Riding the power high of my visit to Precious Things, I beetled down the motorway at full tilt, a whopping 40 miles an hour. I could do anything! Hell, if I was slightly more grown I bet I could have flown my own dang self.
I had fire!
“Hotter than Olympus, melt the crap outta Icarus! Who cares about the sun, it’s me you should watch for son!”
Yes, I was rapping. Badly. Seriously. Don’t judge, you have no idea what sort of a pick-me-up belching thermite does to a person.
The sign for Manchester Airport caught my attention. I swerved the Rolls over to the off-ramp and started looking for a service entrance. I had visited this airport many, many times in the past and knew the public areas of each terminal inside and out, but I didn’t have much experience actually on the tarmac. I had been on the ground outside maybe twice, walking from a plane to a waiting bus. But it made sense, didn’t it? Cars had to make their way onto the runway somehow.
After half an hour of driving around the perimeter of the airport, I finally spied a chain-link gate all padlocked up with a big, heavy duty lock built into them. I parked up and left the car idling as I examined the lock. I raked it with my claws experimentally and clicked my tongue in disdain to find it was made of far stronger stuff than I was used to so far. I cursed myself for not bringing bolt-cutters.
Only one thing for it.
I took several deep breaths, trying to raise my gorge and coax out a flame. I had never actually brought the flame out intentionally before, and had no idea of how to reliably do it.
There must have been some method to it, otherwise what was even the point?
In. Out. Nothing.
It only happened when I was full of gems, or when I was anxious.
In. Out. Nothing.
I had a bag of gems stowed away in my car, but I didn’t want to give into my new-found addiction JUST yet. I wanted to see if I could do this without them.
In. Out. Nothing. Time for something different.
It occurred to me that the thing that tied those two scenarios together was what felt like acid reflux. Indigestion. Instead of taking several deep breaths, I took one big one and swallowed it.
I forced out the resulting belch, a tiny shoot of flame accompanying it, gently caressing the lock.
Well, it’s a start, I suppose.
I retrieved some cola from the car. It may taste a little poorer now, but it was carbonated. Experiment time! I chugged a full two liter bottle of the stuff, surprised at how much my tiny body could put away. That was easily enough coke to last the old me a day or so, but I took it all without much complaint.
My stomach gurgled and churned.
Well, some complaint. Good. I felt the gas in my chest raise.
BRAAAAARP!
An impressive jet of flame spouted forward, heating the lock. I watched as it slowly turned redder and redder until it was glowing white hot.
And then the flame died out. The lock began to cool, still intact.
In frustration, I jingled it, to see if it was loose at all. In fact, the opposite had happened.
The lock had melted shut permanently.
“....ain’t that just a pickled peach?”
There was nothing else for it. I had tried, but there was only one sure fire method of breaking that lock. A short trip back to the car revealed a small velvet bag, plundered from the jewelry store. It’s innards were packed with all forms of gemstones and jewels. I carefully selected a small handful of less impressive diamonds and sapphires like I would have normally have shaken mints out of a box of tic-tacs.
Yes. Come on, give me just the little kick I need...
Tic-tacs were a good analogy, as the diamonds had quite a minty taste to them and made a refreshing crunch in my mouth. I shuddered involuntarily as the rush overtook me. I couldn’t help but twist the corners of my mouth into a smile as my mouth was forced open by the sheer invisible fury of the blast. Nowhere near as impressive as the first time, but I couldn’t help but imagine what would be.
The lock was a molten pile of slag. It was soft to the touch, almost like papier-mâché. If papier-mâché was actually iron oozing between the tips of your talons. I was amazed at just how little heat I felt. I was staring at a pile of molten slag in my hands like it was a pile of putty with nothing but the sensation of a slightly too-hot faucet running over my fingers. I gazed rapturously as a single glistening red blob dripped from my index finger and onto the ground, where it hissed into a dull grey splotch.
Wiping the rest of the iron off of my hands while it was still soft, I yanked the fence open.
The runway was clear. Time to find a plane.
The only question was, where?
Well, everywhere obviously. This was an airport after all.
