Scott closed his eyes as the Blackbird took to the sky. He knew the path instinctively. He could almost feel the changes in the air. He opened his eyes to the sky. He pointed the nose towards the sun and raced towards it. The speed increased. The smooth acceleration of the Shi'ar technology let him maneuver the plane in ways its creators had never imagined.
He gained height, then let the plane drop into a barrel roll. He took the plane and himself through the paces - evasive maneuvers, simple banks and turns, high and low flights. Up here he was free. He couldn't stand one more day of sitting down there, trapped behind his desk, the mind-numbing paperwork the professor and the state wanted him to do for the day to day running of a school smothering him, killing his brain cells. He couldn't stand one more sympathy coffee or gentle request to talk. He needed to fly. Maybe he'd fly and never go back. He'd go until the plane crashed into the western sea and was buried by the pressure of the sea. No one would find him. No one would care. Not until some curious future investigator found it and wondered what mission was so important that they'd sent a pilot out in his civvies.
Scott laughed. It was a bitter, sharp noise like a gunshot. Two suicides in one family. What would the papers say? The pain in his chest made him gasp. She was gone. His heart and life, gone. No, not his heart. It wouldn't hurt so badly if she'd taken it with her or shattered it into dust. If it were dust it wouldn't hurt. Maybe he should ask Bobby to turn it into ice. There were no tears. He hadn't cried since the moment she'd decided to step in front of the laser. So if she believed she was a murderer, why couldn't she have killed him too? The pain that seared through his brain as the lasers cut her in two. . . no, he wouldn't think of it.
Just fly, Slim, he told himself. Just fly away.