A/N: Initial inspiration for this came from whatistheretoponderabout's first chapter of Sky High (thanks btw), but it's soon headed in a totally different direction, I promise. Thanks to LateInLifeTiburon for being my temporary beta! Also, I don't own Glee. If I did, it would look a lot different.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Violence, sex, and potentially violent sex in later chapters.

Chapter 1: In-flight Incidents

During training, they talk like it won't actually happen, like the instructions and the safety protocol are really just a formality. It's probably because they figure that if you need to know the emergency procedures you're already pretty much fucked. Maybe that's why when it does happen, I can't remember a single one of those things I'm supposed to do.

-x-

This morning I had two domestic flights: one from LAX to San Jose, then a three-hour layover before another flight from San Jose to SeaTac. I wandered around SeaTac for two hours because they have to give me a solid break before my nine hour flight to Heathrow. I always hated that part—the waiting around. I can't get a drink because I'll be on the job soon and I feel silly just people-watching. Eventually I cave and buy one of those cheap-ass airport paperbacks. I don't even remember what it was about now.

I'm almost to chapter 4 when someone calls, "Hey B!" I snap the book closed and hide the cover in my lap before I look up through my bangs. There's a blonde woman dressed like me standing a few feet off, and when I smile and wave she comes closer.

"Hey Quinn."

She readjusts the bag that's slung over one of her dainty shoulders and gestures at the gate I'm sitting closest to, "You on 519 to Heathrow?"

"Yep." I smile. That means at least we'll have a decent in flight crew. "The grounds crew is supposed to clear us to board in like," I check my watch and scrunch my nose, "like five minutes ago."

She nods slowly before I see her forehead crease. She points to my bags and arcs an eyebrow. I've got a rolling upright carry-on propped up against my leg and an embarrassingly green duffel shoved under my chair.

"After this flight I get a couple vacation days. I figured I'd just stay and spend them in London."

"Oh that'll be fun, you going to do the tourist thing?" She looks legitimately envious.

I shrug. I've been to Heathrow twice in the last weeks, and dozens of times since switching to US Airways in April. Sometimes I spend a night, or a day there, trying to sleep on a barcalounger in the crew lounge or in one of those cookie-cutter Express hotel rooms until I have to be back for the next flight out of Heathrow.

It seems weird that I can't actually think of a single time I've done the 'tourist thing' anywhere. To be honest, I'm not sure I really know how. But instead of saying all that I just smile and say, "Yeah, I hear the Eye is pretty cool."

She's about to reply when I see someone approach from behind her. I wave.

Quinn spins around in a second to see Sam's blonde hair and smooth smile and striped epaulets. He waves the clipboard in his hand in greeting and says, "Hey ladies." I watch Quinn unconsciously run fingers through her ponytail as she surely blushes under his gaze.

Offhandedly I wonder if they've ever been a thing before—Sam and Quinn. They're so awkward with each other sometimes I think it might suffocate the passengers. I have to admit they'd be cute. They'd have blonde bombshell babies. I suppose, though, they couldn't really date officially because that'd be a pilot and a stewardess in a relationship and I'm pretty sure that's against policy somehow. Not that Quinn is usually all that concerned with the rules.

I am a little though, and that's why I don't tell anyone that I've hooked up with three different pilots in the last month.

I realize I haven't been listening to them talk when I suddenly hear my name. "Britt, are you sure those are dress code?" Sam's pointing at his own ears and I don't get what he's saying until I realize he's talking about my ears, and I reach up to feel the long feather earrings dangling from each one.

Quinn leans in and, throwing a glance behind her at Sam, and says, "Ignore him, you look hot." She smiles at him mischievously and I can't believe they've just used me to flirt with each other.

Sam fidgets and looks down at his watch. "So why aren't you guys on board yet?"

I jump at the opportunity to change the subject. "We're waiting for the okay from grounds crew. Maybe they ran into some technical stuff?"

