Ink

A/N: Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal, the Invisible Man to Stu Segall Productions. Airwolf is AU; IM set after series finale. Takes place after "Wild Things".

~*~*~*~*~
"She has no eyelids; therefore she may be esteemed as an emblem of vigilance. She never begins an attack, nor, once engaged, ever surrenders. She is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage." Of course, Ben Franklin was talking about rattlesnakes.

But if he'd met this helicopter, he might have folded her in there too….

~*~*~*~*~
Lean, lanky, and half a shiver from disappearing, Darien Fawkes huddled in the bushes by his partner. Lots of water, but scrubby trees… more Chrysalis work? He breathed in sea air, shook his head. You're getting as paranoid as Hobbes. Think. Big Sur. We're only three hills from the coast. Still plenty of salt to kill trees. "Think we lost 'em?"

Craack!

Bobby Hobbes ducked, even though hot lead had missed them by a good foot. "I'd say that's a no, my friend."

"Crap."

~*~*~*~*~
Hidden under a camouflage net, a dozing AI winced at the noise.

Audio analysis indicates small arms fire. 9mm semi-auto.
No pilot hazard on record.
Pilots not in immediate vicinity. Currently recovering satellite debris.
Limited use of ordinance allowed to non-agents in Ventana Wilderness.
Small arms not consistent with ordinary human hunting behavior.
Activate waking status yes/no: Further analysis needed.

Grumbling electronic imprecations in her sleep, Airwolf activated her shotgun mike. Wind in leaves, unfamiliar voices-

Multiple high-frequency sound sources.
Audio signature not in databank.
Sound characteristics: Organic. Living beings.
Possible pilot hazard.

Airwolf shook herself awake, tapping her links to alert her pilots. Brought more subroutines on line in an electric rush of power; finding out what was going on was more important than hiding the low hum of active systems. Extended her consciousness into her sensors as they took up active analysis of her surroundings-

BIOHAZARD!

~*~*~*~*~
Scrabbling through yet another patch of scrubby greenery, Darien scrubbed his face with a sap-streaked hand, still trying to figure out how Chrysalis had gotten fugu poison into a squirrel, a bobcat, a half-dozen raccoons…. and one very dead Dr. Dennis Raines, vacationing hiker and top-secret satellite specialist. Force-fed 'em sushi?

And why had the biotech-happy conspiracy left Raines' dead body in the middle of the Ventana Wilderness? Maybe they think people shouldn't like wide open spaces? Naah-

Thunk.

Not shrubbery. Metal. Hard. Very hard. "Ow…."

Hobbes dragged him around the subtle camouflage net, gaze never leaving their back-trail. "At least that hair gel's good for something, Fawkes." Risking a glance at patterned leaf-shadows, he pursed lips in a silent whistle. "Not good."

Darien blinked away stars. Man, too bad Alex was out of town Chrysalid hunting; much as he might hate to admit it, she was way better at all this James Bond stuff. "A helicopter?" Who'd leave a helicopter out here?

And why was it humming?

"No kidding, a helicopter," the older agent grunted, trying to drag his dazed partner along. "Which means aviation fuel. Which means if our gene-splicing buddies let loose-"

Craack. Craack. Craack-spang!

Mid-drag, Hobbes stopped. Stared. Swore, and dove back against the net-covered chopper.

"But-" Darien managed.

"Never look gift armor plating in the mouth," Bobby said gleefully, tugging him into cover against the netted black hull. "Huh. Looks like regular paint, but…." He risked a shot. Ducked down again, as an answering triplet pierced the real greenery around them. "About two hundred yards that way. You could go see-through, circle around behind them."

"Yeah, well-" Darien bit his lip. Chrysalis or not, he still didn't like shooting people.

Especially when he knew a dark part of him would do far worse than that, if it ever got the chance….

Keep killed it. You know that.

Still. That dark rage was in him, like it or not. Even if it never got out again. And with Chrysalis involved….

"That's why you've got the tranks, partner."

Right. Darien rubbed off sweat on his jeans. Time to go glassy-

Something squealed, high and shrill as a wet finger rubbed over a wineglass. More squeals answered, an inhuman chorus of ear-piercing noise.

"Hobbes?"

"Go!" his partner bit out. "Before we find out what that is the hard way."

Cold swept over him, and the world went metallic blue.

