World Tree MUSH

    To be fair, it had been exciting. Granted, she's not admitting it to anyone, and certainly no one is asking. The whole incident at the pyramid, not quite what she'd been told by the tour guide who sold her on the 'archaeological trip.' Plus, that camera //was// kind of expensive. Giant stomping stone-machine-monsters and magic and...

    Augh. At least they had managed to break it, and recover the burial shroud, for...that infection? The disease, whatever it was called. The cavalry had come quickly; the good professor having managed to escape everything - lucky bastard, she can't help but gripe. Rusalka, meanwhile, had finally managed to return to her beloved Kometa, snaring most of a change of clothes from the overnight bag in her trunk.

    Much better. The worst part had been brushing all the sand and dust out of her shoes, sitting half-in the car and just slowly starting to relax. Tightening them down, then firing up the Ferrari, enjoying the cool air, Sally makes /damned/ sure to burn off spare fuel on the way. Clad now only in shorts, a spare racing shirt, dusty socks, and dusty red shoes, it's...honestly perfect. Wide open road, a good half-hour to the Vine's twisty transition, a full tank of gas, and the car running perfectly...

    Maybe her day isn't a complete wash, she thinks, clocking herself between mile points on her wristwatch. Making fine time.

    There is a strange sound behind the Ferrari. Rather between the drone of a fan and the whine of something electrical and very powerful, it's preceded by the razor's edge of bright light. The headlight of a vehicle, then, something strange and alien right behind the luxury car.
    "Fancy meeting /you/ here."
    There is that familiar piece of technology that the Stojespal heiress saw, once before. The hover edges forward until it's keeping pace with the automobile, although the hover is on the side of the car that should technically be off the road. Every so often, it zips straight up to evade a road sign, only to tuck right back in beside the car.
    Fran is at the controls, unsurprisingly, her entire focus on the response of the hover and the evasion of obstacles. If she cares about the banter between her partner and the blue-blooded girl, she does a fine job of not showing it.
    Balthier is reclined comfortably on the hover's second seat, rifle across his lap. How they managed to get all of those relics shoved inside the Strahl inside an hour's time is anybody's guess, but it probably involved a troupe of enthusiastic moogle magitech engineers, headed by Nono's infectious confidence.
    To the Stojespal girl, Balthier manages a wink. "Thought you could outrun us that easily, did you? I happen to be a fair hand at running. And viera, well." He gestures loosely at Fran. "They're quite literally made for it. You haven't lived until you've seen a viera on the hunt."
    The hover abruptly jags upward before dropping again, avoiding a safety mileage sign that both vehicles exceeded a long time ago.
    "Where are you off to in such a hurry? Nowhere in particular? I know something about that, too."

    A whine like that? The moment it hits her ears she's feeling the car, but there's no strange sensations - nothing through the steering wheel, the pedals, or the seat. Grinding, any faint vibration, nothing. The dashboard also shows now warning lights, and the song of the engine hasn't changed a whit...but that sound gets a little louder, followed by a piercing bright light.

    And it's a familiar whine, now that she remembers, the window rolling down in a surprised reaction. That - 

    -

    "What in the hell are you doing?!" Kometa navigates by Sally's secondhand attention, holding precisely to the lines on the road. Her eyes, when they're not flicking back to the road, are staring incredulously at Balthier and Fran. "Running - I -" Okay, she's speechless. And is mildly insulted. Kometa, versus that flying thing? Hmpf.

    Her foot lowers on the gas, and fingertips flick the car into the next gear up. "If you are half as good as you //think// you are, this is going to be enjoyable." And if not, well, a boring distraction won't last long. Kometa swings up into 8,000, then nearly 9,000 rpm as Rusalka drops the hammer. And it's not on a straight, the wide tires keeping their grip even through some impressive turns.

    Know something about her? HAH! He wouldn't know the first //thing// about Rusalka Petrivna Stojespal, she thinks. //Papa, do not watch me, I am doing something bad and angry. But he is not a good man.// The deceptively shiny black Ferrari shoots past 120mph, living up to its name and rapidly approaching 160.