Sam scratches his head and just looks more confused. "I got cleared to board fifteen minutes ago."

Quinn looks between the two of us and, as if to settle a debate, says, "Weird, oh well. Brittany, do you want to greet or do overhead assistance?"

"Greet." I answer immediately and then struggle to pack away my book and gather my luggage to follow Sam and Quinn, who are already halfway to the bridge.

I like greeting the passengers when they board the plane. I like seeing who struggles with the bags they've packed too full, who makes eye contact with me, who's probably going to order four shots of something hard and pass out.

Sometimes, when I'm bored, I like to guess things about people. I don't tell them to their face, obviously. That would probably be rude. As they shuffle past me popping their gum and gripping their Starbucks, I try to imagine what their life might be like, their dirty secrets, their bad habits.

Sometimes a man in tweed is recently divorced with a gambling problem, the kid in basketball shorts who's plugged into an iPod is on his way to visit a dad who used to hit his mom. The woman on the phone who checks out the pilot is filthy rich, but is cheating on her live-in boyfriend.

Once, I thought I'd pegged this guy really well as one of those creeps on To Catch a Predator. I thought it was such a good call that I told Quinn, but she got pissed and told me that was super judgmental. I didn't mean for it to be judgmental. I was still going to serve the guy his sprite and pasta salad. Quinn just went on this little rant about how we're supposed to be courteous and attentive and friendly to all the passengers, even if they look like pedophiles.

I do try to be friendly, honestly, I do. I try but sometimes I forget. I'm not stupid; I know they didn't hire me to do this job because I'm kind to everyone and I can pour a six dollar cup of cabernet in turbulence like a boss. Quinn, too. For all that talk about being friendly, she isn't, really. They hired both of us because we're gorgeous.

People treat you differently when you're pretty, I can tell. I think they assume that you're sweet and kind and fun to be around. So we don't have to work all that hard at being friendly. Quinn especially, people smile with their eyes when she talks to them, they laugh louder.

I guess I don't blame them, she is really attractive. She's pretty and hot and everything, but I decided the other day that the best word to describe Quinn is petite. I'm pretty sure that's not what the word is supposed to mean, but that's what it should mean. Petite should mean 'looks like Quinn.'

Maybe I'm just thinking of the word pretty.

I'm not pretty. Not like Quinn anyway. When people smile and laugh with Quinn, they grin at me. They wiggle their eyebrows, try to say something smooth and they let their eyes wander. I guess that's okay. They're still nice, and sometimes they give me tips and tell me to "have one for yourself."

But I never actually do. I don't know why, though, because when people buy me drinks in bars or suggest a night-cap back at their place I pretty much always say yes. Unless they look like pedophiles.

When we're spot-cleaning the cabin and double-checking the safety information pamphlets, Quinn mumbles something about "so much for a three-person team." I think about suggesting that maybe Tina hasn't gotten the cleared-for-boarding memo yet, but I think Quinn thinks that was just my mistake.

It's when I'm standing on an armrest to clear an overhead bin that there's footsteps and Tina pulls the first-class curtain back, muttering, "shit, shit, shit," under her breath.

Quinn looks up from a safety pamphlet to check her watch and look back up at the third stewardess, no doubt noting the stray hairs coming out of Tina's pony and the crookedness of her skirt. Quinn's eyes narrow, "What?"

Tina plops her messenger bag on a seat next to her and reaches up to fix her hair. "Sorry I'm so late. There was something going on at security and they had to double check through my whole file." She pulls a tiny mirror out of her jacket pocket to check her eye makeup, and continues without looking up, "Did you guys hear? Our flight manifest is wrong."

I don't think Quinn likes Tina, because she's trying really hard to make it look like she's not interested. My curiosity, however, gets the best of me, so I hop off the armrest and ask, "What do you mean the manifest is wrong?"

