Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII. By writing this story, I claim no ownership to the canon characters featured within, though I do own a few originals, and so on and so forth.
That said…on with the show! /Harold Ziegler. Zigler? D'oh. I don't own him either.
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"—here, on Gilligan's Isle!" Click. "Isle!" Click. "Isle!"
Annoyed, Vincent jerked his gaze away from the plexiglass window beside him and glared at Yuffie as she clicked her service button again. "Stop that," he said with uncustomary sharpness. "It's very annoying."
"Isle!" the ninja sang defiantly, ignoring him, and shaking his head he returned his attention to the faded tarmac, over which swarmed workers and baggage trains. She'd been singing—"caterwauling" was a more accurate term, Cid insisted, and Vincent was inclined to agree with him—ever since they'd boarded the plane; it was probably an attempt to appear unconcerned by the imminent take-off, but having spent the better part of two months on the Highwind with her, none of them were fooled.
Speaking of the Highwind...
"Why we're flying American Airlines in the first place is beyond me," Cloud remarked from the seat behind Vincent. "Whatever happened to the Highwind, Cid?"
"Err, yeah," the pilot responded uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head. "'s a long story..."
For reasons not immediately discernable, Yuffie twitched spastically. "Isle!" she crooned, this time spinning the dial that controlled the volume of her headphones for variety. "Isle!"
Cloud gave her a long look before returning his attention to Cid. "Well, it's not like we've anything else to do for the next eleven hours," he pointed out. "We've got time."
Slouching down in his seat, his face taking on an unhealthily red tone, Cid muttered something inaudible. Cloud cocked his head to one side.
"What was that?"
"$%&^!" Cid responded uncharitably. "Th' %&$#in' IRS came by and confiscated it last month, okay? #&^%!"
Still observing the personnel busily tending to the airstrip, Vincent stifled a slight grin of amusement. Then, however, Yuffie shouted in close proximity to his ear and all traces of a smile vanished from his expression.
He'd had enough. Standing jerkily, he swept his gaze along the length of the aisles, searching for an unoccupied seat. Finding none, he uttered a sound that was not unlike a growl.
"Does anyone want to trade seats?"
The exasperated query, so out of sync with his normal personality, elicited brief stares from the other members of AVALANCHE, but drew no offers. Nor were the other passengers cooperative, save for a small man nearer the back, who tentatively raised his hand after a moment of thoughtful contemplation. Vincent briefly regarded his travel companion, a slovenly-looking man who was leafing through a Playboy magazine, and sighed quietly.
"Anyone besides the man next to the slob?"
"Sir!" a flight attendant scolded as she hurried past with a clipboard. "Sit down, please! The plane's about to take off."
"Isle! —wha?" That brought Yuffie out of her song as swiftly as a splash of cold water to the face. Breaking off in mid-click, she twisted her head around to stare wide-eyed at the stewardess. "We're taking off?"
"In five minutes," the woman said sternly, the intercom crackling as if to punctuate her statement. "So please, buckle your seatbelts."
"Is this thing on?" a voice, distorted by static, said mildly from the speaker located at the front of the coach area. Another voice, presumably that of the co-pilot, said something inaudible in response. "Ahah," the captain stated triumphantly. "Got it, Fred. Fasten your seatbelts, folks, we're in for a long ride. Estimated time of arrival is eleven hours and forty minutes from now. Geez, you'd think they'd pay me overtime for this—"
Yuffie, who had fallen into a sort of stunned silence, reanimated abruptly at this. "Our captain is incompetent!" she shrieked, to the displeasure of those around her. "He can't even work the intercom! We're gonna crash over the ocean, I know it!"
"$%^&! Siddown, Yuffie," Cid growled, though she hadn't actually succeeded in jumping to her feet thanks to her belt.
"And you," she said hotly, whirling on him, "it's your fault we're flying American, d'you know that? If you'd just paid your taxes like the IRS had been telling you to, we'd still have the airship! Not," she added darkly, "that that wouldn't have crashed sooner or later."
He shot bolt upright and bristled at the implicit insult, and Vincent, trying unsuccessfully to tune them out, made a mental note to book a different airline next year. They'd just met up at the plaza two hours ago, and Cid and Yuffie were already ripping into one another.
Why were they still associating with her, anyway? Shortly after Meteor had been destroyed she'd tried yet again to make off with their materia.
That chase had been epic.
A sudden forward movement captured his attention. The plane was taxiing onto the runway.
Yuffie made a noise akin to helium escaping from a balloon, the colour draining from her face. "We're moving!" she exclaimed in dismay.
"Yeah, we are," Cid agreed dryly, finally allowing the harassed flight attendants to push him back into his seat. "Full %^&#in' points for noticing."
The plane lifted into the air, the intercom clicked back on, and after a bit of fumbling and muffled cursing their pilot spoke again. "Departing for the Southern Islands. Sit tight, folks, we're predicting some turbulence this evening."