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Renegade Snow Wind
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> I don't think there are any cameras or microphones, good sir. Who's Laura?
“Laura? She’s my daughter.”
How do they know about her? They must have gone through my phone while I was unconscious. Johansen pats his pocket to check for his cell phone – it’s still there. Questions later. First thing’s first – get this plane business sorted out.
> You should probably assist the man in the cockpit, i don't think he knows how to fly a plane at all. And try not to startle him too badly, he seems the jumpy sort.
Johansen slowly opens the cockpit door, holding the gun behind his back. The door swings open silently to reveal a man in a purple hoodie hunched over one set of controls.
Mr. Smith appears to be fiddling intently with one of the dials and does not hear the man come in.
“Um, hello?” the suited man asks quietly. Alan jerks back at the sound of another voice, his forearm knocking into the steering stick and causing the plane’s nose to tilt toward the sky.
“Whoah! HO-ly SHIT you do not just sneak up on a man like that!” Alan Smith exclaims, frantically but gently tapping the steering controls to get the plane to level out again.
“Sorry.” Responds the businessman. Jumpy. Right. “Look,” he continues, “Explanations can wait, but I do need to know a few things. You’re obviously not a pilot. I can see that. But you’re also not one of the voices that I’ve been hearing over the intercom. How many other people are on this plane?”
“Ohohoh, heyyy,” the purple man replies, looking a little relieved. “That’s awesome. You’ve been hearing voices too? I thought it was just me going crazy.”
“You mean they're not coming from the speakers?” Johansen asks, frowning a little.
“Yeah! Hey, nice to meet you. My name’s Alan, and I sure as fuck hope that you can fly a plane.” He extends his hand, but Johansen flinches and takes a step back.
“No, my name is Alan. Who the hell are you?” Johansen demands. He instinctively brings the gun out from behind his back, but refrains from pointing it anywhere just yet.
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