"I guess the numbers don't add up." Tina shrugs and puts her mirror away. She notices I still look confused and adds, "Someone's got a boarding pass last minute and they're not on the list, but we got orders from airport authority that this flight lets anyone with a pass onboard. Weird huh? I don't do the conspiracy theory stuff, but that's seriously weird."

Quinn looks up from another row. "Maybe someone at check-in just screwed up."

Tina's about to answer, but just then Sam pulls the curtain aside and leans his hands against the rod at the top. "First class boards in two minutes, everybody set?" Tina doesn't turn around, but Quinn and I nod anyway. "Great, Britt? You ready?"

"Totally," I say, and follow him up to the front.

Sam likes to greet, I can tell. He's got that giant smile and I have to admit, he looks great in that pilot jacket. I'd trust him to fly an airplane any day. I guess I sort of do. I think people think the same thing when he says, "Hi, welcome aboard!" I debate whether or not to tell him about the flight manifest and the numbers, but then three guys in business suits with cell phones and briefcases are walking down the bridge and I have to plaster on my friendly smile.

"Hello, welcome on board with US Airways." I think I say the line in my sleep sometimes, I use it so much. After the three musketeers comes toupee guy and four women who look like they're on their way to Cougar Town. First-Class passengers are boring, but when we start to fill Economy, I get to greet kids in soccer-camp families, and old couples who walk hand in hand and need help stowing their bags.

After a man with rat teeth and a sweater vest, there's a guy with olive skin and five o'clock shadow. He doesn't really smile. I wonder if they gave him the full pat-down at security. He just grips his backpack tighter and nods a bit before pushing past me into the cabin.

(Maybe that's when I should have said something, that first time he rubbed me the wrong way, before anything else happened. But it's just a feeling somewhere in my gut and at the back of my neck, and soon he's disappeared into the cabin.)

When he's passed, I see two kids in matching windbreakers tear around the corner, their arms held straight out, airplane noises spluttering from their lips. Two parents are quick in tow with the remnants of two happy meals in hand and a bald baby riding the hip of his mother. As they shuffle past I stop and flash a reassuring smile at the father, who mouths "So, so sorry."

I would have seen her coming had I not been so distracted by Five O'clock Shadow, the prickling at the back of my neck, and airplane noises. But I was distracted, and when I look back down the bridge, my breath catches in my throat. I forget my friendly smile as I swear my eyes roam of their own free will.

Snug jeans cover legs and thighs and slender hips, and the white buttons of her blouse pull at its fabric as she walks, arms swaying back and forth. Dark hair falls around her shoulders, and when Sam grins and says, "Hi welcome aboard," she doesn't even look at him.

Her eyes, beautiful, dark eyes, stay trained on mine, and the only word I can force out of my mouth is "…hi."

Full lips part as she smiles. She readjusts the aviators perched on her head, glancing down in a moment of rosy self-consciousness. I can't help but notice impossibly long lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She's almost passing me (impossibly close and miles away) before she finally turns to look at me again. She meets my gaze and just says, "Hi."

When she disappears into the cabin, I swear to God I feel like my insides are tearing.

I almost turn to watch her leave, but Sam clears his throat, and I whip around to greet a guy with wispy hair and rose-tinted glasses.

And then I notice my heart is beating like a damn jackhammer.

"What the hell was that about?" Sam is smirking at me, eyebrows raised in confusion. I feel myself start to turn even redder, and he says, "You just totally ignored that Asian guy."

I whip around again to see the back of a skinny man with short dark hair. Dammit. I shake my head to clear it. "Sorry." No wonder Sam thinks I'm a space cadet.

-x-

"Hey, Britt!" Quinn is leaning out from behind the back curtain so that I can see the boarding pass stubs she waves at me.

"What?" I ask, pushing the last overhead bin closed with a click.

"Don't you want to find out who's messing with the numbers? Now we can figure out who's not on the manifest!" Quinn's face is bright with mischief.

I scrunch up my nose and think a moment before heading into the back; I don't think the passengers should be overhearing that the numbers are wrong. I don't know why, but it doesn't seem very smart. I don't answer, but she grins and sets the passes out on the stainless steel counter, flipping through them and checking off names with a blue ballpoint.

