Music Recommendation: "This Is Gallifrey; Our Childhood, Our Home" by Murray Gold from the Doctor Who Soundtrack 2, followed by "Madder Sky" by Nakagawa Koutarou from the Code Geass R2 Soundtrack
Flying Mao
Mao's eyes fluttered open as he realized he had fallen asleep, lulled by the warm waves gently breaking against his body. Dripping wet, he stood to his feet and reached for a towel, drying with the soft fabric and stepping out onto the inlaid tile.
Retrieving his clothes from a basket laid outside the door, he dressed and checked the time, walking over to the computer provided by the hotel. "Time to make a few preparations," he muttered as he sat down and placed his hands on the keyboard.
For a moment, he contemplated how he would actually get there. "Flying would be the fastest method… ," he muttered to himself. As volatile as Area 11 was, Britannia was wary of suspicious travelers, especially from the Chinese Federation who had sought to annex Japan for decades. "The airports would be too risky," he decided. "And likely under surveillance by the Directorate."
Looking down at his hands, he realized he didn't know how to use the device before him. "There's no manual," Mao muttered, looking around. He had learned that when people needed information, they looked it up on the computer, but he and C.C. had never had one. Out of other options, he paged the help desk again.
Ugh, not even a moment's peace!
"Hello, this is the help desk. How may I help you," the voice answered cheerfully.
"I was wondering if you could send someone to my room and show me how to use this computer," Mao explained. "I'm on floor C, Suite 002."
He doesn't know how to use the computer? What kind of sheltered life has he been living… These old money types are so useless
The woman suppressed a laugh. "Of course, I'll send someone right away." Prices were so high here, that hotel staff were trained to take care of almost everything for their clients.
Mao shook his head in disgust at her duplicity, terminating the connection.
After a few moments, there was a knock on the door, and Mao let a young man in, who was taken aback for a moment by his striking appearance.
I wonder who he is? He's so…gorgeous. And those clothes!
Walking over to the computer, the man indicated how to turn on the monitor. "Now, what do you want do?" he asked.
"I want to look a few things up," Mao explained carefully.
"Right, so what you do is click here," the man explained, bringing up a window titled, 'BigLobe'. "From there, you can search for anything you need to know, even specify pictures, videos, audio, news and such by typing it in with this keyboard."
Mao smiled, glad something turned out simple.
"So is that all you needed, sir?" the young man asked.
I wonder if he'll tip me?
Mao smiled. "Yes, that's all." He slid his hand into his pocket, drawing out thirty or so yuan. "But please, take this."
A large smile spread across the man's face as he eagerly took the money. "T-Thank you very much, good sir," he stammered as he took his leave.
Straight to the bar for me tomorrow!
Alone once more, Mao ran a search concerning 'airplane laws'. As he scanned the results, he came to learn that civilians were allowed to purchase aircraft classified under both Chinese and Britannian law as "light", recreational planes with speed and power significantly below that of commercial and military transports, which required strict licensing and registry to operate. "So if I fly a light experimental, I can avoid any legal attention. But the power capacity prevents it from traveling very far, certainly not all the way to Area 11… However, if I modify it," he muttered. "I might be able to attach a more powerful battery to make the trip… and the plane flies below radar as well. Nonetheless, I'd have to land somewhere to blend in. Numbers aren't allowed to own private aircraft, so I need to avoid those areas…"
He then searched for events in Area 11 concerning airplanes, scanning the results and dates carefully. "What luck!" Mao exclaimed as he found an advertisement. "In two days, a large event for recreational aircraft enthusiasts is being held near the resort of Lake Kawaguchi. If I fly under the radar, I can slip into the parade and land nearby, seemingly one of the pilots. That means I should reserve a suite somewhere close by where C.C.'s being held so we can escape on the plane but…I still don't where she is." Narrowing down his search criteria, he browsed a list of hotels and checked for nearby private storage large enough to hide a plane. "In the concession area of the Tokyo Settlement, then," Mao decided. "That means…I just have to find an airplane. Stealing one would be impractical, so I'll have to buy one. Or…", a smile spread across Mao's face. "I could avoid this boring legal stuff altogether and just win it from one of the idiots around here."