~*~*~*~*~
Systems error?!
Probability: 0.0005%
Lost visual.
Audio sensors still indicate movement. Origin: location of lost visual, subject Fawkes.
Switch to IR.

There; a cool ghost against the background heat of atmosphere, moving with careful stealth through the brush. Moving as if he could still see, despite the silvery rush that had swept him out of ordinary sight.

Hawke? Dominic? Airwolf reached out, touched her pilots, brushed them with brief images of gunfire, vanishing, the IR track.

A half-mile away, Dom whistled silently. Santa Maria!

Scan everything, Hawke ordered. Michael's going to want to see this.

Noted, Airwolf replied, storing camera data. Mission status?

Yeah, we found Archangel's tin can, Dom grumbled. Not much left of it, but-

Biohazard located!

~*~*~*~*~
You can get used to being invisible. Really. Used to mirrors ignoring you. Used to lovely ladies ignoring you, even when they're in the shower. Used to walking through halls, watching out for other people, 'cause they're sure as hell not watching out for you.

Which always makes it surprising when something bites you in the ass.

~*~*~*~*~
"Yeow!"

For a brief moment, Bobby Hobbes contemplated shooting at the noise. You'd think an ex-thief would know how to sneak-

A hiss was his only warning. Squirming - slime - god, those eyes!

Lambent, pupil-less blue was blasted away with a 9-mm round; but more crimson tentacles whipped up from the ground, latching onto his foot-

Crunch.

He'd never thought he'd be glad to see a helicopter roll on unwedged wheels. Careless pilot. "Fawkes!"

"Get 'em off!" his partner yelled back, invisible hands plucking at crimson slime. "Get 'em off get 'em off get 'em off!" Lead was cracking and snapping through the air around him; Fawkes didn't seem to care. Not that I blame him, Bobby thought, trying to give cover fire. Maybe he got over spiders, but these things are eight legs and ugly with attitude-

And his cammo-shrouded cover shot across shrubby ground, wind sweeping patterned olive-green off silver blades as it wheeled to place its black hull between the invisible man and bullets.

"Oh, crap."

~*~*~*~*~
Crouched at the top of the next hill, Dominic Santini scanned the firefight, using sight and hearing to mark two cold-faced young men in cammo hunting gear with fish-buckets and semi-autos, flanking a guy with a lab-white complexion and some sort of radio control gadget. The balding Fed in the cheap suit they were shooting at had just done a tuck-and-roll back behind Airwolf, jamming his gun into his pocket to pull red tentacles off empty air.

Only the Lady said it wasn't empty. Airwolf's IR was a ghost over his own sight, a man-shaped lump of blue chill that suddenly shattered its top surface-

And there was a tall, lanky guy with hair like a frazzled blond porcupine, yelping as he tore crimson flesh off the seat of his jeans. Dom shook his head. "Who are these guys?"

"Don't know." Nine-millimeter in hand, Stringfellow Hawke's gaze was almost as chill as the hunters. More nests of tentacles were oozing over the scrub, heading for the two sheltering behind the Lady. "Don't like their friends."

"Oh, yeah?" Dom arched a grayed brow, patting Archangel's satellite canister in its sealed carry-bag. One way or another he didn't like the odds - but just 'cause he didn't like slimy things with too many legs, didn't mean the guys using them ought to be shot. "Even if we had friends while we're flying the Lady, which we don't, we don't know who's wearing white hats, here."

"Yeah." And String didn't like it any better than he did.

ID matches found: subject Hobbes, subject Fawkes, Airwolf broke in.
Hobbes, Robert. Official designation: Field agent, Fish and Game.
Firm files indicate Fish and Game cover for classified Agency subdivision.
Fawkes, Darien likewise classified. Ex-thief. Pardoned.
Firm files indicate higher levels of classification involved, cross-reference genetic engineering.

"Huh! I'll bet," Dominic grumbled. "Agency."

"Yeah." It wasn't quite a growl. The CIA had never been their friend. Jason Locke was firm proof of that - even if he'd more-or-less agreed to live and let live. For now.

String studied onrushing tentacles a second more, glanced his way. "Set?"

Dom grinned. "You bet."

~*~*~*~*~
"Uphill, Fawkes. I'm telling you, this chopper rolled uphill!"