I'm not as excited as Quinn, so I stand in the doorway, dutifully guarding the conspiring stewardess. I watch idly as Tina helps an elderly woman with her tray-table. She finally straightens up, nods at the woman and walks to the front of the plane. Over the intercom, her high, raspy voice starts to run through the script. "Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the crew I ask that you please direct your attention to the monitors above as we review the emergency procedures. There are six emergency exits… "

As I gaze up and down the rows, I notice dark hair and white clothed shoulder poking out from an aisle seat half-way down. I must have missed her before. She's not really listening to Tina over the speakers, I can tell. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances down the aisle, looks over the seats, like she's searching for someone.

"Oxygen masks will drop down from above your seat. Place the mask over your mouth and nose, like this. Pull the strap to tighten it. If you are traveling with children..."

"Hey Britt, I found him!" Quinn pulls the stubs together in a pile and gestures excitedly to the manifest before her, a tiny note now scribbled at the bottom. "Her, actually."

I lean over her to read the swirling script. In blue ink, she's written Monica Morales 29D. Quinn shuffles past me to look down the aisle. It's quite a ways, but Quinn hardly has to see the numbers to know where 29D is. "It's her, with the dark hair." Quinn is probably pointing, but I don't even have to look to know exactly who she's talking about. There's a pause before Quinn speaks again, "Wow, she's really beautiful."

I shuffle behind her to see the dark-haired woman, now glancing across the aisle and back a few seats, her mouth trained into a pout. "Huh, yeah," I manage to mumble, trying to sound as neutral as possible. I think about saying that I knew there was something different about her, or asking since when Quinn started saying things like that, but neither would be well received so I keep my mouth shut.

Soon Tina is back behind the curtain too, and Quinn can't help but share the news in an intense whisper. For some reason I don't want to hear it all laid out again, so I dart out to straighten a seat that doesn't really need straightening.

When we're in the air, Tina whines that she's done the Safety Briefing, and so Quinn and I do in-flight food service. As I pass out turkey and ham sandwiches, I find myself studying the passengers—toupee guy, airplane kids, five o'clock shadow—wondering who that woman might be looking for. But I still don't think I'm as excited about all this as Tina or Quinn.

I feel a nervous twitch in my stomach as I approach her row, trying hard not to keep glancing her way when another passenger is talking.

When I've said enough 'ham or turkey?'s and 'something to drink?'s to reach her, I suddenly decide to change my cadence. In a moment of bold energy, I give her a grin and say, "And what would you like to eat today?" She smiles at me, knowingly, like she's seen right through my mediocre attempt at being forward. I curse at myself for being so obvious, confused because I've never felt self-conscious about flirting before. But then she lets her gaze wander down my body, and I don't mind it at all.

Finally, she cocks her head to the side in thought, "Can I just have a water?"

As I fumble with the bottles in my cart, I can feel the heat of her gaze. She lets electric fingers graze mine when she takes the cup from me. "Thanks," her eyes dart to the silver name tag pinned to my chest, "Brittany." She says my name like she's tasting it, feeling it with her tongue, and then she sucks her lower lip into her mouth. I blink hard to shift my gaze to the couple next to her. When I have to lean over to hand them their sandwich boxes and drinks, she doesn't shift away or look down, she just watches me. As I hand the last guy his napkin, I let my bare knee brush up against the hand she's resting on hers, and through the heady rush of endorphins, I swear I see her smirk.

I'm another three rows down before my face stops feeling hot, and I can control my smile again.

Maybe all this conspiracy stuff is a bit exciting.

-x-

Two hours into the flight and I start to get bored again. After passing out sandwiches and going back to fetch the vegetarian options, I helped a guy with his headphones, found a blanket for a wrinkled woman who already looked drunk, and told a kid to stop kicking the seat in front of him. When the post-snack lull kicks in I chat with Quinn a few minutes before resorting to my cheap airport paperback once again. After a few pages I get up to apologize for a broken screen and I'm not two more chapters in before a sweet, breathy voice calls me back to reality. "You like those?"