Satisfied with his plan thus far, Mao closed the window and turned off the monitor. Securing the door behind him, he descended the staircase to the spacious lobby below. According to the display, the casino took up an entire floor.
Following the signs, he ascended the escalator the enormous gambling hall. He blinked several times; pained by bright artificial lighting he wasn't used to and quickly donned his visor.
He looked around for a moment, searching for a venue. It was the kind of place where thousands were won or lost in a single hand. Nothing like the backwater bar he had played at last. Here, multiple bars stretched the length of the floor, serving expensive liquors and cocktails, and scattered throughout the room were hundreds of tables at which cigar-smoking noblemen gambled with cards, dice, or chips. Scantily clad waitresses paraded around the room, some dancing seductively for the amusement of onlookers.
"I have no advantage in mechanical games," Mao mused as he eyed the roulette wheel and slot machines, searching for diverse game of cards instead. He strolled through the frenzied crowds for some time, searching their minds for someone who owned an airplane that met his requirements. Without C.C.'s voice gently encouraging him in his ears and the training he had received from V.V.'s stooges, Mao never would have been able to stand all these minds this long. It made it so hard just to concentrate. At last he found a man, and came to a large table, still filling up with players waiting for a new game to start. Taking a seat in the plush velvet, he nodded to the men seated around him and folded his hands together with a disarming smile.
"Let's play," he said in a husky voice.
The man, Sun Lao, stared aghast at his cards, his lip quivering in disbelief. This was a slick Chinese business executive, after all, always used to things 'going his way'.
"Impossible," he muttered, staring at the pair of shiny keys glinting in the middle of the table amidst a pool of money, at least eight hundred thousand or so yuan. This was serious money and Mao knew he had no doubt his wife was going to kill him.
Mao had easily won almost every round, except those chance forced him to fold on—which he did so without any risk since he knew before any play had been made what everyone had. When a rematch was angrily demanded, Mao baited him by claiming to be uninterested in any more money.
"Well, there are other things, we could offer," the irate man suggested like a drug addict desperate to sate his fix. This was exactly why Mao had singled him out-he couldn't stand to lose. And he always had enough for just 'one more hand'.
"You know, I've always wanted an airplane—one of those light experimental ones to fly around in," Mao mused absently for effect.
"I-I have one of those!" Sun Lao stammered excitedly the, to Mao, obvious and fetching its keys from his pocket to pledge them. "It's got a short take off roll, dual controls, ICOM radio, electric brakes, three position half span flaps, electric trim, and a set of VFR instruments. I'll even throw in a GPS navigation box."
"Really?" Mao feigned. "Who would've known?"
"A pleasure," Mao said as he slid his hands before him and gathered up the hoard.
Sun Lao looked around desperately, but every other player had already left.
Dammit! I should've folded when I had the chance!
"You can have it delivered to the lot down the street—the vacant one," Mao goaded.
Ugh, I need a drink
"Tomorrow morning," the man agreed glumly, rising to head for the bar. His wife was definitely going to do him in first chance she got.
Grinning, Mao checked the time. However, his grin faded when he saw how many hours had passed. "Damn, I have to get some rest," he muttered. "Tomorrow is the day."
As he made his way back across the floor, two burly men approached him. They looked handsome and friendly, except for the fact that Mao knew they were concealing submachine guns under their suits.
This the guy?
Troublemaker...
"Sir, we're gonna have to ask you to leave," the taller one asked.
"Why? I'm winning!" Mao remarked proudly.
"That's the point," the younger one interjected, his stone-hard voice the complete opposite of Mao's exuberance. "We're getting a lot of complaints about you. Now we're not looking to cause trouble or accuse anybody-it would just look bad for the establishment. So take your winnings and go. But that's it. Don't come back here again."
"Well, no one likes a sore loser I suppose," Mao teased with a wave of his gloved hand, walking off.
Smug bastard…
I give you three seconds to wipe that stupid grin off your face
Mao wiped the sweat from his forehead, setting the wrench down upon the pavement. "That should do it," he muttered as he slid out from underneath the craft, his back laying on a cart. Standing to his feet, he smiled as he looked over his new airplane.
