xp_logs | Forge & Scott: Checking Up (Reply)

Checking up on his people, Scott stops by to see how Forge is doing. Events are discussed, including what to do about the Blackbird.

Forge looked up at himself in the mirror, wincing at the sight of the bruises along the left side of his face. While he was finally able to open his left eye, his vision was still blurred on that side, although Amelia had told him that it would pass once the swelling subsided. Everything itched, though, and when it got too bad, the annoying itch turned into a screaming headache. Twice since the last evening he'd had to fumble about for the bottle of painkillers, which was even more awkward with one arm.

Carefully, Forge prodded at the remains of his prosthetic arm. There hadn't actually been any biological damage, thankfully, but Nimrod had crushed and torn the artificial bone and muscle completely away with his massive strength. In one of the few lucid and pain-free moments since he'd left the medlab, Forge had managed to tie off broken wires and connectors and cap the torn chunk of metal - at least until he could get down to his lab and work on repairs.

That, however, was going to have to wait until he could stand up on his own for ten minutes without throwing up. "Post-concussion effects," Amelia had told him in her harsh accent. Wincing into the mirror, Forge vowed never again to give Nathan crap about bruising his brain.

As he walked back from the bathroom into the suite, leaning his one good arm against the wall for balance, he heard a knock at the door. "Crystal, could you get that?" he called. A few moments passed before he remembered that his girlfriend was down in the medlab getting more supplies to take care of him. "One minute!" he called out as he limped awkwardly for the door.

The door opened as he approached, and Scott rolled his eye slightly. "It was open. Go sit down before you fall over," he said, a slight smile softening the words. "You look better," he observed.

Gingerly, Forge eased himself into a chair, rubbing gently at his temple. "Considering that a couple of days ago, I was maimed and thrown into a wall by one of the strongest bastards on the planet?" he said sarcastically, "Anything above 'chunky red paste' would qualify as 'better'. I got lucky."

"I've tangled with the bastard twice, remember? Came out on the losing end both times," Scott said amiably, settling into a chair himself. "Although Hungary was markedly less painful than Australia. I suspect because he was off his head in the disorganized way back in Budapest, rather than just being pissed and sociopathic like he was while chasing me across the outback." He eyed Forge for a moment, obviously looking for something other than the outward signs of what he'd been through. "Apart from 'ow', how are you feeling?"

"Fuzzy," Forge mumbled in response, both in reference to the mental haze brought on by the painkillers and the fact that he hadn't shaved in almost a week. "But... if you're talking about my mental health, I'm fine. We wound up in a bad situation that we had no way to predict. If I had to analyze it objectively, I'd say that we did exceptionally well under the circumstances. Siryn came up with a viable escape plan and kept morale up. Reminded us we weren't alone."

He swallowed, and leaned back further into the chair. "It felt that way, I'll admit. Being in there, not having any clue what was going on, if the others were all right, if you guys really assumed we were dead in the crash - well, of all people you can relate, right?"

Only the faintest of shadows crossed Scott's expression at Forge's words. It had been nearly two years, after all. "Yeah," he said after a moment, "I can. I knew that you'd all be looking for me, really. It just got... hard to remember, at times." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "You all did rather well, you know. Although I wish Terry would believe that."

"She probably feels responsible," Forge surmised, shaking his head slightly. "Not logical. I'm an entire order of magnitude smarter than she is, and if I had no reason to suspect an ambush, and I don't blame myself, then logically she shouldn't either. She kept us together, gave us faith when everything seemed against us. If she's questioning her leadership abilities, she's being an idiot. Given the same situation, I'd follow her into Hell if it came to that."

He sighed and leaned forward, arm braced across his knees. "Be honest with me, though. How bad's the Blackbird? We were at low altitude, cruising speed when everything went dark."

"Do me a favor," Scott said, and knew he was avoiding Forge's question. "Talk to her, when you're more mobile and feeling up to it? What she won't believe from me, she may take from a member of her team." He shrugged slightly. "Opinions matter more from those who were in it with you. I've noticed that over the years."

