[b]NEW YORK HARBOR[/b]

[INDENT][COLOR=silver]Not since the days of when a man named Homer sat down to compose what became the [i]Illiad[/i] had the imp been able to move so freely, feel the wind in his hair as he moved with a predatory grace through the air.

[i]"Tötet die amerikanischen Helden!"[/i]

Flying humans was something new. In the broad sense. The zepplins. The aeroplanes. The notion of man writ large being able to soar was one that had taken some getting used to. And people said that the pyramids had been a marvel of human engineering...

Individuals flying on their own? That was new. Not that he could be one to talk.

But, flying humans weren't as surprising as the hail of bullets that the boy was dancing around, looping through the air. As if dodging arrows hadn't been annoying. What happened to the days when humans would just bludgeon one another with clubs they had fashioned from bone? The whole ballistics thing seemed terribly un-sporting.

The thing about flying was it challenged one's sense of up, down, left or right. [color=lime]"[i]"Herr, welche Narren die Sterblichen sind,[/i]"[/color] the youth quipped in retort, quoting the Poet's Puck from [i]A Midsummer Nights Dream[/i]. While Nate wasn't Shakespeare's greatest fan, he had to admit that he appreciated the character of Puck. He seemed a good chap.

Maybe the Poet had met one of Nate's kind. That could explain how he'd have gotten such a character so right.

With a flourish, the daemon's eyes glowed with baleful hellfire as he made an obscure gesture with one hand. A subtle tug of one's perception. A slight shifting of the light, as the boy tried to inspire a sense of vertigo in the German rocketman. Hopefully enough that he'd mid-judge his spatial orientation and crash into the water below.

Nate didn't know much about these flying devices, but he rather imagined they didn't work well immersed in water. Most human technology seemed not to. Though, now he'd heard tale of ships that sailed underwater so, he supposed that anything might be possible.

Of course, Alistair was rather counting on the boy to position these rocketmen to where he could neatly pick them off. [color=lime]"I might not be American, but I suppose I might be a clay pigeon,"[/color] the boy lamented aloud, as brilliant swirls of light and color sparkled around him.

An intentional attempt at drawing attention to himself. Moths to a flame and what not. They could swarm around him while Alistair sipped tea and lined up a shot from below.

Skirting around the Statue of Liberty, the youth could make out a voice that said, “[color=f26522]Oh, great, they fly now?[/color]”

Giving the fellow below a jaunty salute, the flying boy quipped, [color=lime]"Quite right. No one just [b]walks[/b] anymore."[/color] Then, with a sparkle and shine, shot back out over the harbor in a deliberately slowed arc that ought to bring any goons he'd collected on his tail into a convenient spot for Alistair's marksmanship.[/COLOR][/INDENT]