The craft had been begrudgingly delivered in the morning and Mao had to make a trip to the hardware store to get the necessary tools to modify it to suit his needs.
Working for several hours, he had added a larger, much more powerful battery and a hand crank alongside the front seat with longer coils. "To transfer power to the main battery, I'll just put the crank in my lap," he mused, proud of his rig.
Dragging out a bucket of light blue paint, he took out a brush and went over its body in long, precise strokes. "This should help it to blend in better with the sky a bit, preventing a random sighting from the shore," he muttered.
Another hour passed, and Mao resealed the bucket, sliding it away. Running a hand through this platinum hair absently, he noticed a salty trail of sweat cascading down his mauve shirt. He pulled it away from his body wearily.
"Don't worry, Mao. I won't die. I live on through you. We are one," C.C.'s voice said reassuringly.
Walking over to the cockpit, Mao perused the manual. It sounded fairly simple—to accelerate, push forward on the throttle, to adjust the angle, move the yoke," he read.
Confident, his thoughts turned to other matters. "Where will we go afterward?" he asked no one in particular. He honestly hadn't thought of it before now, so focused on just getting C.C. back.
Using the socket wrench to remove the nose wheels from the plane so it wouldn't get stolen, he walked back to the lobby and made his way into the elevator. Inputting floor C, his feet exited onto richly textured carpet and he unlocked the door to Suite 002.
"I don't have much time," he muttered as he turned on the computer and entered a few search terms into the window. "We can't return to China, it's too risky… We can't go to Britannia, they might just try to recapture her…" As he was pondering this dilemma, he came across an article, "Oceania says 'NO' to request for Britannian military base". As he read farther down, he came across another, much older article which was back linked to it, "Japan decries Oceanian neutrality amidst tensions with Britannia".
"Oceania?" Mao repeated. Looking over the pages, he became excited. "A bunch of islands!" As he read further, he quickly determined that Australia was the largest mass of land Oceania had and much of it was undeveloped.
Narrowing down his search criteria further, he found a site advertising property in Australia. The more he read, the more it attracted him—sandy white beaches, rugged outback, windswept plains, tropical rainforests, lush woodlands, mangrove swamps—and then he found it, a beautiful white cottage surrounded by several hectares of wild farmland in the subtropical region of Eastern Territory. Mao's eyes sparkled excitedly as he pictured it. "C.C. and I could live there for the rest of my life. We'd have a real house! And it would be quiet—oh, so quiet! And there's so much land-we could even start a huge garden together!" he beamed. He already couldn't wait to take C.C. there. "But, I suppose I should buy it first…ah, here it is."
Taking up the phone, he dialed the number. It rang a few times and then connected, a cheerful, "Hello?" sounding on the line.
"Is this...Victoria then?" Mao inquired, reading the name from the site.
"Y-Yes, it is," the woman stammered, taken aback at being called her first name by a complete stranger. "Who is this?"
"I'm interested in the property you've advertised for sale, the one in Eastern Territory, Australia.
"Alright…what did you wish to know about it?" Victoria asked carefully.
"No, I'm interested in purchasing it," Mao clarified.
"Well…how much would you like to pay?" she replied uncertainly.
Mao paused, taken aback. "You-You're asking me, 'how much I want to pay'?" he stammered. Not that he was an expert in real estate transactions, but something didn't seem quite right here.
"Sir, honestly, I can't believe you called," Victoria admitted. "I inherited that land from my grandfather. I didn't need it and didn't really know what to do with it so I had a deluxe cottage built there, thinking I could sell it. But everyone complains that it's too remote."
"Well, remote is exactly what I'm looking for," Mao said quickly.
"Really…well did you have any special requirements?" the woman asked, gaining interest.
"Does it have a bed?" Mao asked.
"Um, yes it has several," Victoria replied, now herself taken aback.
"Well, we only need one. Does it even have…running water?" Mao continued, becoming more excited, as his voice rose to a giddy pitch.
"Uh…yes, of course," she replied, becoming more incredulous.
