A bunch of nonsense

It’s all length and poise; a slender white fuselage drawn to a fine, deliberate point, its dark stripe cutting cleanly along the body like a line of ink. The wings sweep back with some restrained drama, sharp without seeming harsh, elegant without becoming delicate. Even there, at rest, it suggests motion. 

Sleek and flawlessly smooth. It seems less like a machine than a continuation of the sky itself, a cloud honed into a form and taught discipline.

As the line moves forward along the glass-sided boarding bridge, Vi steals a curious glance toward the cockpit windows. From this angle, she can see only the back of the seats, the pale glow of instruments beyond it, and one hand turning a page of the clipboard.

Two flight attendants welcome her aboard, both of them tall men. One is pale, both in skin and expression. The other is his opposite entirely, with a childlike smile that makes the greeting feel genuine. 

The interior keeps the aircraft’s black, white, and deep blue palette, but renders it in a refined register. Warm light runs along the ceiling in long, slender bands, turning the aisle into a narrow passage of inviting luxury. The seats are wide and clean-lined. The armrests curve beneath her hands without a single corner left to inconvenience the body. 

Even here, in the economy section, comfort has been treated as a requirement, not an afterthought. Not one of those things companies remember only after profit and efficiency have taken what they need. Here, it has been built into the bones of the aircraft. It smells citrus-clean, of polished surfaces, and filtered air. Overhead compartments close in silent clicks. Even the carpet is considerate enough to cushion her steps.

Vi shrugs out of her leather jacket. She plays with the chain hanging from her jeans, pops a chewing gum into her mouth as a precaution against the pressure that will build in her ears.

Ding.

The announcement chime sounds overhead, bright and precise, the small ritual before a voice comes through the PA system

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your Captain speaking.

Vi drops the chain at once. Her head lifts. 

A low, feminine voice.

On behalf of my First Officer and the entire crew, allow me to welcome you aboard Kiramman Airlines, Flight 516, with non-stop service to Demacia. We are honoured to have you with us this evening. Our final checks are now underway, and we expect to push back from the gate in approximately ten minutes.

It reaches deep, somewhere behind the ribs; every word dances with a pleasant cadence, that sort of serenity that intuitively coaxes trust from the listener. The rank recognises it, but the effortless authority in the voice suggests it was intrinsic long before it came.

Though it pours from the speakers above every seat, the message feels spoken directly into Vi’s ear. 

Our estimated flight time is approximately six hours and forty minutes. We should have a smooth journey for most of the night, though we may encounter some light turbulence as we cross the night winds over the Silver Ranges. We will see you through it safely.

The appeal, Vi hypothesises, comes from several fronts at once: the mystery of her omnipresence, a disembodied voice filling the cabin. There’s the charm of her accent too, the way her sibilants slip gently off the tongue, and the rarest of confidence; the one undefiled by vanity, not cheapened into performance but a natural consequence of true competence.

For now, I ask that you settle in, fasten your seatbelt, and make yourselves comfortable. Please ensure your seatback and tray table are upright, and all carry-on items are securely stowed. In a few moments, the cabin crew will guide you through the safety procedures.

Vi’s thumb hovers over the record button, then stills as she realises what she’s about to do. She exits the app quickly and tries not to think about it. 

Thank you for placing your trust in us. We wish you a smooth and most pleasant flight.

Everyone is seated. Everything is ready. The aircraft begins to move, easing away from the gate and taxiing toward the runway. 

A  gentle order then.

Cabin crew, prepare for takeoff.

Vi notices the girl beside her then.

She is gripping the armrest hard enough for her fingertips to leave pale points of pressure against it, her whole body held in a tremor she is plainly trying to suppress.

“Hey,” Vi says, leaning a little closer.

Startled, the girl turns as though she has been caught doing something indecent.

“Sorry to bother you,” Vi says, raising a hand in peace. “It’s just- you seem a bit nervous.”

The girl swallows. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you’re about two seconds away from snapping that armrest clean off,” Vi says, amused, but not unkindly.