I glance up and she's standing there, arms folded across her chest, leaning against the last empty passenger seat in the cabin. She nods toward the book in my lap. "Not really," I answer. "I'm just that bored." She laughs at that, and I can't even fight the smile that rises to my face.

"Sorry, Brittany," she pauses over my name again, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just waiting." She motions toward the bathroom and I see the little red square above the handle that means it's occupied.

"No, no, it's cool," I almost tack on her name too—Monica—but that might be creepy. "What's your name then?"

She tucks hair behind her ear again, and without falter, she says "Santana."

I must react, frown or scrunch my nose or something, because she sees my face and her smile fails her at the corners of her mouth, just a second, though, and she's smiling again.

"You leaving home or on your way back?" I rush through my question because I don't want her to stop talking, or stop looking at me like I'm fascinating.

"Neither, actually. I do overseas sales, it keeps me moving around a lot," she says. I nod even though I can't help but wonder if she's lying about that too.

"You like it?" I ask.

And then her eyes light up, perfect white teeth punctuate a smile that could never be anything but sincere. "Yeah, I like it a lot." I hear the toilet flush. "How about you? You like being a flight attendant or is it too boring for you?"

I open my mouth to say 'sometimes, I guess,' but the bathroom door flies open and Five O'clock Shadow emerges. He nods awkwardly at her and holds the door open, so she just smiles at me and disappears inside, the lock clicking definitively behind her.

Santana.

I hope that's her real name because Monica sounds straight off a nineties sitcom and Santana sounds sort of perfect.

I'm not sure I want to stay there until she comes back out again, but I watch airplane kid's mom reach above her to the assistance button, hear the dull ping, and realize that my decision's been made for me. I hear the crying once I start walking and soon see its origin propped in his mother's lap, clinging to his own forehead. The flustered woman bobs him up and down on her knee and looks up at me pleadingly, "He's hit his head. Is there any way we could get some ice or something...?"

I'm nodding before she can finish talking, and it's not until I'm about to leave that I notice the man sitting just behind her. I stop short.

Olive-skinned fingers are clutching the backpack in his lap, his five-o'clock shadow rippling as he grates his teeth, compulsively studying the back of the seat in front of him. I feel my stomach twisting immediately, like his unsettlingly potent anxiety is contagious.

"Excuse me sir, are you alright? Can I get you anything?" I venture. His cold gaze meets mine for a moment before he's looking back toward the window and shaking his head. It looks wrong—the bead of sweat above his lip, the flashing of his eyes—but I can't think over the kid's crying so I rush back to find a bag to put ice in.

I shiver as I shovel ice into a plastic bag with my bare hand and carefully tie it closed on itself. I don't know why I'm shaking, but it makes me drop the lid of the ice box on my own hand. Maybe he was having a panic attack, a psychotic episode? What are you supposed to do when a passenger totally flips their shit?

I have to swallow something back down my throat when I rush the ice bag back up to the crying kid and it's probably because I'm so shaky that my foot catches on something and suddenly I'm in the air. I throw my arms out to the side to stop myself and the ice lands, breaks across an armrest. I land roughly on my knees and the man beside me squirms away from the soon-to-melt ice. Before I can see who he is I stumble to my feet and splutter, "Shoot, sorry, sorry."

I reach out to grab the backpack, thinking maybe I can dry it off, but then I see that it's that backpack, and olive fingers clamp around my jacket, pushing me back. Before I can blink, he's standing and I feel weightless because he's pinning me so easily against another seat.

Someone screams.

Suddenly things are happening and I don't have time to stop or think or plan, all that's left is pure animal reaction, reflex.