    //Keep up with me now, so I may crush you in the straight in half a mile!//

    Fran's attention remains solidly on the vehicle. With her reflexes and whatever beast's instinct the viera have, it's put to good use as she guides the hover through the turns and keeps precise pace with the Ferrari.
    "Having a friendly chat, obviously." It's Balthier's suave tones that offer answer to the incredulous question.
    The sky pirate has his rifle slung across his lap, but it isn't raised in a position to use, and she might note that his free hand does indeed clutch a handhold. He might be suave and charming, but he isn't stupid or reckless. Most of the things he does are planned. What risks he does take are calculated.
    Rusalka, however, doesn't know that.
    "Actually, Fran's doing the piloting, in case you hadn't noticed." Balthier flashes a faint half-smile as he sits up a little more intently, clutching the hovercycle's grips. "And she's quite a marvelous pilot, if I do say so myself. She does quite well know what she's doing, and probably exactly as good as she thinks she is. I'd wager her against your vehicle any day, Princess." The title is a mocking one, given more for her behaviour than her station.
    The glossair rings of the hover, the two cyan-lit rings the whole contraption seems to be floating from, flare before the vehicle jumps forward. Fran leans low in the driver's seat, and Balthier leans forward in the passenger, studying the road as much as his co-pilot. Eventually he glances over to Rusalka, wind tearing at him, unheeded.
    "And if you're half as good as /you/ think you are, what, then?" Balthier points out. He gestures with the rifle toward the car, but not threateningly; more to point it out. "That must have cost you a tidy sum. Best pay attention to the road. Are you trying to prove your skills to me... or to yourself?"
    Or to Fran? That's like... less than useful. The viera is wholly apathetic, and she's only doing this because she /does/ relish a good challenge, in her own silent, stoic way. If she didn't care to do this, she would have communicated that to Balthier, and the two would have roared past Rusalka and off into the nonexistent sunset.

    The speedometer flicks to one hundred sixty miles per hour, then keeps climbing. Rusalka's right foot stays down on the gas, the engine's snarl a high-pitched roar...but, with his particular pilot and her entirely inhuman reflexes, Balthier's managed to keep in position with the open window. A friendly chat?

    She flicks into seventh, the speedometer dipping slightly in the curves and rising instantly as she comes out. Her right foot keeps the pressure on, her left hovering over the brake and occasionally using it to keep the nose down at the start of a curve...if Balthier follows racing, she's making a damned good line.

    One that, in the end, is too hemmed in. If Sally were to try to use the sands that stretch to the horizon, she'd make it mere feet before the racing machine bottomed out and spun tires ineffectually. The fact she has to stick to the road dooms her, and she realizes it - at the same time, realizing that he's not going away. Grudging respect to Fran...and she eases off the accelerator, braking gently and letting the engine's whine ease down.

    Kometa hadn't gotten near its top speed, but it had shown its agility and precision. Just how fast it //can// go, she decides...she's not going to show him. Not going to risk //losing// to him, if she can get it to 210 and he's still there. A racer's instinct recognizes Fran's skill, and there's a long, foul sigh as she downshifts and slows the machine, ignoring his words for the moment. Each shift gets a perk of RPMs, but it's speed being shed, sounding from Kometa...almost disappointed.

    A little longer, and the black Ferrari comes to a stop, engine purring as it idles. The door opens, and Rusalka waits a moment as the hover settles in, doing whatever Fran intends, before she steps out and finally speaks - to the viera first. "You are truly a fantastic...driver." Pilot. Operator. Rider? Whatever the appropriate word is. "I salute your skill. Fran." Nod.

    Of course he doesn't get a curtsey, after that crack. "And you know precisely well I am no princess, Balthier." Blue eyes the color of a cold evening's sky finally turn to him. "Half as good...I am as good as I know, and I do not prove it to anyone. Not you, not myself, not anyone." //...Liar. But you will not know whom I prove myself to.// She shakes her head, then glares at her watch.

    He gestures with the rifle, and she bristles - not at the apparent threat, but at the sheer casual ease he has with the weapon. And maybe slightly because it was pointed in Kometa's most vague general direction. "It cost far less, and more, than you think. I salvaged this vehicle, and rebuilt it." Smug? Oh yeah, if Balthier can be the cool man of arrogant panache, Rusalka can at least show up on the same scale if she can't match him.

