Iska can find one for herself. "This kid is hurt. Can you call Joshua back?" He lingers only long enough to tell Scott this before -- poof -- off again, back down to the ship. "You two." Shane's selection -- Brian and Jonah -- is essentially at random. Mostly at random. Perhaps he wants to break up a potential fight between Brian and Andy. He gestures to Jonah first. "Hang on tight. Like Iska did." The smile he gives to Brian is crooked -- a veeery tiny flash of teeth only brief before he presses his lips closed, gestures with his arm. "Quickquick. Promise, I'm stronger than I look." Despite the smile, a marked sense of urgency in his tone, as he glances at the swiftly rising water. "Thank--" is all that Iska manages to get out before Flicker vanishes again, "--you." She hangs onto the back of the chair beside Eric, swaying a little on her feet, though she does not sit. After checking on the injured boy, she starts peering around the interior of the aircraft, eyes curious and keen. Though Jonah, a gangly and sunburnt redhead, had screamed when he first saw Shane, he needs no more persuasion now than the sound of his name. Brian does indeed start to look worried/skeptical, but he shrugs and wraps a long, muscular arm around Shane's shoulders. He is a solid young man, no doubt, but buoyancy negates much of his weight. The contrast in size between rescuer and rescuees this time is rather stark and might frankly seem comical in circumstances less dire. "You're gonna leave us to drown in here!" Andy bellows, his face twisted with panic as the churning water reaches his chest. The other remaining boy, Takeshi, is looking rather pale, but at least not belligerent. "-- got one who needs some patching up. You two okay back there?" This first is said softer, into a headset. Though after this Scott glances up, looking back over his shoulder towards Iska. Flicker is already long gone, picking his way back through the buffeting winds to find the storm-tossed boat again. Take up his perch. Wait. Shane doesn't bother with an answer -- mostly because his gills are opening back up, rendering speech a little bit difficult. His arm curls around Jonah, shoulders settling as comfortably as he can get beneath the much larger Brian. Unwieldy, perhaps, but as he slips back under the water there's no doubt about the power in the kicks that propel them through the water. Not /quite/ as lightning-swift as the last time; the added bulk of his passengers doesn't seem particularly hard for him to manage in terms of /weight/ but navigating the door under the dark water, the swift current, takes a few extra seconds before he can pull them free and shoot for the surface to hand them off and go back for the last two. Who he finally /does/ address: "-- Not letting anyone drown. C'mon." Iska looks up at Scott, her hand lingering on Eric's shoulder. "He's getting worse," she replies quietly. Then, almost like an afterthought, she adds, "His father is wealthy and influential." Her tone is very neutral. "Most of their parents are." Brian does a some kicking of his own once they clear the door, little though it might help in comparison. Jonah has started flailing just a little by the time they reach the surface, and, gasping, clings gratefully to Flicker. The bigger teen, soaked and out of the water, is simply too heavy to heave out onto the boat itself. He is squinting up into the wind-lashed rain as if he expects to see the plane above them. By the time Shane returns to the cabin, only a long wedge of air remains between the water and the inverted floor. Andy and Takeshi have retreated to the far end of the cabin where the gap is largest, and both start splashing toward Shane the moment his spiny head reappears. They latch onto him with adrenaline-boosted strength even while pressing their faces to the ceiling-floor to get a last breath of air. Flicker's caution to these two is the same as to the last, before the equally stomach-dropping trip up to the plane. Joshua is there, this time, by the time they arrive, recently appeared by Scott and wandered back to help Eric. "That's nice." He sounds faintly amused, in answer to Iska. "I'm sure it means he'll be able to afford a good cushy hospital once we drop you on land." Flicker just has a smile. Quick. Wry. His head shakes. He vanishes just as quickly as before, once he's set Brian and Jonah down in the plane. Shane waits just long enough for Takeshi and Andy to grab a final mouthful of air, hang on securely, and then dives back under the filthy cold water. As high as the level as risen in the cabin, this trip takes longest still, pulling the other two boys down and down and through -- up and up and up. /He/ doesn't gasp for air when he breaks the surface. Just looks for Flicker, a deep frown on his face as the waves toss him. "Mmm." Iska's acknowledgement sounds pensive, perhaps ever so faintly faintly approving. She watches Joshua, not really even looking at the others when they arrive. "Who are you? Your organization, I mean." Brian closes the distance to his brother in two massive steps and hovers over him. "Dude, if you end up in a coma, I'll be grounded 'till I'm 70." For all the bravado, it doesn't take a telepath to feel his concern. Jonah just drops into a seat and shivers, despite the perfectly comfortable cabin temperature. Cleaving to Shane for dear life as they slide up the slope of one wave and down the other, the last two rescuees gasp and sputter and cast their salt-stung eyes around in complete bewilderment, looking for a ladder, or boat, or any visible means of transit. "What the fuck kinda rescue operation /is/ this?" Andy's demand is not so much angry as terrified. "Hang on, guys. This trip's going to be a little bit rocky," Flicker explains, again. "I'm going to teleport us back to the plane. It'll be jarring, but it'll be quick, and then we'll be out of this storm. -- Shane, hang on to me." Because he's grabbing on to the two others; the ride is a bit more lurching than the previou ones. Flicker kind of pale and shaky himself by the time he reaches the plane, sinking down against the floor when he drops the others into it. "... tired one," he answers Andy finally, apologetic? -- amused? swiping his hand across his eyes. "Won't be a coma." From over where he's been tending to Eric's wounds, Joshua sounds confident about this. "Best touch us down soon, though. There's another ship not far off that needs help." Flicker just looks to Shane. Brows lifting. Shane's shoulders roll. One webbed hand presses absently down the gills at his side. /This/ time, his smile is quick and toothy. "It's what we're here for."