I honestly love to fly.
At least, I did until now. The turbulence over the last hour has gotten progressively worse, and despite reassurances from our captain, it doesn’t feel like it will improve before we reach Paris. If the turbulence wasn’t bad enough, there has been a one-year-old sitting three seats in front of me who has been screaming almost since we left Metropolis. And no matter how many times the mother glances over her shoulder at me and the other passengers apologetically, I can’t seem to forgive the woman for subjecting her child to what is obviously torture—namely, flying.
Did I mention that I love to fly? Normally I do. Normally I love watching the world get smaller below me, and watching all of my problems disappear with the distance. I always book the window seat, and when we left Metropolis, I was treated to the most beautiful golden sunset. The clouds were fluffy as cotton and the rays of the sun seemed to paint them in colors that would rival a canvas by Monet. I felt as if I could just reach outside the plane, the clouds would be solid beneath me, and would carry me away from the insanity that is my life.
But somehow, six hours later, as we reach the edges of continental Europe, we are in the middle of a thunderstorm. Don’t they warn pilots about these things? Aren’t we in a modern enough world that harrowing storms are avoidable? But according to our intrepid captain, the storm only worsened as we crossed the Atlantic. It is almost as if France is punishing me personally for having been stupid enough to fall for one of its countrymen. The French, it seems, have it out for me.
Ever since I took high school French, that country and me haven’t gotten along. I always trip over the slippery verbs, and recently I managed to trip into a relationship that should have come with a warning label. His name is Claude de Bernac, which sounds all sexy and European, but that was as far as the name took him.
Since my high school journalism class, my life has been about uncovering the hidden truth—yet I didn’t see this one coming. I had on love-blinders, if you will, and I promise never to wear those misguided shades ever again. Claude was tall, dark, and handsome. He was smart and sophisticated, and he told me I was the most amazing woman he had ever met. I mean, what girl doesn’t want to hear this from six feet of handsome, right? Except, I should have listened with my computer turned off and my notebook closed. I should have seen the rat coming in his Giorgio Armani. The hunky Frenchman stole my story—but what’s worse is that I let it happen.
I mean, I didn’t hand over the files and agree that he could put his byline instead of mine on the article. But I may as well have. You see, I let him in and I fell in love—a fatal mistake in this business. I had been warned in college about the shark type journalists, who will do anything to one-up you on a story. I had had experience with that thanks to Linda King, who was once my best friend. You’d think I’d have learned… But no, I had to experience one cut worse than being betrayed by a friend. I had to be betrayed by a lover.
And ever since I saw my story printed under his name two months ago, I’ve been looking for an excuse to leave Metropolis. Because things just snowballed from there. I found out he had slept with the “social” columnist Cat Grant, who gladly digs her claws into any man that happens to walk by. And then Claude got nominated for a Kerth Award for my story. Now, I protested and told my editor that he stole it, but I had no proof. Claude had really done a thorough job—stealing all of my files and copying them onto his computer, meanwhile erasing them from mine. He is the lowest of the low, the pond scummiest of them all—and yet, I couldn’t prove it. People laughed behind my back, saying I was just jealous or upset because I had learned that Claude didn’t really care about me. They have no idea how deep the betrayal goes—Claude de Bernac did irreparable harm to my already fragile trust in the opposite sex.
So I did what any sensible journalist in my position would do—I looked for an excuse to leave for a while, claiming I was hunting down the story of the century. If I have to rebuild my reputation, then I’m going to do it in style, with a story worthy of the Pulitzer, not just a Kerth. I am not planning on walking back in to the Daily Planet without a prize-winning story in my hands, even if I have to go to the edge of the earth to get it.
I am heading to Africa in a few days, to the Congo to follow up on some leads I scrounged up in Metropolis. There’s a gunrunning operation down there that I am convinced is funded by big money in Metropolis, but I have to go there to get the evidence to prove it… My evidence is sketchy at this point, and it will be dangerous to get my suspicions confirmed. But it is the only lead I have that can get me far enough away that I can avoid looking at Claude’s gorgeously smug eyes for a while. I just hope there’s something usable there that I can write a story good enough to restore Perry’s faith in me. And I simply refuse to go back to Metropolis empty handed.
*L**L*
The turbulence is getting worse. People who were trying to sleep start waking up and looking to the crew to explain what is happening. Most of the window shades are drawn, though a few people open theirs to take a peek at the weather causing the turbulence. Just as quickly, they pull the shades down again, afraid of the chaos outside, I assume. We are all asked to stay in our seats and even the flight attendants are looking just a little bit worried, despite reassurances from our captain. Suddenly, I’m rattled by a huge jolt of motion. I swish up my window cover to look out and see lightning has struck one of our wings, snapping the edge off it! I’m afraid we are going to crash in earnest. The cabin goes dark, except for the emergency runner lights on the floor, and some sunlight from a few of the shades that are half-open. We start losing altitude and the pressure in the cabin drops. Oxygen masks come down, and I’m horribly reminded of every action movie I’ve ever seen with a plane crash in it.