    "It seems the previous owner truly was only half as skilled as he thought he was, and drove the precious thing into a lake. And was both rich and foolish enough to discard it. I was allowed to purchase it quite inexpensively...though repairs, rebuilding, and tuning it..." A faint, demure smile. "I suppose it was a little bit expensive. But I do quite pay attention. Not only to what the road says, but to what the car says. What the air says. What my soul says."

    A shrug, but a small one, before she points to the driver's seat. "I am myself, when I am there. That is the truth." A glance back at Fran - her skill is more than practice, she can tell. More than simple functionality. There's an intuitive grace and knowledge of the hovercycle she'd demonstrated that went past mere joyriding.

    Kindred spirits?

    The sky pirate looks forward, narrowing his eyes not against any uncertainty, but against the wind. There is no uncertainty. His trust in his co-pilot is complete, even as she pilots the hover at speeds liable to kill them both. He doesn't even look at what she's doing as a more controlling driver might.
    Whenever Rusalka looks away from the road, though, the hover is still there. It dips behind with every fresh burst of speed, but inevitably it catches up again. The top speed on that piece of machinery must be ridiculous and also incredibly unsafe. One can bet that probably isn't a standard option out of the Archadian manufactories.
    When the Ferrari slows, so too does the hover. Fran's red-brown eyes flick sidelong to gauge the sky pirates' position relative to the hover, easing it down to match. When the car finally comes to a stop, so does the hover, although the whine of its engines persists -- the sound of the glossair rings that keep it airborne.
    Fran's red-brown eyes flick to Rusalka, and the stare is intense, like being eyed by a hawk on the hunt. Those mottled black-and-white ears swivel forward, though, as the viera tilts her head, as though weighing that statement. The nod she returns is almost imperceptible. It could be imagined; just the wind rustling her hair, or teasing those rabbit-ears. She doesn't climb down from the hover, though, nor does she release the controls.
    On the passenger seat, Balthier crosses one leg over the other, leaning back comfortably. Those hazel eyes never leave Rusalka, though. He watches her reactions. He studies the nuances of her face, of the unconscious reactions of her shoulders and hands.
    "Convince me." This, to her protest of being a princess. Those eyes are quiet and still, again; so still, unlike most. Working with the viera must have rubbed off on him in years past.
    "I know a thing or two about that," he comments on the nature of salvage. He rolls one shoulder carelessly, reaching up to adjust the lay of one sleeve's cuff. "The Strahl hardly resembles what she began as, in Archadia's shipyards. I've modified her so heavily that she would scarce be recognisable even to her own designer."
    He folds his arms, watching her with eyes hooded, his regard almost sleepy; one brow arches just slightly when Rusalka insists she has nobody to prove herself to. The faint twist of his mouth suggests he knows she's lying through her teeth. For now, he doesn't call her on it. Small mercy.
    "Fair enough." Shifting to sit forward a little, Balthier fixes the girl with a hazel eye, as though sizing her up; something calculating in that still gaze. "So. What, then, now? A fair pilot, I'll grant you that, though I doubt Fran would be willing to relinquish the hover to you. But don't take it too personally. It has some sentimental value to her."
    Her ears swivel back as though unamused at the private joke in his tone.
    "The question is... what are /you/ running away from at such speed?" Balthier tilts his head, the twist of silver in his ear briefly catching the light. "I suppose you wouldn't even be answering that, but mayhap it will give you food for thought. In the meantime, I've a ship full of goods to reappropriate." He tilts his head the other way, arching his brows, hazel eyes hooded. His regard may seem somewhat sleepy, much of the time, but he's far from it. Those hazel eyes may seem unsettlingly /still/, to some, but they miss little. "Unless you've anything else to say... we'll be off, I expect."

    She's not surprised at the hover's matching of speed. There was the racer's intuition that she wasn't going to best the machine, and so had decided not to embarrass herself by fully losing in a race. Ending it early, meanwhile, bought at least some self-respect - and to be quite honest it's much easier to hear Balthier when the engine is merely purring gently, rather than roaring out its power to the sands.

    It's the second time she's seen Fran's skill up close, and it is definitely top tier. She's not willing to concede just yet who's //better//, with the difference in vehicles potentially being more than what she can overcome. Rusalka is, though, definitely impressed with what she's seen. Those eyes...she nods slowly, respectfully. She's seen that gaze before.