Forge nodded. "Will do," he agreed. Carefully, he got up from the chair and slowly walked over to the small kitchenette, using the edge of the couch for support. Pouring himself a glass of water, he cursed under his breath as his hand shook, spilling half of it across the counter. "And don't think I didn't notice the avoidance," he said, giving Scott a smirk. "I might not be at a hundred percent physically right now, but there's nothing wrong with my brain. If the 'bird needs repairs, I need to be working. Even if it's just in an advisory capacity."

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it again. Considered, for a moment. "The 'Bird doesn't need repairs, Forge," he said, almost gently. "There's no way to salvage it."

"Oh."

Forge's reply was quiet as he looked down into his water glass. "Veres wasn't lying, then. They killed the plane." He gave a small sardonic chuckle, then carefully set the glass down. "Then we scavenge what we can, cannibalize the wreckage, and build ourselves a new one. Here, it wouldn't be impossible, and unless we're talking 'reduced to splinters', I'll wager that a lot of the systems are still somewhat north of hopeless."

He shuffled around the corner, coming back with a dogeared notebook tucked under his arm. He set it on the table in front of Scott and began flipping through pages filled with scribbled notations and intricate diagrams. "I was positing a flying wing design, since most of the bulk of the old 'bird's lifting surfaces were taken up by the thrust engines. Inline vectorable thrust, freeing up more lifting body space for avionics, personnel, cargo, all while maintaining a lower profile. If we can get the Professor to sign off on it..."

"I didn't realize you'd ever put this much thought into a replacement," Scott said, leaning over to get a better look. "A flying wing... how would this affect range and speed?" Both of which they needed. "I wouldn't worry so much about whether Charles will sign off on it," he said almost absently. "He knows we need a plane to do our work. Apparently he was setting aside funds for the future from the time he got his hands on the 'Bird in the first place."

Forge actually looked a bit contrite. "Well, you know. Side projects, futurist thinking, all that. Range and speed... slightly less, but the design more than compensates with utility. Better use of the VTOL thrusters for maneuverability, ability to maintain a level angle of attack on ascent and descent, not to mention that most of the radar-diffusing mechanisms can be made passive instead of active." He tapped the page and looked over at Scott. "We need mobility," he said flatly. "With your permission - and as soon as Amelia clears me for it - I'd like to take a look at what we've got to work with. Don't worry, I promise no heavy lifting."

"No shit," Scott said with an involuntary chuckle, although it came out sounding a bit bleak. "Commercial flights aren't an option for anything except maybe-" Pick-ups, he'd intended to say, but didn't, given recent events. "Well, they're not feasible for much. We're in a non-operational state until we get our transportation capability back. So I think," he said, leaning back in his chair, "it'd be a good idea to get everyone with even a basic level of mechanical skill or relevant powers in on the process once we actually start rebuilding."

"Oooh," Forge sounded happy for the first time in days. "You mean I get lackeys? I mean, um, yes. An open project. Good for morale, and keeping transparency with folks here. Show folks that they can be a part of what we do, even if they're not suiting up."

Scott blinked, none of his slight startlement showing on his face. He hadn't actually meant it that way, but it wasn't a bad idea. Other people are always so much better at the PR aspects than I am... "I want to make particularly sure that everyone who could fly my dearly departed girl is involved in helping build the new one," he said. "You don't often get the chance to develop a feel for a plane like you do when you're that involved in its construction. I knew every bolt and component..."

That got a laugh out of Forge, and he shook his head in amusement. "Sorry, it's always strange to hear other people say that. Once I'm more mobile and--" He looked to his left and waggled the stump of his arm for emphasis. "--yeah, I'll go see what's still usable. And I know just the folks to grab for some heavy lifting."

"If you borrow my wife, you need to give her back in mint condition, or you and I will have words," Scott said, his expression entirely too deadpan for it to be anything but a joke.

"Don't worry," Forge said with equal somberness, "I got through my redhead phase quite a while ago."