That earns her the smallest laugh, a little embarrassed.

“I know it’s scary,” Vi says. “The noises, the movements… But believe me, you’re on the safest form of transport there is. I’m an aircraft engineer, so,” she gives a slight shrug, casual and easy, ”my word counts for something.”

The girl’s grip does not loosen at once, but her eyes flicker toward Vi with cautious hope.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Means if something happens, I’m the loser who has to go out there and fix it.”

It earns her the reaction she was hoping for; the girl laughs, and the tension in her decreases.

“In mid-air?”

“Hm-hm. High-pressure job. Comes with the altitude.” 

Another small, fragile giggle. Vi lets the sound settle between them before nodding toward the cabin.

“This thing has been checked, checked again, and then checked by people whose entire job is to be annoying about details. Every sound has a reason. Every movement has been planned for. Even the bits that feel strange are usually just the aircraft doing exactly what it’s meant to do.” Vi looks away from the girl, hiding whatever could be projected on her expression. “And the, uh, Captain? Sounds like she knows what she’s doing.” 

Outside, the aircraft turns with deliberate precision, aligning itself with the pale-lit path ahead. 

“Thank you.”

Vi smiles at her, aware she’s still anxious. “No problem.”

The engines spool up, and Vi’s mind starts ticking through the familiar sequence almost against her will. 

Flaps extended. Slats deployed. Spoilers stowed. Brakes holding. Thrust advancing. Engines stable. No surge. No abnormal vibration. Brakes released. 

The aircraft begins to roll, slow at first, then faster, gathering speed with a force that presses her gently back into the seat. 

Rotation. The nose begins to rise, the main wheels leave the ground, and Vi’s stomach follows a fraction too late, with addictive fluttering inside. 

Seventy thousand kilograms of metal, glass, circuitry, and the impossible made real by humanity’s brilliance lift into the air. 

We have now reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. You may use approved electronic devices. The weather remains favourable for most of our route, and we expect to land right on schedule. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the journey. You are in good hands.

The flight attendants begin moving through the aisle again.

Then the voice acquires a rasp that revives the butterflies in Vi’s stomach. A dry amusement threads in it, betraying the presence of a smile, intimate in the delivery of a joke.

As is standard procedure for nighttime flights, we will now be dimming the cabin lights to make our flight attendants appear more attractive to you. 

A soft, collective laugh ripples through the space at the unexpected comment, and Vi finds herself joining in. As he walks, the one named Jayce glances back over his shoulder and offers his audience a wicked little combination of tongue and wink, that humorous cheekiness of someone perfectly aware he’s easy on the eyes. 

“If that doesn’t work, we will shortly begin our alcoholic beverage service,” Viktor says, handing the girl beside Vi a cup of water. He has brought it without being asked.

Viktor has the kind of obliging man-handsomeness that Vi has never understood the appeal of for several reasons, but the girl laughs, thankful and fully relaxed now, and Vi feels a surge of warmth at the sight of it. 

It’s unexpectedly moving, watching her work translate this way. This is exactly why she does it, and what is so easy to forget: a service and the protection of people who, for a few hours, entrust themselves entirely to others.

Everything is procedural, but there are small touches of personality that, Vi concludes, give the airline its character: the captain’s own voice guiding them instead of a sterile recording. Professional without becoming cold, familiar without slipping into carelessness. A camaraderie between the entire crew that is calm-inducing and trustworthy. Reverent of their job, honouring it with care, respect and dedication. 

There’s so much beauty in wanting to do things well.

You’re in good hands.

She doesn’t put her headphones on. Minutes pass with the single, foolish purpose of hearing that voice again.

Eventually, she drifts off with the remnants of it still echoing in her head, and with vague, indulgent visions of a tongue wetting lips before speaking on a boom microphone.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Vi blinks sleepily. 

At the horizon, a thin seam of pale blue announces the arrival of the sun. Then comes the first gleam, a bright edge breaking over, followed by a slow golden arc, widening through reds and yellows.