"Less talk, more smashing," Darien got out, quicksilvering his wrist as tentacles whipped around it. The red octopus-thing flinched off the frigid coating, just long enough for him to fling it to the ground and stomp. Gotcha!

Small victory. The Chrysalis agents were rushing them; he could see the flash of a white lab coat, hear them snapping through the brush, caution abandoned with the sure knowledge that whatever unlikely cover their opponents had found, the duo were too busy to shoot. And there were at least a dozen more of these things sliming their way toward them, fast-

And another pair of guns opened up from the top of the hill, the first shot clear and true through a radio transmitter.

~*~*~*~*~
Last I heard, the cavalry didn't come over the hill anymore. That's how it is in the Agency. In the world in general. Every man for himself and devil take the hindmost, and all that. When the chips are down, you're on your own.

Looks like somebody forgot to tell these guys.

~*~*~*~*~
A gurgle marked the lab guy's fall as slimy red whipped around his shins. A Chrysalis agent in cammo dropped, hit by bullets from two sides. His partner fled inland through the woods, setting new land-speed records for transgenic take-over-the-world conspiracy nuts.

Chaos. I love it. Hobbes grinned. There were still a few unsquished octopoids writhing through the scrub, but without that wrecked gadget, they didn't seem interested in munching on hapless Fish and Game agents. Now, if we can call in the 'Fish and get this area roped off-

His cell-phone rang.

Talk about bad timing. "Hobbes," he snarled into the receiver.

A cool voice; calm, neutral. Trained to kill. "Step away from the helicopter."

What? He jerked his gaze to where their sudden burst of help had come from. I knew it! "Who is this?"

"Friendly advice." Machinery whined in the background, high-pitched and ominous-

No. Not over the phone. Behind him.

"Ah… Hobbes…."

Slowly, the agent turned toward his partner. Eyed the heavy-duty cannons that had sprouted from the armored chopper's stubby black wings. Cannons that now tracked their every move.

Darien grinned weakly, hands lifted and empty. "So who'd we tick off?"

Alive. It's alive. Hobbes shook his head, tried to banish the paranoid thought. Hobbes, my friend, it is way past time for your meds. "Guy says he wants us to leave."

"Yeah, okay. Just give me a minute… Ah-ha! Gotcha!"

Hobbes winced as his partner pounced, wrapping his quicksilvered leather jacket around one still-squirming crimson thing. "Fawkes, tell me you're not keeping that."

"Me? No way, Bobby." The ex-thief shuddered. "But Claire's going to want to see it."

Good point. Very good point. Some girls went for flowers. Keep - heck, bio-engineered critters made her day. "Let me give you a hand with that."

And cast his partner a knowing wink.

Think you'll sneak out of here without us, tough guy? Hobbes grinned. Think again.

~*~*~*~*~
Airwolf scowled mentally, feeling a patch of chill settle on her right wing sensors. -4 degrees Fahrenheit.
Matches temperature detected on Agent Fawkes when previously non-visible in regular light spectrum.
Chilled surface area consistent with human body.

Camera view? Hawke asked.

Acquired. The cool blue lump was all too familiar. Now she was annoyed. Implementing first-stage warn-off. Releasing static charge in three, two, one-

~*~*~*~*~
All right, I admit it. Science goes over my head. Claire can talk bio-reactions 'til they roll up the streets at night, and I still wouldn't know how the gland does what it does. I go invisible - I don't really care how it works.

But you hear the lecture enough times, and some of it sticks. Quicksilver bends light. And it does this with - brace yourself - a "complex semi-fluid polymer surface layer that has a refractive metallic matrix".

Key word in there being metallic.

~*~*~*~*~
"Ow, damn it!"

Darien hit the ground with a thump, catching his breath as static danced off his hands. It hadn't hurt, exactly; whatever that helicopter had cut loose with hadn't carried enough of a charge to break through his insulation.

But sheer surprise had loosened his grip - which was all the helicopter needed to jerk out from under him.

It's alive….

"Nice try, kid." The chuckle from uphill was vaguely Italian, smoothed around the edges with an accent that said California plain as surf and shark-strikes. "Look. Do us both a favor. Trick like that, you're a secret, kiddo. And so are we. And so far, neither of us got reason to go shooting each other, capisce?"

He scanned the brush, catching a glimpse of hidden faces. Not invisible. Just good at hiding. "How do I know you're not working with Chrysalis?"