I sit back, taking a few deep breaths, and try not to indulge too heavily in the feeling that my life is flashing before my eyes. Yet I can’t help thinking of all the regrets I’ve had in my life. How I never let anyone in—except people who can hurt me, like Claude. How I pushed away my mother and avoided my father. How I get easily annoyed by my baby sister and her penchant for any man in jeans. How I didn’t push myself hard enough to go after the Pulitzer sooner—
The plane is dropping quickly out of the sky. Passengers are panicking around me, while stewardesses are practically shouting in imploring us to remain calm—yeah, right! The screaming baby needs no apologies for his behavior now, and I squeeze my eyes shut as tears run down my cheeks. I think selfishly how I am only twenty-five, but then I look at the baby in front of me and am reminded by how unjust life can be. You can try to do everything right, and you still might get the short end of the stick…
Suddenly, we are leveling out, even regaining a little altitude. People are puzzled as we were all certain we were done for. There is no accounting for how the captain is able to right the plane, not with a broken wing. I glance outside my window, trying to make sense of why we seem suddenly to be flying safely and are beginning a near normal descent into Charles de Gaulle airport.
I look outside, and then look again, baffled by what I see. The early morning sun is breaking through the clouds on my side, but I swear I see a hand on the broken wing. There seems to be a man outside the plane! How did he get there? What was he doing? I press the button above me for a stewardess, determined to help him. Maybe someone had it out for him and was trying to kill him? Maybe we got caught in the cross hairs of something bigger going on and that guy was the victim or the perpetrator—or something!
I feel my reporter’s instincts kick into overdrive. I glance again, trying to lean to get a better angle to see out the tiny window, but all I see is a hand and maybe some of his arm. The sunlight is bright on my side, and the glare off the remaining part of the wing makes it hard to see anything clearly. The flight attendants are still trying to calm people who are in shock. We are getting closer to landing, but I feel like it is imperative that someone corroborates this story! I look again and press the button. I can see someone’s still there, hanging onto the wing, but still no stewardess comes to me. I sigh with frustration, unbuckling my seatbelt and stand up. “Excuse me! Does anyone see that guy!” I ask people nearby, pointing outside my window, but people are too wrapped up in their own concern to take any notice of me.
A flight attendant waves at me to please sit down, though I refuse to do so. Just then, we hit the tarmac, and I’m bounced back into my seat, hitting my head on the light panel. I look again out the window, wondering what’s become of the man dangling off the plane, but he’s gone. Had he been killed when we landed? My stomach lurches in disgust, and I wave down the flight attendant.
At last---since we’ve stopped--she comes to my seat. “Yes?”
I glance out the window, now suddenly feeling a bit crazy. Had I really seen a man? I mean, it seemed like we were going to die and the mind can play tricks… I shake my head. “Nothing. Just—a little shaken up, is all.”
Amazingly we landed. The captain’s communication is restored and though he references and apologizes for the ‘rough landing,’ he acts like it was just another day at the office. I can’t stop staring out my window, wondering what I just saw. Surely it wasn’t a hallucination— the wing is staring at me, half-broken. Several passengers have noticed it, but no one else seems to have seen what I saw. They are simply too grateful to be alive as they hurry to get off this plane. As I descend the steps of the plane, I look around, searching for any evidence of a dead or injured man where we landed. I hear passengers around me swapping stories about how they think the pilot pulled off the landing, but I don’t hear any mention of the man I am certain I saw on the broken wing of the plane. I jot down a few notes about what I hear to include in the story I will write about this. But I can’t walk away without investigating the plane itself a bit further. So I pull out my press pass as I step out of line to inspect the wing. Security tries to stop me, but I insist that I am a reporter and they know this landing will be all over the front page tomorrow anyway.
“I want to speak to someone higher up. The public deserves to know about this incident!” I insist.
The two security guards confer and turn to call over a supervisor. This is my chance. I duck around them to get over to the wing, knowing I have only a few seconds to inspect it.
I don’t see any blood, or any other signs of struggle, other than the broken wing itself. It would have been impossible for anyone in the luggage compartment to get out to the wing, let alone hold on to it for any length of time, and I wonder again if I imagined it. I am about to walk away when I notice something. It could just be the bend of the metal, but on the smooth surface of the wing, just a few feet from the rupture, is an imprint—of a hand.