So I try to grab at his arm that's pinning me, and aim a kick at his shins but he's dropped the backpack and closes his free hand into a fist. I see it coming at me so far ahead that I brace myself. At first I just feel the impact, my head flying back, my ponytail hitting the back of my neck as my head rocks forward again. I hear more people screaming as I instinctively bring my hands to my face, over the cheekbone that's quickly becoming the focal point of the pain swirling through my head.

But his hand never leaves the collar of my jacket and I open my eyes just soon enough to see another hand flying through the air. I flinch but it collides with the guy's throat. There's a popping and he drops me, doubled over in shock. Slender hands yank on his shirt, pulling him away from me and into a knee that I realize belongs to Santana. People are gasping and clambering away from the struggle as she throws him onto his back down the aisle.

She pulls me out of my shock by grabbing at my chest and coming away with my US Airways ballpoint. Then she launches herself at the man, catching his arms under her knees. She grasps his neck and trains the tip of the pen just above his eye. With just a flick of her wrist the pen would crash into the vulnerable gap in his skull. I cringe at the crudeness of it, and he must be caught in terror as well, because his body finally stills beneath her.

"You move, I kill you," she hisses, and then clears her throat to address the passengers, "Everyone, I need you to stay calm, I'm security service. It's okay, I just need you all to stay in your seats." People start to hush at the command in her voice, imminent chaos curbed into a frantic hum. She calms herself with a quick breath, "I need handcuffs or zip ties or something, can you...?"

She risks a lightning look at me, but Quinn, who I realize is just behind me, nods and rushes off to the back. Santana returns her gaze to the man under her, and calls out, "You two, in this row right here to my left, I need you to very calmly move to other seats, alright?" Her voice is barely audible over the slowly subsiding panic of the other passengers, but Rat Teeth and a teenager in a Western Washington sweatshirt are instantly scrambling out of their seatbelts. "Right, climb out behind me," she cautions.

I'm just standing there, nearly helpless and completely unhelpful, holding my stinging cheek in my palm. I feel a tiny streak of something warm slide down before it runs against my hand. I pull away to find the blood, and instantly wipe it away with my thumb.

It's then that I notice the dark backpack still sitting against the armrest, and I lung at the chance to do something useful. I grab at one of the straps and sling it over my shoulder before moving to clear the way for Western Sweatshirt and Rat Reeth, still making their clumsy retreat.

"Brittany," Santana calls warningly behind her without turning her head. "Brittany, hold on to that backpack. Do not let go of it and do not bang it around."

"Shit." Rat Teeth freezes, still straddling one of Santana's feet. "What do you mean don't bang it around?" He's loud, too loud. Santana ignores his question but he won't let up, "Why would you say that?"

Someone a few rows up whips around, wide-eyed and starts whimpering curse words. Santana's gaze never leaves Five O'clock Shadow but she raises her voice, "I need everyone to stay calm. Please, everyone– "

"Why can't she bang it around!?" Rat Teeth's voice is nearly a screech now, his feet still rooted to the spot.

"What?" I turn to see Quinn, her face ashen, knuckles white as she grips a roll of duct tape. I think about trying to explain, but Rat Teeth is doing a pretty damn good job of telling the world.

Instead I pull the tape free from her grasp and say, "We got duct tape."

"Right," Santana hardly waits a beat before pulling her pen-hand back and bringing the flat of her knuckles down against her victim's face. Five O'clock Shadow emits a low grunt and I see his feet twitch in pain. Santana uses his shock to pull him by his collar up from the floor and she throws him into the vacant seat. In seconds, she's taken the tape and wrapped it around his wrists and the armrest.

Rat Teeth has to back up a few steps as she tapes the man to his seat, but his screeching is persistent, "What's in the backpack?" he steps closer to her, trying to demand her attention, "Why would you say she can't– "

"Alright, Rat Face," Santana finally spins to face the man, "Shut the fuck up." Her hands are on his shoulders now, "There is nothing whatsoever to panic about, so you don't get to panic, you don't get to make anyone else panic." Airplane kid starts to cry. "I tell you when to panic, and you, Mr Jingles, do not get to panic right now, so keep your tiny rodent-sized assumptions to yourself. Okay?"