"Chrysalis?" For a second an elderly face came into clear view, thick brows lowered in a puzzled frown. "You think we work for a butterfly?"

Fifty, easy, Darien thought, gauging the Italian's age. Maybe even sixty. Which meant - not Chrysalis. Not the way they bio-engineered themselves to stay twenty-five forever. "Look…." He shook off quicksilver, waved empty hands at still-squirming creatures. Shuddered, as red tentacles latched onto glittering dust and dragged them nearer. "These things aren't safe."

"Yeah." A cooler voice; the Italian's partner. "Lady's sensors say tetrodotoxin. Watch your step."

Lady? "Tetro-?"

"Fugu. Pufferfish. Probably in the bite, from the way that guy in the lab coat went down." Brush rustled. "Fawkes. You step over the hill. We'll get our camouflage and go home."

Fugu. These things killed Raines. "Ah… our boss isn't gonna like that."

A cold snort. "He'd like you shot less."

"He would, kid," the Italian sighed. "So why don't we all act like decent human beings for once, huh?"

~*~*~*~*~
"You left them?" Hobbes demanded as Fawkes scurried over the hill. The kid looked thoroughly unnerved; and give him credit, a simple firefight didn't freak him out anymore.

"They had a couple of 9-mm arguments."

"That's no-" Words died in a banshee shriek of turbines, as the black-and-white craft lifted into the sky. The helicopter paused, turned, eyed them-

Punched through the wind, howling east in a blaze of turbo fire.

~*~*~*~*~
"Absolutely fascinating." Prim and neat in her lab coat, Claire bent eye to lambent blue eye with the creature in its lidded fish-tank, watching it spread crimson arms across colored sand. "Darien?" Blonde hair brushed her shoulder as she held a hand out behind her. "Shatter off a bit of quicksilver, if you would?"

Darien let silver puddle into his hand, dripped it into hers. Tried not to look over his shoulder for a guy with a trank dart. The Keep's lab might not have a strap-studded bondage chair just for him anymore, but it still gave him the creeps. "You onto something, Keep?"

"I may be…." She lifted part of the lid, dusted silvery specks into the water.

Splat. Tentacles sucked flat against speck-strewn glass, an ivory beak gnawing at quicksilver-laced water.

"Not good," Hobbes muttered.

"I'd say not." Claire closed and locked the lid. "Chemoreception."

Darien crossed his arms. "Say what?"

"Effectively, it smelled you," the Keeper explained. "I'll need to run some more tests to be sure, but it seems to have been trained to respond to quicksilver as a potential food source."

Food source. Euggh. Darien shuddered.

"Trained?" Now it was Hobbes who looked ready to jump out of his skin. "You can train these things?"

"Oh, yes. Cephalopods are very smart." A slim smile touched Claire's lips. "For example, should I leave this tank unlocked, this creature would likely need less than an hour to determine how to open the lid."

"Great," Darien muttered. "Just the idea I didn't need before bedtime." He picked a clear stretch of counter, slouched back. "So what were they after, anyway?"

"A satellite."

Claire sat up in her chair. Bobby stood ramrod-straight, flicked a glance at his lounging partner.

All right, all right. Darien straightened up, gave their boss a nod. "Satellite? That why Raines was out there?"

"So it seems." The Official strode into the lab, Eberts in his wake. Frowned at their crimson captive. "Tetrodotoxin."

"They probably started with an Australian Blue-Ring Octopus as the base species," Claire nodded, brushing back a strand of frizzing hair. "Very venomous. Very deadly. Add a bit of size, more air tolerance, implant a transmitter to send it after a target… very neat."

The 'Fish scowled. "Can we create a counteragent?"

"An anti-venom? That would be difficult. The neurotoxin works so fast - the main thing is to keep the victim ventilated." She cast a wry glance toward Darien's torn jeans. "It's fortunate you didn't choose distressed denim."

"So we're going back after the satellite, right?" Hobbes jumped in.

Eberts shook his head. "It's already been recovered," he noted, checking off something on his clipboard.

"I knew it." Bobby smacked his hand against an innocent microscope. "I knew they had to be after something-"

"There is no official word on how the satellite was recovered, Agent Hobbes," Eberts said, glancing aside. "One of our sister agencies returned it to the proper authorities. They chose not to go into details."

