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Jan. 9th, 2009 04:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lastgunslingerBeing dim gets him past the guards. They're not paying real attention anyway. When he gets to the concourse, he stops short. Roland has never been able to pick up the knack of reading the letters of what is supposed to be the real world, no matter how hard he tries.
No matter. He stands by a wall and listens: eventually he hears the chatter of a small group about whether or not the plane will be delayed on account of snow. This, he figures, is his destination.
With the cry for the rich passengers he enters the plane -- again staying dim as he does so. The jade lion swings against his wrist. He has his gunna; it is well within the carry-on size restriction, though it does not fit under the seat in front of him.
A young woman sits next to him, arms overflowing with jacket, with books, with a bag containing nuts, with a bottle of water, with a small box with wires coming out of it. He doesn't glance at her as she fumbles her way into the seat, most of her poorly-organized peripherals fitting into the pocket in front of her. The fat bag over her shoulders goes under her seat. Roland notices a badge fastened to the bag's flap -- it has white lettering, curlicued, on a red background. He likes that very well, but is not so superstitious as to consider it an omen.
The young woman looks up -- perhaps to ask him if he sees his sister's bum or if there's something he'd rather look at -- and looks stricken.
Roland looks back, impassive.
Without a word the girl reaches for the box and the wires and fits the ends in her ears. Her hands, he notes, shake a little. Shortly her lips move in silence. Roland catches her forming the words save our lives and fiery crash. Praying, mayhap. Roland finds it unnecessary.
A chime, then -- melodic. Not one that indicates todash space. Then a woman's voice:
"Welcome to Delta flight 167 from New York's John F. Kennedy airport to Denver, Colorado."
Serene, with his seatbelt securely fastened, his tray table up, and his seatback upright, Roland folds his hands in his lap, and waits.
No matter. He stands by a wall and listens: eventually he hears the chatter of a small group about whether or not the plane will be delayed on account of snow. This, he figures, is his destination.
With the cry for the rich passengers he enters the plane -- again staying dim as he does so. The jade lion swings against his wrist. He has his gunna; it is well within the carry-on size restriction, though it does not fit under the seat in front of him.
A young woman sits next to him, arms overflowing with jacket, with books, with a bag containing nuts, with a bottle of water, with a small box with wires coming out of it. He doesn't glance at her as she fumbles her way into the seat, most of her poorly-organized peripherals fitting into the pocket in front of her. The fat bag over her shoulders goes under her seat. Roland notices a badge fastened to the bag's flap -- it has white lettering, curlicued, on a red background. He likes that very well, but is not so superstitious as to consider it an omen.
The young woman looks up -- perhaps to ask him if he sees his sister's bum or if there's something he'd rather look at -- and looks stricken.
Roland looks back, impassive.
Without a word the girl reaches for the box and the wires and fits the ends in her ears. Her hands, he notes, shake a little. Shortly her lips move in silence. Roland catches her forming the words save our lives and fiery crash. Praying, mayhap. Roland finds it unnecessary.
A chime, then -- melodic. Not one that indicates todash space. Then a woman's voice:
"Welcome to Delta flight 167 from New York's John F. Kennedy airport to Denver, Colorado."
Serene, with his seatbelt securely fastened, his tray table up, and his seatback upright, Roland folds his hands in his lap, and waits.
