By now, the world knew he didn't like flying. He had, however, just cause. He'd spent a rather large chunk of his life knowing that man was not meant to fly, and a few crazy inventors gliding a few hundred feet did nothing to allay his suspicions.
The Blackbird was far from the Wright Brother's glider, but he liked the idea of restraints a lot less than he liked actually flying; he kept his jaw tight, let the kids chatter, and tried not to pop his claws so he could claw his way out.
"Right," he grunted as they finally landed and he could get off. "Relax." He knew he was the very last person to tell anyone else to relax, as it certainly appeared as though he needed to do so himself. He sniffed the tropical air, the tang of metal and sea on his tongue, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Let's do it if we're doing it." Whatever it was they were doing. He was just here in case they needed something stabbed.