I noticed the lack of crashed jets on the tarmac. I was correct in my earlier assumption that occupied vehicles had vanished as well. What else did that apply to? Trains? Trams? Ski Lifts? How many rails were missing their vehicles now? There was certainly a dearth of planes to choose from. I angrily noted a lack of private jets on the runway. They must be in one of the smaller hangars dotted off to the sides.
It was at that moment I was struck by just how freakin’ large airports are. It was a five minute drive to the other side of the runway to the smaller hangers. The huge terminal building stretched out for miles, creating a courtyard where some of the bigger planes were berthed for boarding. I could see the connecting bridges hooked up to a couple of them, but they were rare. Maybe three of the big ones in total.
I swore. Whenever I had been here, it was always full and always moving. Then again, all of those planes were in motion, they had people inside of them.
After a few hours of fruitlessly searching the mini hangers for the precise type of jet I needed, I decided to tinker with one of the few small planes in the area, and out of all of THEM, only one of them had a decent amount of fuel in them. Or rather, far more importantly, it was the only one that had its damn door already open.
But… why? It seemed far too convenient, especially for me. This is the sort of luck Light would have experienced. I poked around the mini hangar, finding a scheduled flight plan in the tiny, boxlike office attached to the main chamber. Apparently this plane was part of a small chartered company, and was scheduled to take a bunch of VIPs home to the United Arab Emirates. I cast my eyes back to the small jet in the hangar.
Yeah. That’d probably do it.
Let’s see… the UAE was a good 8 hours’ flight away from where I was currently. Which was roughly around the same length of time I was airborne to get to America. The little plane wouldn’t get me to California, but it might get me to...Florida.
I shuddered involuntarily.
It seemed like the crew for the flight were right in the middle of prepping it for its trip. A clipboard with a half-filled checklist was located next to what I assumed was the fuel pump, which was still hooked up.
It was simple enough to follow the instructions to uncouple the hose from the plane. Unfortunately, as the smell hit my nostrils I realised I had made an assumption.
This pump was not hooked up to the fuel tank.
Of course, the big stencil of the word “SEPTIC” should have given it away.
Blech.
As it turns out, the jet was already pumped up full of fuel and ready to go. The last few things on the checklist were emptying the onboard facilities and general tidying, and who even cared about those?
Sure, I’d gotten some unspeakably unsanitary crap on my hands, but thankfully my body’s new natural reaction to wanting to throw up handily dealt with that. I mean, yeah, I had to deal with the smell of burning feces, but at least my hands were clean now! And probably sterilized too, come to think about it….
I climbed up the staircase with some difficulty and noted the plush, fancy leather interior.
I also noted with some relief that the cockpit was also open. It would have been just so typical to make it this far and find it closed, but then again, with claws like these I would have found a way to open it regardless. I mean, with enough force I could probably have talon-punched the lock, if there was one.
I entered the cockpit.
Good, good. Okay so. Small list of problems.
Seat waaaay too big, obviously.
I don’t know how to actually close the outer door, with it’s attached stairwell.
I HAVE. NO IDEA. WHAT THESE LIGHTS MEAN.
I stared blankly at the panel. It looked like the bastard child of a nuclear reactor panel and a music tech’s soundboard. I felt my breathing get shallow and I fought to get it under control. Just let it pass through you, let it happen, then get on with business.
“It’s almost like learning to fly in a two day period and attempting to fly a transcontinental flight across the ocean is setting your expectations too high.” I muttered sarcastically to myself. “Fuck you too, Light…”
I spent a solid hour staring at the instrument control panel and hunting for a user manual of some kind. Unfortunately, the makers of this particular plane, or indeed the pilots that crewed it, had decided in their infinite wisdom that a complete and utter novice wouldn’t dare dream in their life to attempt to fly such a complicated piece of machinery. I vaguely mumbled about how considerate they were. CLEARLY they were never counting on a tiny lizard to ever try piloting it. The idiots.
Okay. Nothing ventured, nothing gained… I gently pushed the throttle upward, into what I hoped was taxiing speed. If I could work out the simple stuff, it’d at least make me feel better. Maybe if I got that right, the rest would all fall into place, right? I mean, either that or I’d die. Either outcome was golden at this juncture.