"Alright! That's all I need," Mao replied confidently. "So how does seven hundred...eighty thousand yuan sound?" he said, looking through the stack of bills he had won off of Sun Lao.
"It sounds...great. Um, I mean fine. I'll have the property prepared and the deed ready," Victoria replied, her voice betraying her gratitude. "When will you be arriving so I can show you the grounds and answer any other questions you might..?"
"-Well…I'm not sure. I have a few other things I have to take care of first, but I wanted to be certain it would be available," Mao replied carefully and slowly. "A month at the most. I pay in person."
"Will do, then. I'll take down the advertisement. Pleasure doing business with you Mr...?," Victoria assured him.
"It's…Mao. And you too," Mao replied, not knowing what else to say.
With that, Mao hung up the phone and took a breath from the awkward conversation. Polite social interaction really wasn't his thing. "How interesting it is to talk to someone and not know what they're really thinking," he mused.
Walking over to the window, he peered out the blind at the plane parked in the vacant lot down the street. "I suppose I can't put it off any longer… It's time to leave," he muttered. Honestly, he was a bit frightened by the prospect of flying.
His temperature cooled, he applied a bout of sun screen, gently rubbing it into his face, and gathered up his coat and visor. He proceeded to make the bed, fold the towels, and return the chairs to their places. Exiting the room, he again took the elevator and stepped out into the lobby. Returning the keys to the main desk, he checked out and left, finding himself once more on the trampled streets of Beijing; only now, it was overcast and he could sense rain coming on.
He made his way over to the vacant lot holding his plane and, taking out a socket wrench, reattached the nose wheels, giving it a final look over for any problems. "Well, then," Mao announced as he climbed into the cockpit. "I'm coming to rescue you C.C.!" Sealing the chamber, he inserted the keys into the ignition and started the engine. It was a smooth, clear sound, evidence of a well made craft he had heard.
Is that a plane over there?
He sat there for a moment, fascinated by all the different switches and dials, of which he only had a faint understanding of their purposes. But that didn't matter to Mao. He was going to fly to Area 11, defeat Britannia and rescue his beloved C.C.. They would fly off into the sunset and leave the noisy world of wickedness and misery behind forever, finding their comfort in each other, as they always had.
Following the manual, he set the heading indicator to match the compass and adjusted the flaps. Placing his right hand on the throttle, his left hand on the steering yoke and his feet against the rudder petals, he pushed the throttle hard.
The plane drove forward, gaining speed. But before he knew it, he was reaching the end of the lot. "Damn," he cursed as he pressed his feet in, turning the craft hard, and braked.
Who in the world? He must be crazy. "Here, take my hand."
Once again, he pushed the throttle forward, accelerating the plane forward. Quickly he pulled back on the yoke to lift the nose wheel off the ground, but it was too soon, and the plane's nose came down hard, its wheel screeching in protest on the pavement. "Argh! How do I get this thing up there?" Mao shouted in frustration.
Don't they know that's dangerous?
He wheeled around again, trying to give himself enough distance and pushed the throttle forward. Carefully, he eased back on the yoke, lifting the nose wheel off the ground. The plane began to pull to the left, so he pressed his feet into the right rudder petal, stabilizing the angle. With that, the plane lifted into the air and left the ground entirely.
Mao was so excited by his success that he didn't notice where his plane was headed—into the side of a nearby building!
"Oh my god! Look out!"
"Let's get out of here!"
Frantically, he turned hard, narrowly missing the steel and concrete structure. However, the turn sent him into a spiral, which he corrected by turning the yoke left and easing off the right rudder. After a few moments, he turned the yoke right to roll away, leveling out, and soared into the sky.
Looking from side to side, he noticed a flock of birds had joined him. "Hello birds! I'm really doing it! I'm flying!" he called out excitedly. But then he realized something else—his mind was quiet! "Of course!" he exclaimed, realizing the reason. "I'm so high that no one's thoughts are in range!" He began laughing and clapping excitedly, savoring the relief and clarity, as tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. "If only C.C. could see me now!" he declared.
"You'll do so much, Mao. I just know it."