He stands there, mouth slightly agape as she turns to me and roughly pulls the backpack from my shoulders. Someone somewhere says, "What assumptions?" and I barely overhear someone else mumble "bomb in the bag" before Santana's soft hand is at my chin and she's looking straight into my eyes.

"Brittany, I need you to tell the captain that we have to divert the flight. We can't go to Heathrow or enter international air space." For a moment I don't hear her words because damn, her eyes are deep and beautiful and mesmerizing. By the time she's said, "Can you do that for me?" I'm registering her question.

I nod, but that needling doubt in the back of my mind is back again. I don't even know her name. Santana? Monica? Something else? What did she say she did? Overseas sales? This is not overseas sales.

She nods at me in confirmation, and the corner of her mouth turns up in half a smile.

She did kind of save my life.

Santana shoulders the backpack and I can hear her enlist Quinn's help in silencing the panicking passengers. I've already turned at that point, and tap the back of the seats I pass, filled, finally, with some sense of purpose. I'm brushing past the last curtain on the way to the flight deck when I see Tina. She's sitting against the main exit doors, knees pulled protectively over her chest

"S-she said not t-to bang it around, Brittany. Did you hear her? I kn-know what that means." Her eyes are brimming and I wonder, just fleetingly, if I'm stupid for not being scared.

I don't know what to tell her, so instead I turn to slide open cockpit doors. I grip the handle and throw the weight of my shoulders against it, but the plastic-plated slider barely opens a centimeter before stopping with a click, held by the interior deadlock. I glance at Tina in confusion and she finally meets my gaze. Her eyes flick to my still-stinging cheek. "I t-told Sam," Tina chokes out. "He can't c-come out now, 'cause we suspect a hijack. No matter what happens to us, he can't come out."

I struggle to ignore Tina's resignation, and bang my fist against the door, "Sam? Sam can you hear me? We have to land the plane." He doesn't answer, so I bang a little harder, "It's just me, Brittany. We have to divert the flight."

I wait a moment, my ear pressed up against the cool plastic, straining to hear any sign of life within. Sam's muffled voice responds after a beat. "I won't give in to terrorist demands."

"No, no Sam, I'm not a terrorist, I'm Brittany. Everything's fine now, but we need to land the plane."

Sam waits before shouting back, "I can't Brittany, I don't really know what's going on out there but I can't open the door. I can't be that guy who gave in." My stomach falls when I realize he's right. He can't know that everything is fine. He has no way to tell there isn't a gun at my head right now.

Tina starts to cry, her voice strained as she whines, "It's going to happen again, it's going to happen again." A tear falls from the edge of her eye and her mascara smudges as she wipes it away.

And that's when I decide to stop being so fucking useless.

"Sam!" I pound on the door again in renewed vigor. "You don't have to open the door, that's fine, and there was a guy freaking out, but he's duct taped to an armrest. I don't need you to come out or do anything but just divert the flight." Tina sniffs. "I know there's probably procedure for this, there's something I'm supposed to do so you know everything is alright, but I can't remember what it is."

Fucking idiot, I can't remember what it is. "It's probably some code or something, right? Some number or password that you know and we're supposed to know that a terrorist wouldn't, so if I did have a gun to my head, I could give you the wrong code. Then you'd know not to come out."

I do my best to reason it out, "Look, if there was a gun to my head, I'd be giving you some made-up string of numbers so that you'd know not to divert, but there isn't and I don't fucking remember the all-clear code! So please, please, just divert the flight and let us land before we cross the Atlantic!" For good measure, I throw in, "Please Sam, just divert the flight."

I don't wait for him to answer. I give Tina one last look of pity before leaving her there, on the floor, and I rush back down the aisle. In economy, Quinn has done an impressive job shushing the masses. There are still frantic whispers, a baby is crying. I notice Rat Teeth wringing his hands and I try to avoid glancing over at Five O'clock Shadow, but I see the blood spilling from his nose anyway.