    Those of the best racers she's ever been lucky enough to meet, to see up close, have had that stare. That Fran doesn't step down from the machine, well...she hadn't expected it. As insanely maneuverable as that aircraft is - and aircraft it is, she decides - it would be equally insane to leave it out of full control at any time. A faint nod is given back, whether or not the viera did to her.

    "There are some at my mother's airbase that would equally respect her skill, and they too...well, they are hardly pirates. Soldiers, noble in heart if not name. But the sky...it is just as much yours as theirs."

    Rusalka just smiles, holding her arms out. "Convince you? I hardly dress as one, as you can see. I have..." Her tongue pauses, lips pursed to say one thing as she considers. "Other pursuits. A different destiny." Such as what she's doing right now. And then she smiles.

    "I dare not ask to operate it. No more than I would try to steer a rocket by pounding on its fins like a fool." The engineer breaks her eyes away from the duo to inspect, from where she stands, the hoverbike - nodding slowly. As much as it is form, shape and gilding and craftsmanship of high order, there's a reveal of function. Those controls of Fran's, the careful sculpted cup of a seat for Balthier, the long, gentle curves, and those fins.

    They may not be a technology she understands...but they all point to things she can consider. Lines and fields and flows of power; staring deep into it Sally nods appreciatively. And then - she laughs.

    "Sentimental - I do understand that." Her hand rises to the roof of the Ferrari, stroking it softly as if it were the black thoroughbred horse of the company's golden logo. "Sentiment transcends specifications, I suppose. The Strahl as well, I see."

    Food for thought. No...she has food for thought for him. "Perhaps I don't run from...so much as toward. Toward...myself." It's an easy enough answer. Certainly one she's come up with herself before, even if she doesn't yet realize it's not the complete answer. The assurance of youth. "When I drive...I am complete. One with the car, at speed...a fusion of purpose and desire." There's a tiny suspicion Fran would understand her feelings, at least.

    There's a girlish giggle suddenly, one she didn't expect. "I suppose papa would say that. He..." Smile. "A poet, truly. Perhaps he has rubbed off a little. Though...I ask you, before you go." Eyes narrow, before she fires off a final question of her own - one she doesn't expect an answer to, certainly not from the smoothest of sky pirates.

    "Why?" Why are we here having this conversation? Why //me//, her eyes ask. And just to disprove his claims of her being a princess, she doesn't even demand he answer, but just waits standing there by her car.

    Even as the pair of sky pirates idle, waiting for the leading man to conduct his business, the viera maintains her attention on the hovercycle. Her ears swivel this way and that, listening to the subtle sounds of the hover's engine and glossair rings.
    Even if the average hume cannot hear such a machine's voice in full, Fran does. That, or she feels it on a level beyond hearing, beyond instinct. How peculiar that such an instinct should arise in one whose people so abhor hume technology. Maybe Balthier is thinking something along those lines when his gaze flickers over her. Maybe he thinks nothing at all. Those eyes give precious little away.
    "It has naught to do with dress, or blood, or that thing so many call fate," Balthier comments disinterestedly. "It has aught to do with intent, and purpose. The question is, what will you do with it? With the sky your limit, where then shall you go?"
    It isn't a question he's expecting an answer to; his dismissive tone is enough to convey that it's rhetorical. He shifts his weight on the seat, and his grip on the rifle, its polished wood stock and golden ornamentations agleam even in the dark.
    "Do you, now...?" Run towards, and not away. Balthier's lifted brow is one of skepticism, but he doesn't press the issue, nor does he comment on her father, though something in the mention of such kinship causes some of that light to die from his eyes; to slip back into that unnatural stillness.
    He shakes his head in the wake of her mirth. "Why, indeed? I suppose because the gods have a twisted sense of humour, and they enjoy making my life difficult," the sky pirate finally affords, somewhat sourly.
    "And now we've overstayed our welcome. If you'll excuse us. Fran?"
    The viera doesn't even offer an acknowledgement, nor a farewell. She simply raises the hover, and the glossair rings glow brightly as the vehicle streaks trails of cyan light into the night.