Right, I do own the odd thing here and there, but it's probably safest to say that hey, it's a fanfic. If you recognize anyone, they're obviously not mine. The titles of chapters are also not mine - they're lines from various songs. This particular one is from Panic! At The Disco's "Build God, Then We'll Talk".
I won't give a character list any more, since it's fairly irrelevant where they've all come from. You probably don't really need to be familiar with them to read this. And yep, there's a few real people in here - all used with their permission, input and approval.
Warnings are generally pretty mild - there's alcohol use, death, a little violence and some implied implications of implying slash. But not really.
So, without further ado, I bring to you my most esoteric fanfic. Welcome to "A Crash & A Crossover"!
"This is the captain speaking. We may be experiencing some slight turbulence, so we would like to advise you to return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts." There was a good deal of static on the intercom, and the words were only just distinguishable. Silver Jerrichal, sitting at the front of the plane, pulled a face and clicked his seatbelt in place, replacing an iPod earphone in his ear. Beside him to the left was the window, and on the right an empty seat, which he hadn't even needed to ask for. He suspected it was something to do with the trouble he had had with his passport back at the airport. On the seat beside that, however, he had a neighbour, and glancing sideways out of the corner of his eye, he was startled to see that neighbour, who hadn't moved for the entire flight, holding a small white mouse in a gloved hand.
How on earth did customs miss that? he thought incredulously. Then again, how could his neighbour have managed to get through customs in the first place? He or she wore a white, full-face mask with red glass eyepieces and four holes for breathing, a bulky dark green jacket with a hood and large, solid-looking boots. The only thing that could be seen of the person underneath was long, black, spiky hair. Oddly enough, although the flight had been at least three hours so far, they had sat completely motionless the whole time – this appearance of the mouse was the first thing Silver had seen them do.
In the middle block of three seats, to the right of Silver's strange, masked neighbour, a man had been hammering the flight-service button impatiently for a good half an hour now.
"Rum," he muttered. "Where's the rum?" The person to the right of him, a large woman with curly red hair and a face plastered in makeup, raised her eyebrows at him.
"I'd go for a nice lager meself," she drawled. "Or a sherry, p'raps. Do we 'ave to pay for it"
"Rum!" he called down the aisle, thumping his whole fist on the panel of buttons while the lady watched him disdainfully, staring with open disgust at his long, unwashed hair, red bandanna tied around his head, long leather coat and large, battered-looking hat on his head.
"So who are you?" she demanded.
"Captain Jack Sparrow," he replied, stressing the "captain". He paused, watching her expectantly.
"Well? Am I s'posed to 'ave heard of you or something?" she snapped.
"You haven't heard of me?" he sighed. Then, turning back to lean across the aisle, "RUM"
"This bloke's nuts," the lady whispered loudly to her other neighbour on her right, a teenager with nearly as much makeup as herself.
"So's this one," the teenager answered, nodding towards the person just across the aisle from herself. "He's just introduced himself to whoever's next to him as 'someone of the House of something-or-other, known to his kindred as the Prince of Cats"
"Prince of Cats?" the lady snorted, and for a moment, she and the teenager shared a kind of understanding.
"Cilla Battersby," she introduced herself.
"Guenittia Reizghnionne." The teenager wore a short pink halterneck top with a butterfly in the shape of a heart on the front and a miniskirt so short even Cilla would not have worn it. Her hair was blonde – dyed, Cilla could tell from the slight regrowth of red at the top – and she had large, bright green eyes.
"Our inflight meal will be served shortly," the intercom crackled. "The meals for this flight are the-"
"RUM!" Jack Sparrow exclaimed delightedly so that they missed the first option.
"Vindaloo?" someone behind them called out, drowning out the second option. Cilla turned and gave the person – a youngish man with greasy dreadlocks tied in a ponytail and a curry-stained shirt – a sour look, which he appeared not to notice.
The dinner trolleys came out from behind the curtain at the front of the plane and trundled down the aisle. Less than a minute later, it came trundling back again, much to Cilla's indignation.