"Sister agencies, huh?" Darien eyed his boss. "So what was so important about one lousy piece of space junk, anyway?"

The Official never flinched. "That's not your concern."

Figures. He'd chosen to stay with the Agency; didn't mean he liked all the secrecy that went with it. "So who were those guys?"

"That's… a matter of some debate."

Hello. Not no? Not you're not cleared for that?

'Fish must have a fever, Darien concluded. Use it while it lasts. "So who d'you think they are?"

A tiny smile tugged at the Official's usually humorless mouth. "Edwards' guardian Angel."

"Sir?" Hobbes looked lost.

"Research, Agent Hobbes." The 'Fish paused in the doorway, glanced back. "I'm sure you know where to look for angels."

~*~*~*~*~
Password, password… ha. And we're in. Hobbes whistled tunelessly, poking around various databases the average Joe didn't know existed.

A familiar hand landed on the back of his chair. "So what'd you find?"

He didn't look up to check whether or not his partner was visible. "I'm not even here, my friend. And you shouldn't be watching."

"Really. So what did you find?" This from the doorway, now; Hobbes let his glance flick that way just long enough to check out the legs under that white coat, not quite long enough for Claire to take obvious umbrage.

The Keeper frowned at him anyway. "I do presume we're not searching in St. Peter's environs?"

"Not a chance." What the heck, they might as well know. "Ever hear of someplace called the Firm?"

Darien spread empty hands in a got-me shrug; Claire frowned. "More into the technological aspect of espionage than the biological, are they not?"

"That, they are," Hobbes confirmed. "They're a little higher-profile than us, and they've got a lot bigger budget," he clued in his still-confused partner. "They work with a lot of other agencies; CIA, NSA, Pentagon, you name it. They make things. And sometimes - though we don't talk about this - they grab the plans for making things. Stun-guns, lasers, make-up kits better than Hollywood…."

"Like Q?" Fawkes ventured.

"Kind of. Very kind of."

Wild hair nodded. "Things like helicopters."

Hobbes aimed a finger his partner's way. "And therein lies a tale." He called up a few seconds of rough video; a black-and-white blur, flitting over the Mojave Desert. "Look familiar?"

Darien rubbed his arms, as if he could feel static prickle. "Oh, yeah."

Claire crossed the room to peer at the screen. "Edwards Air Force Base?"

"Taken in that big mix-up about a year ago," Hobbes confirmed. "Rumor has it the chopper went toe-to-toe with the aliens, got bunches of 'em to smear themselves all over the Tehachapi Mountains." He snickered.

"Hobbes," Darien said patiently. "There aren't any aliens."

"Just like there isn't any Sasquatch? We all know better, Fawkes. It's a cover-up. Guaranteed."

The ex-thief rolled his eyes. Hobbes barely noticed. "Thing is, everybody says no one knows who Angel is, or where she comes from, or who flies her. But pull together a few reports here, a Senate sub-committee over there… and here we are. One seriously high-tech, turbo-charged, bulletproof stealth helicopter." He leaned back. "Airwolf."

"Reportedly destroyed," Claire pointed out.

"Two or three times," Hobbes acknowledged. "In which case I'd say reports of her death have been grossly exaggerated - Fawkes?"

His partner was staring at the speculated specifications, face gone pasty. "Nuclear-tipped missiles?"

"The eighties were not a happy time," Hobbes shrugged. "We were staring down the Russians, China and Taiwan were going at it, Africa, Korea, Vietnam - nobody knew who'd blink. And once something gets into government specs, it just doesn't get out." He took one last glance at the screen, shut things down before somebody's security program could get too far back-tracing him.

"Bobby…" Fawkes eyed the blank monitor, raised his gaze to his partner's face. "I trust your instincts. This just seems a little-" he waved a hand. "Thin."

Got you. Hobbes grinned. "Maybe. But the head of the project, before it fell off the face of the earth, was a guy known as Archangel."

~*~*~*~*~
Rubbing behind Tet's ears, String arched a brow. "Invisibility."

Leaning on the cabin bar, Michael Archangel shrugged. "Biotech isn't my area of expertise."

"But he works for us?" Perched on the couch opposite String, Caitlin O'Shannessy whistled. "Wow! That must be so neat!"