I pull out my camera and take a photo, quickly heading back to where I was talking to the guards. They apologize but insist that I can’t take a look at it until the investigative police arrive. Since I already have my evidence, I say I understand and head on my merry way, trying desperately to hide the grin on my face.
I start walking to the terminal, wondering again about what happened. But one thing is for certain. This is front-page news, and I’ll have a story to send to Perry within the hour.
After going through customs and getting my luggage, there are already reporters asking the people on board about their experience. I find myself smirking, knowing my first-hand account will be far better story than what the reporters on the scene will write. I still listen, though, to those around me. No one saw what I saw, though a few mention the broken wing. I question my sanity a bit, but I have photographic proof that someone had held on to the plane… This picture could be my Pulitzer!
Normally my first instinct would be to call Perry. But I still have the puzzle about what I think I saw, and I hesitate. I am still a little shaken up over the whole thing, and I know news won’t wait, but surely it can wait until I get to my hotel and think this through? It is after all, only about three in the morning in Metropolis…
I get in a waiting taxi and am whisked away to my hotel, between the L’Avenue de l’Opéra and the train station St. Lazare, a neighborhood that feels a bit like Métropolis in its shopping choices. I pull out my camera and try to remember some French to ask about getting my film developed.
“Où les photos?” I try.
The taxi driver smiles and says, “Ah, voulez-vous prendre des photos?”
Prendre I know means ‘take.’ Afraid I’ll be given the tourist trek around the city, which I don’t have time for, I shake my head. “Non—pour développer?” I say with a gesture pretending I’m looking through already taken photos. I must look ridiculous, but he seems to understand my meaning.
With a disappointed shrug, he says something about asking at the hotel. I sigh, and look out my window, suddenly noticing for the first time that I am really in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
We are riding along the river Seine. It’s still pretty early in the day, but the sunlight is beautiful on the golden horsemen on one of the bridges, calming some of my anxiety from my adventure in the skies. I look to my right, across the river, and see a huge domed building. I ask my driver what it is, and he mumbles something that sounds like ‘invalid’ and 'Napoleon.' I make a mental note to look it up in my guide book later. We ride on, and I’m struck by the contrasts here in Paris with the world I know in Metropolis. My city is surrounded by water; here, it runs through the heart of the city. The bridges here are beautiful and elegant, while most bridges in Metropolis are merely practical. There are parks in the middle of the city, but they seem to embrace the city around it, rather than shut it out like Centennial Park.
I lean back in my seat, suddenly wishing I had planned to spend more than just two days in Paris…
At last we make it to my hotel. It’s off of the grand avenue, at the top of which is the impressive opera house. I like to pretend I’m cultured enough for opera, but honestly, the lure of it has always been a bit beyond me. The taxi driver points to a small shop near the hotel with a Kodak sign in it, and I assume he’s trying to tell me that I can develop my film there.
I say “Merci,” and hand off my luggage to the concierge. My first order of business is to get this film developed.
*L**L*
I pick up the film an hour later, and take my notes to a nearby café to finish my story. It’s almost six in the morning back home, and I know Perry will be at the Planet soon. I have all of the details of my story except for the strange anomaly I saw. I think I would have chalked it all up to exhaustion and adrenaline, except I have a photo that says otherwise. It’s sitting in its envelope in front of me, daring me to look at it and question my sanity. I take a breath and open the folder. It’s as clear as when I saw it a few hours ago—there is a definite imprint of a hand on the plane. But what’s even weirder is the imprint is deep in the wing—as if someone exerted pressure, and not just normal human-holding-on-for-dear-life kind of pressure.
I stare at the photo, and think back to those frantic moments on the plane. The picture is proof that I had seen someone, but what he was doing out there--- I sip my coffee, a crazy idea forming in my mind. Had this man---actually saved our plane?
I laugh aloud—yet now that I’ve thought it, I can’t let the idea go. I know that we lost electrical power, and the pilot had most definitely lost control of the plane. We had been heading for a nosedive when I spotted the man outside on the wing. But that was when we started sailing a bit more smoothly. I shake my head, torn between disbelief and thinking that if I’m right, then I’m on to the biggest story of the century.
But now I have to find this guy. And get him to confess to what, Lane? Being able to fly and being strong enough to rescue a plane out of the sky? It was utterly ridiculous, and would be beyond extraordinary if it were true. I down the rest of my coffee and pay, gathering my things. I know I have to at least get the story of the near crash to Perry. As for the possibility of a superhero rescuing us—that will have to wait until I can get more proof.
Because then, I’ll have the story I’ve been waiting for. The story that will put Lois Lane back on top.
