Finally... Punching Africa!

[revolution_is_a_riot]

Who: The Rescue Party (Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, and Jehan)
What: Embarking across the Atlantic to find their lost brethren
Summary: Plane rides, lions, supernatural encounters, and other African adventure shenanigans
Warnings: Language and Violence, very probable
General posting order will be determined by initial posts. (Intended as a loose guideline to prevent 5-person mayhem, and may change depending on who/how many are actively posting at a time.)
Status: Ongoing


Bahorel hummed absently to himself, lounging against a wall of the airport lobby. He checked his watch, ruffled through the stack of tickets in his hand, and tapped a foot against the backpack beside him. He was never very good at waiting.
Resisting the urge to wander around, he held his place impatiently, and waited for the others to arrive.

The pack at his feet was as small as he could manage, crammed with carefully planned supplies. It would be taken and stowed with the other baggage once they checked in, and he hadn't really brought anything in the way of carry-on luggage. Why burden himself more than he had to?
On the other hand, his lack of carry-on bags or frivolous objects meant that he was really, really not looking forward to this plane ride.

He hated planes.
Not because of the height, or the possibility of crashing and burning and death, but because they kept him trapped. Trapped in a tiny little excuse for a seat, crammed like a sardine next to other people (often strangers), with nothing to do. He hated being unable to move, to occupy himself with something physical.
Unless he was drunk, chatting with friends, or watching a movie, he was never one to sit still (and often didn't even during those activities). Plane rides were hell.
He desperately hoped he'd be able to just sleep through it. But he knew it was likely a lost cause. There was too much adrenaline pumping through his system already for sleep to be much of an option.
If only teleportation was real. Then he could just zap himself over there, and get started on the important stuff, without all the tedious waiting and sitting and stifling mind-numbing boredom in between.

He realized he was pacing, and made himself stop. The others would be here soon. It's not even that they were late, his impatience had driven him to arrive even earlier than they had planned. And once the others were here, he'd at least have conversation to occupy himself with, and maybe the plane would serve alcohol...

Comments

[courfeyraccat]

Courfeyrac keeps Bahorel from buying another drink and from starting a fistfight over not getting to buy another drink, earning a look of appreciation from the stewardess. Distracting Bahorel with a movie proves to be a valid strategy, and he smiles as his friend gives a running commentary in half-comprehensible sentences. Hopefully Bahorel will sober up by the time they actually land.

Thinking about their destination makes the vague sense of unease that's been dogging him return with a vengeance, and he straightens in his chair, frowning out the window. They're getting close, finally. There's actually land visible outside the window, small strips of hazy green in the distance. Another hour or two and hopefully they'll be at their destination.

Except... it feels like someone's watching him, though he knows that no one is. It feels like something's *waiting* for him, eagerly, waiting for them to just get a little closer, a little nearer, the disciples pulled down with their leader, power enough to do anything, to burn everything if needed or desired. There is a roaring in his ears, a flash of blood and scales in front of his eyes--

Courfeyrac pulls away from the window with a low cry, his hand immediately reaching back for Bahorel or Combeferre's touch. He's shaking, though he doesn't sense or see anything else, not even the vague unease from before. Was that just a nightmare of some sort, brought on by too much tension, too many strange things happening too close together? Turning to Combeferre, he tries to sort his thoughts into something that won't sound half-mad. "Combeferre, have you--"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence as a wave of turbulence slams into the plane, oxygen masks drop, and alarms start going off.

[decipheredhieroglyphics]

The sudden drop was, perhaps, one of the most terrifying feelings he had experienced in this current lifetime. He makes sure to get his own mask secured, as per safety protocol, before wrestling with Bahorel, who is still rather drunk it seems, to help him with his.

This is not good. Very not good. Combeferre feels an old, half-formed thought return to him as the plane lurches and drops toward the earth: that some force is drawing them -- Enjolras, Grantaire, and now them -- to Africa, but violently. How else to explain both planes crashing in the same region of western Africa, as soon as their plane comes within sight of the land? How else to explain the odd and unsettling feelings deep within his psyche, that they both belong here and shouldn't be within a million miles of here? He couldn't disapprove of Bahorel's method of dealing with his unease and restlessness: at least Bahorel didn't have to think about the problems as much while drunk.

Combeferre was suddenly very glad he wasn't alone, and he reaches blindly for both Bahorel and Courfeyrac, unwilling to let them go. He was also very, very glad his carryon bag was at his feet.