The engines made an incredibly strange high pitched whining sound. I instantly pulled the throttle back and stared at the new buttons that had lit up. I made a second attempt, flicking a small switch close to the throttle. It turns out that was the ignition or something, because the engines whirred into life and the plane began trundling out of the hangar, the still open stair door scraping across the ground and shrieking in my non-existent ears.
“Oh shit, wait. Shitshitshitshit…”
The throttle wouldn’t move back. There was no button to move the stairs that I could see.
“Shitshitshitshit”
Would losing the stairs affect the aerodynamics of the plane?! There’d be a great big gaping hole in the side of it, of course it would! I’d just crash like I was going to do already!
I craned my head over the console, trying to gauge the size of the hangar’s entrance. If I aimed for the middle of the doorway, I should be alright. If I had more distance, I could iron it out properly.
Thankfully, I was somehow able to trundle the plane out of the hangar proper and onto the staging area before the runway. The scraping was getting louder outside, gaining a new resonance on the concrete and tarmac mix. There was the occasional clang, followed by a huge judder afterwards.
“The runway markers, or the lights, or whatever. Oh god, I’m running them over…”
It was at this point the stairs gave up the ghost. Perhaps they got stuck to a pretty solid marker, but shortly afterwards and with a lot of noise, they ripped away from the plane.
Whereupon they collided with the left engine.
The grinding of the engine was joined by a backup chorus of electronic sirens and flashing red lights. I jumped up in the seat in desperation, flicking any and every switch I could see. I grappled with the throttle, it must have a release switch! An off button! WHATEVER!
My hand went through the instrument panel.
My heart turned to ice as I freed it from the panel. Staring once again at the sharp claws that tipped my fingers. I broke my gaze from my taloned hand and cast a glance out of the window. The single working engine was causing the plane to spiral lazily onto the runway. Eventually, it’d probably collide with the main terminal building, but at this rate it’d take a solid hour or so.
I threw my hands up in the air.
“FUCK IT! NO, NO. YAKNOW. IT’S NOT LIKE I WANTED TO FLY ANYWAY.”
I stepped out into the main body of the plane, taking note of the lone service trolley at the far back of the plane jostling awkwardly, spilling it’s stackable plastic cups and it’s foil pouches of airline pretzels.
“NO, IT’S FINE. I DON’T REALLY KNOW WHAT I WAS HOPING TO ACHIEVE HERE.”
I stood in the doorway. The ground looked quite far away without the stairs. I fought with the centrifugal force of the plane and braced myself inside the door frame, noting idly where the door hinges were. Judging by how they had shaken themselves loose and twisted into a pair of mangled, sheared chunks of aluminum, they were clearly not meant to take the kind of strain they were put under.
“HEY WHITE IT’S PERFECTLY SIMPLE, JUST GET A PLANE.”
I leapt out, landed hard on the tarmac and rolled for a solid few seconds. I picked myself up and started sprinting as far from the plane as I possibly could. The last thing I wanted to do was to be hit by a tire or get sucked into the jet wash. I’d seen it happen in a movie once and decided that I didn’t want to end up bursting like a blood sausage.
“THEN ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS LEARN HOW TO FLY, SIMPLE RIGHT?!”
I turned around to bare witness to the stupidity. The small business jet drifted across the runway like it was some sort of solo ballerina act. I groaned and pinched my eyes. How did we think this was a good idea? Well, we really didn’t, to be honest. Or at least, I didn’t. Light was a smart guy, but I just KNEW that he just expected it to all end up okay for me.
The plane casually upended a baggage cart that was left parked off to one side. The planes chassis was already scratched and dented all to hell and the damaged jet belched smoke up into the sky.
I don’t lead his idiotic charmed life.
On the bright side, if anyone else was alive, this place would be lit up like a beacon. Anyone that could see the smoke would come running and then they’d meet me and I’d finally not be alone anymore.
Yes. They will obviously want to associate with the idiot that just trashed a FUCKING PLANE THINKING THEY COULD FLY IT.
“I can’t be associated with this travesty.”
I kicked the tarmac and huffed. I had to leave before anyone came to investigate.
By the time I piled into the car and trundled off, the plane was a few hundred meters from the terminal building. I headbutted the steering wheel, electing a short, sharp beep from the vehicle. Well, great. Where the hell would I go now?! What was the plan?
“Fuck you, Light.”