#aviophobic

“So are there actually adults on your ship or is that a TikTok filter?” Elliot asked. He tapped the screen of their Comms device that showed the face of what looked like a man. Behind him, Daria had her arms crossed.

“It’s totally a filter, there’s no way that’s an adult-”

“Hey... You guys? Got, y, you look like. You got the same body, different heads.” He slurs with the first winks of consciousness. “Soooomebody. Change shirts.”

Your chances of dying in a plane accident is 1 in 1,000,000,000.

Which, as a statement in and of itself, can sound frightening … but hold up:

Your chances of dying in a car crash? 1 in 1,000.

(Disclaimer: I very unscientifically eyeballed these numbers whilst referring to a bunch of sites. Percentages fluctuate, depending on several different factors ... I'm too lazy to figure out a tentatively accurate ~ range ~. I'm already exhausted from school, pls.)

I’ve never been the passenger whose face drains of colour at any measure of turbulence, their knuckles going white at a sudden vice-like grip on whatever object is close by at hand (an armrest, a pillow, an unsuspecting—soon to be alarmed—stranger’s arm).

(The first memory I have of experiencing turbulence includes a flight attendant chattering on happily with her co-worker as she strapped on her seatbelt; their casual composure has stuck with me since.)

What does make my head rush, though, is when we're safely at cruising height (you know, when there's wi-fi, no more sudden tilting and no ear-popping pressure changes, yay!), 40,000 ft over the Atlantic ocean. I can’t stop myself from occasionally imagining the engine of the plane just … halting.

To nobody's surprise, Hollywood happens to be a major cause for yet another very common affliction: a blown-out-of-proportion aviophobia (especially when flying above water bodies, like me)—affecting 1 in 3 people.

One in three. When the odds are one in a billion. Sheesh.

The thought is comforting. It's a fact I keep repeating to myself on every trans-Altantic flight, both when other passengers are freaking out ... and when I'm the sole one frozen with a spoonful of yoghurt halfway to my mouth, suddenly wondering (by no obvious trigger) if this is my last day (night?) on (above?) the Earth.

(My last trans-Atlantic flight marked the 5th in my life, from 2017 to 2021. Five. An odd number. An I've-pretty-much-permanantly-left-home number. Meaning: I'll have to get used to arduous flights.)

It's helped, though. On the way to San Antonio, I honestly wished the plane would bump more, to help me sleep. Like cars do.

Jim limped into Starfleet Medical’s clinic, only because he knew Bones was on duty and not in their dorm-style apartment. He shrugged off the receptionist’s concerned look.

“Dr. McCoy in his office?” he asked. 

Office would have made Bones snort derisively; it was a room crammed with a few different desks for some of the more ambitious medical track cadets. Bones had one since he did a lot of research. So, Jim just limped on back to the room and knocked on the door.

“Hey, Bones! I could, uh, use some help here!” he announced.

This time was different. FUN. Even after his conversation with the drunk a few weeks back, no one suspected anything. The air was still sweeter and people here were less suspicious in general. Although the hunger to search for more individuals with abilities was nearly overwhelming, the serial killer continued to ignore it. There was no point sounding the alarm of a murderer so soon after his arrival. Besides, Sylar was still learning this new time. 

 As he explored the city, Sylar found many things still fascinating, but specifically the Federation. Part of him wondered if there were many more individuals out in space who had powers he could take. Another thought it would at least be interesting to see space, if only to have a different view.

Searching the city, he spotted a man arguing with someone rather aggressively about various diseases. Intrigued and amused, Sylar crept a little closer, if only to learn something new about this place.