His confidence returning, he decided to try a few barrel spins and loops, banking and yawing with increasing skill. Peering down, he could see the sea below, its waves foaming under a brisk wind. However, his smile faded as he felt the steering yoke tense. Gripping it firmly with both hands, he struggled to keep the plane level, but something was pulling it hard! Mao quickly began pumping the crank he had attached, channeling more power into the engine.
Lightning flashed over his head, followed by a whipping rain. "What's…happening?" he grunted as he struggled with the yoke. The plane began to weave erratically as a roaring wind caught it within its grasp. "I didn't check the weather!" Mao realized, mollified.
As the plane was dragged further in, Mao almost lost all control. Dozens of lightning bolts struck in rapid succession all around the craft, the sound of the rain against the cockpit like that of relentless hammers. Looking out over the rim, he could see the water below churning and seething violently. "Is this what they call a 'hurricane?'" he wondered aloud.
Suddenly the winds changed and the plane was thrown off it course. Gritting his teeth, Mao grabbed the yoke with both arms and wrenched it to the side, kicking the throttle all the way forward. "You're gonna have to kill me first!" Mao shouted, challenging a particularly loud peal of thunder. With all his might, Mao forced the plane onward through the terrible storm and, eventually the winds seemed to calm and the rain stopped, the foreboding clouds parting to reveal a cheerful sun.
Though battered, the plane had made it through, coming within sight of Area 11.
"Great job, Mao!"
Breathing heavily, Mao checked the navigation instruments. "Lake Kawaguchi is this way, then," he muttered, alternating the rudder petals with his feet. As he neared the coordinates, he could see dozens of other airplanes flying around contentedly, meters below, banking, yawing and spinning for the amusement of the crowds gathered here today.
Flying is so freeing!
Did she see me? Did she she? Yeah, baby that's what flying is all about!
Oh, he wants to race does he? Check this out!
"I'll just drop down to their altitude and blend right in," Mao declared as he eased the throttle and pushed the yoke forward. Slowly, the plane dove lower and merged with the parade.
Woah, where'd he come from?
"I'll have to stay here for a bit," Mao realized as he leveled out, surprised at how much easier it had become for him in only a few hours. Careful not to collide with the other pilots, Mao waited until a group veered off to make a landing and he followed them.
However, a feeling of panic took hold as he realized—he didn't know how to land! It was something else he had overlooked in his preparations. He could see the ground approaching fast as his nose continued to dive. "Well I suppose I just have to go for it!" he shouted.
Using the rudder petals to position the craft roughly parallel to the lot below reserved for the hundreds of planes present at the convention, judging his position by looking where the wing visually intersected with the lot edge. Setting the crank aside, he pitched the nose down and raised the flaps. The wheels touched down upon the pavement but bounced hard, slamming his body against the dashboard. Throwing the yoke forward again, he tried to touch down once more, but it screeched and bounced again.
Who is that?
Do they even know how to fly that thing—what kind of a landing is that?
"Clear the way!"
Running out of time rapidly, he decided to pull back on the yoke, after which it finally set down roughly. As it began to roll forward, Mao completely released the throttle and let the plane slide for a few meters, hoping it would stop before hitting anything. Just as he neared the end of the lot, he found the brakes and switched the transponder off, finally halting the plane's journey.
Mao sat there for several moments, gripping the yoke tightly before he realized he had made it. He was alive. The plane was intact. And no one was injured. He turned down his recording, allowing the surrounding thoughts to enter his mind for a bit.
Eh? Probably just a malfunction…he handled it well enough I suppose.
It's such a beautiful day
Damn, what's wrong with my plane?
Someday, I'm gonna be a real pilot—just like daddy
I'm thirsty. Where's a damn Eleven when you need one?
Satisfied, Mao rolled his eyes and turned the volume back up. "And no one seems suspicious of me. I did it!" Unsealing the cockpit, he climbed out, taking the keys with him, surrounded by droves of people and their families.
Author's Note: I know there's no "Eastern Territory" in Australia (though there is an eastern territory). This fictional area would roughly correspond to our Queensland, but since Britannia never took possession of it, I felt the name made no sense and had to change it.
Also, the Oceanian Union is something I made up to explain Australia's conspicuous neutrality.