I search a sea of anxious faces for Santana's until I hear her calling from the back, "Brittany, come here, give me a hand." Her head is poking out from behind the back curtain. "I need you to hold this right here so I can see." When I've pulled back the curtain, I can see the tiny flashlight poking out from between her teeth while she carefully holds apart a laptop and its bottom battery cover. I see the black backpack lying lifeless on the floor, the rest of its contents scattered: a notebook, an empty bottle of Pepsi, travel tissues, and recently-worn pair of gym socks.

Santana grunts at me in mild urgency, and I timidly pull the light out from between her lips. "Great, just shine it right in there, thanks." She holds the cover with one hand so that it hovers just above its designated home, using the other hand to fish a pair of tweezers out of her pocket. "Sometimes," she says, "These things are set to trigger a small explosion if they're forced open, just to wipe clean the data." She inserts the tweezers in between the cover and the laptop, like she's fishing for something. I try to swallow back that twisting in my stomach. At least the nerves distract from the sharp pain of my cheek. "Which isn't really a problem, except that we don't want it to blow up in our face."

"Uh huh." I nod with growing unease before I realize it's shaking the light, and immediately stop.

"Is he diverting the flight?" She reaches further under the cover.

"I don't know. I think so."

She doesn't respond, but I think I see her jaw clench. I think she's about to reprimand me, but instead just says, "What happens to the sewage on this plane?"

"Uh, I think there's a tank under the bathroom that they empty out between flights." I answer even before I realize what she's talking about. She's trying to find a way to dispose of the contents on the laptop. As an afterthought, I throw in, "But I don't think the drain is big enough for a motherboard to fit through."

She nods slowly, craning her neck to see further into the computer. A strand of hair falls over her face, but she flips it away with her head. With a final delve of the tweezers, she takes in a sharp breath. I cringe expecting the worst, but then she lets out this triumphant laugh and says, "Got it." She flips open the battery cover and plucks a large data chip from the intestines of the computer. "Now, how to destroy it."

I glance around the stewardess station, madly searching for something that could permanently kill electronics. My gaze falls on the microwave above a back counter, and I vaguely recall the time in fourth grade that I tried to nuke a mood ring. "Can you microwave it?"

Santana pauses a moment before looking up at me with sparkling eyes, "Wow, that's genius."

I hardly have time to revel in her approval when we hear the familiar ding of the intercom switching on. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Due to unforeseen complications, US Airways, flight 519 will be making a slight diversion. We are going to make an emergency landing at St. Paul International Airport near Minneapolis in the next 20 minutes." Santana looks back from the microwave again, meeting my grin with her own. Nodding her thanks, she punches 00:30 sec. into the machine and gently warns me back with one of her arms.

"For all those needing to fly on to London, a connecting flight will be able to help you finish your journey. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused and thank you for your continuing cooperation."

As the first sparks start to fly behind the microwave's protective glass, Santana ushers us out of the station and pulls the curtain closed behind us. Then she places a firm hand on my back and whispers, "You should probably buckle up for the descent."

Santana takes an empty seat at the back and I scan the cabin for one of my own. I don't see one immediately, but keep searching as I wander further up the aisle.

It's probably because I'm searching so far up ahead that I don't notice the lack of duct tape wrapped around one of the armrests, or the way Five O'clock Shadow's head is no longer bobbing lifelessly on his shoulders. As it is, I don't notice anything until that warm, breathy voice is shouting at me from the back of the cabin.

"Brittany!"

I spin on my heels just in time to see wild eyes, the blood running sideways across a scratched cheek, two bound fists flying towards my face. I duck my head just in time to miss his hands, but they come across my shoulder and force me backward. As I struggle to regain my footing, something catches on my heel and I feel myself falling back down against something hard. And then I don't feel anything else.