"Well are we getting any food or what?" she screeched. The trolley disappeared behind the curtain and a different trolley emerged.
"Will that be the pasta or the chicken for you?" the flight hostess asked Silver, who sighed to himself. Much as he detested airplane food, he was rather hungry.
"Uhh…chicken for me, please," he answered.
"And for you?" the hostess addressed the little masked person. For a moment, the person didn't move – the mouse had disappeared, Silver observed. Then, he or she turned their head slowly to meet the flight hostess's puzzled look, presumably staring hard at her from behind the red glass eyepieces. They remained like that for several long minutes until the flight hostess, looking slightly unnerved, mumbled "Nothing for you then?" She turned to Jack Sparrow behind her, who was looking a little more expectant.
"Rum," he said before the flight hostess could utter a word. "And a larder for the lady." Cilla looked rather pleased to be referred to as a lady, and put on a sickly sweet look.
"I'm sorry, we don't have any rum," the hostess apologized. "Maybe wine"
"Well where's the rum?" Jack insisted, looking rather panicky.
"We can't serve drinks over a safe alcohol level on flights," she explained. "The altitude means that it has a greater effect than normal"
"So you've got a few lousy beers and cheap wine, is that what you're saying?" Cilla called over the top of Jack's head. The flight hostess struggled to retain her polite, friendly look. After all, she had dealt with worse from the pilots.
"Will you have the pasta or the chicken, sir"
"Mmm…chicken," he decided.
"Same 'ere. And a dry red wine, if you've got anything decent," Cilla called out. When they had been served, the trolley creaked off down the aisle.
Silver peeled the tin-foil off the top of his meal, which already had that distinctive airplane food smell. He really loathed airplane food.
"So you don't like this reheated stodge either, eh?" he joked to his neighbour. The masked head was turned again slowly to face Silver, and met with that unmoving stare, he immediately regretted asking and pretended to be fascinated with an unidentifiable white blob on his chicken.
Across the other side of the plane, Tybalt of the House of Capulet had gotten over his distaste at what was barely recognizable as pasta. He had just put a forkful in his mouth when the plane lurched violently and dropped several metres in the air. A number of people screamed, several small children started crying loudly, drinks were dropped in the aisle and Tybalt found himself choking on his mouthful of pasta.
"Got a furball, Prince of Cats?" Guenittia giggled as a fifteen year old boy next to him thumped him on the back. Cilla chuckled too, but Tybalt was too busy catching his breath to make any comment.
Silver had spilled his ginger beer – not when the plane lurched: he had kept a firm hold on it then, but he dropped it in shock when his neighbour stabbed a large knife, which seemed to appear from nowhere, into the wall in front of them and was now clutching the armrests of the chair, once again stock still. When the plane seemed to have regained stability, the person removed the knife from the wall as easily as if it had been stuck in soft butter and turned to Silver.
"…mmm…low…too low…control? No…" he or she mumbled. The voice was husky and whispery, undistinguishable as being male or female, and with illegible whispering sounds between the scattered words, and for a moment, Silver was too surprised to respond.
"Too low? Control?" he repeated, and yelped in fright when the long knife was pointed straight at him suddenly. But the knife wasn't pointing at him – it was pointing past him, to the window. He turned to look out the window and caught his breath sharply – the mountains they had been flying well above not long ago now loomed up beside the plane, rugged and ice-bound. A moment later, the rest of the plane noticed, and screams of panic broke out. The lights flickered and blew above Silver, and then in the rest of the plane, which only added to the confusion; Cilla's high-pitched shriek rose above the other passengers' shouting; Tybalt was on his feet – was that a gun he was holding?
"Smeg!" someone yelled.
"Tchakk-tcharakt'a!" Silver and someone behind Guenittia swore.
The plane continued to lose altitude, and suddenly there was a wrenching crack. The tail, along with some of the back half of the plane, struck something and fell to earth, some of the passengers towards the back were now being sucked out into the blizzard. Almost overcome by blind terror now, Silver hung on to his seat. Something cracked above him – the luggage rack – a hard object struck him on the back of the head and everything went black…