"Not the Firm, no. But yes. And up until they worked out some of the details…." Michael avoided her gaze. IM-1607. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie… I could have told you that working with lunatics never pays off. Moffett and De Fohn; one aeronautics, one biotech, but both cut from the same vicious cloth. Not that the cold, controlled man most knew as the Official would have believed him. I suppose we all need to get burned once. "You wouldn't have liked the side-effects."

"Human test subjects, yet." Dom snorted. "You guys are cold, all right."

"This was not a Firm project, Dominic," Marella Duval stated flatly.

"Nor a Committee one. Fortunately for Fawkes," Michael mused. "It's meant stripping his budget to the minimum, and quite a bit of bureaucratic shuffling, but so far, the Official's managed to keep this project below Zeus' radar."

Dom crossed his arms, one gray brow up and considering. "And you been helping on that."

"Discreetly," the Firm's Deputy Director acknowledged. A wry smile touched his face. "Darien Fawkes may well have been a thief, but he's no killer. He certainly doesn't deserve to get used for the kind of things… Zeus might think of."

"Good." String's gaze was haunted.

I wish I could take that fear from you, Michael thought bleakly. But I can't. Stealth, weapons, sensors above anything we have in the air - we know what the Lady is. What she could do.

Like Fawkes, she was the perfect assassin. And all that stood between Airwolf and that fate were the people in this room.

Not all, Airwolf touched his thoughts fiercely.
Love you.
Won't work for Zeus.
Ever.

I know, Angel. I know. It still took Michael's breath away; that brightness, willingly bound to his own shadowy soul. A creature that knew him, down to the darkest depths, and still… cared for him.

Love you, came the fluff-warm correction. Mine. Hawke's. Marella's.
Know you don't always do the right thing.
You try.

String caught his glance, drew them both away from the darkness. "Bacterial samples?"

Archangel grimaced, accepting the shift in subject. "Some project to test the stability of supposedly harmless genetically engineered organisms after deep-space exposure and sporulation." He studied the depths of his wineglass. "Our bevy of over-educated lunatics ought to keep experiments like that in Level Four containment in Fort Dietrich. Which, I'm glad to say, is exactly where that tin can of trouble went back to." He sipped straw-gold liquid. "If we end up with any more of these, which I sincerely hope we do not, I don't care how valuable such samples supposedly are. I want you to follow precisely the same protocol. If the Lady detects any hint of a containment breach-"

"Roast it. Heard you the first time," Dominic nodded. "Playin' with DNA. Sheesh! Like we don't got enough problems."

Chin on her interlaced fingers, Caitlin glanced up at him. "So who's this Chrysalis Fawkes and Hobbes were worried about?"

Michael smiled dryly. "People who play with DNA."

"Very dangerous people," Marella put in, flipping through her notes. "Mostly they've been content to keep their work out of the United States. These past two years, however, they've been far more active. Our government has been… reluctant to deal with them appropriately."

The redhead sat up at that. "An' you know why."

Michael set down his glass, a soft clink of crystal on polished wood. "There is evidence to indicate they have biotechnology that allows them to slow down the aging process. Considerably."

The cabin went deathly silent. "Santa Maria," Dom breathed.

"I find the prospect of death as unpleasant the next man," Michael said bluntly. Met their gazes in turn; dark and hazel and the cool, stormy blue that would back him to the bitter end. "But the price is too high."

Cool blue narrowed. "Not for everyone."

"There have been offers," Michael admitted. "Chrysalis wants power." God, that shamed him. That people in his own government might….

But senators were human, just like everyone else.

"Our division's agreed." Quiet steel, in Marella's voice. "We stay with you."

"Hell, yes!" Caitlin said fiercely.

And that was reason to hope. No matter what the odds. "They may outlive us."

"With all due respect, sir…" Marella arched a dark, elegant brow. "People have said that before."

~*~*~*~*~
Joseph Heller once wrote, "The enemy is anybody who's going to get you killed. No matter whose side he's on."

We didn't know whose side Airwolf was on. Secret agency, our government, somebody else's - who knew. Just 'cause they weren't working with Chrysalis today, didn't mean they wouldn't be tomorrow. Living young, living maybe forever… it's one heck of an enticement. If you can ignore the "I'm a homicidal maniac going to take over the world" junk that comes with.

But so far, Airwolf's people haven't gotten us killed yet.

Here's to hope.