In this time-stopping transit, Vi feels an acute awareness of life take hold of her; the kind that comes when the mind has not yet gathered its distractions, and there’s only sensation. 

Over the clouds, with distance, breath, and the strange privilege of seeing the world displaced from ordinary human scale, it feels paradoxical and revealing; how the earth can look so very small from above, and so vast in all the things unknown to her. 

We have begun our initial descent into the Demacia area. Please return to your seats and make sure your seatbelt is securely fastened. We’ll be landing in approximately thirty minutes. 

That voice soothing her back into corporeal existence.

Cabin crew, prepare for landing.

The ground draws closer and, more awake now Vi can picture it; steady hands guiding the control yoke, bringing them down.

Reduction of speed, the delicate timing of the flare, and then the wheels kiss the ground with such controlled precision that she’s returned to reality with the gentleness of a bird finding its branch. 

It is, without question, the smoothest landing she has ever experienced.

Vi is irremediably, helplessly allured.

Local time is 6:12 a.m., and the temperature is thirty degrees Celsius. Please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the gate and the seatbelt sign has been turned off. 

On behalf of all of us at Kiramman Airlines, it has been our privilege to bring you here. 

Morning light pours from everywhere now. The white stone of the land is embedded by the pale green of hills. A new day where everything feels possible under the sole strength of her personhood extended to its full potency. 

To those of you returning home, and to those of you arriving to visit: 

Welcome to Demacia.

Valiant exhilaration pounces on her, the one that makes of failure a joyous experience and of victory something more real, she decides she will have this pilot’s number.

The waiting makes her heart pound. She runs through possibilities again and again as she gathers her things, too swiftly, then remains seated as though patience has been her plan all along. She snorts when a curtain is drawn between the economy cabin and first class. Careful. One of those rich eyes might accidentally glimpse the horrors of the poor side and suffer a stroke.

She considers several approaches. Taking out her ID and demanding to meet the captain under some vague mechanical pretext, for one. Claiming professional curiosity and asking to compliment the captain on the flight. Use technical vocabulary to cover the embarrassment. 

A wave of shame at her idiocy follows immediately.

Leave it as it is. The mind is culprit of painting everything in better colours anyway, and expectations often belong in the realm of fantasy. 

Yet, she delays her exit. Convinces herself there’s no point in standing only to wait in the aisle, and if people keep blocking the way, oh well. 

The time comes. Vi is the last passenger on the plane. She walks toward the exit and finds the two flight attendants waiting there. There is a black woman with them now, smiling as she elbows one of the men for whatever private joke has passed between them. Vi knows at once the voice didn’t belong to her, and the three stripes on her epaulettes agree with her: First Officer. 

Then Vi’s eyes move beyond her control, drawn to the closed cockpit door.

Before disappointment can properly register, it opens.

Her.

The legitimate governance over this immense and intricate work of art.

Aviator glasses being slipped into the breast pocket of her uniform. Impeccable black and gold, broad shoulders, tie set cleanly. The peaked cap tucked beneath one arm, held against her ribs. 

Blue hair gathered neatly into a bun. Imposing high cheekbones. Pink lips.

Fuck. She’s hot.

And now she’s looking straight at Vi with wide eyes so blue they could contain every secret of the skies. 

Blame it on the nerves of the trip. Blame it on the sleep deprivation. Something has to be responsible for the violence of being caught so off guard, for leaving Vi so catatonic.

Her throat bobs with a swallow, and her face is burning. 

“Thank you,” is the only thing she manages to say, a thin thread of voice tugged from her throat, leaving an itch she tries to clear away. 

The woman’s gaze fixes first on her lips as she speaks, then maps the rest of her face in one slow assessment. Surprise flickers before it’s blinked away, an imperceptible shake of her head as if she remembered something. The corner of her mouth curves, almost a smile, as she leans against the doorframe with an unexpected trace of playfulness, a faint touch of colour rising in her cheeks. 

And that raspy edge again.

“You’re welcome.”

Not a professional My pleasure, not a courteous nod, not a practised dismissal. But something far more disarming.