Author note: Welcome aboard! Please keep your disbelief stowed in the overhead bins for the duration of the flight, and thank you for choosing to travel with us :)

Chapter 1: Mayday, I guess?

"How could I have known that she's the boss's daughter?"

It wasn't really the substance of what his cousin said, but just how astonishingly indignant he sounded that struck a nerve and dragged Hiccup out of his commitment to feigning deafness for the entire flight.

Twisting around as much as he could in the limited space between his seat and the tray table, Hiccup glared.

"Gee, I don't know Snotlout, why else would she have been sitting next to him and his wife during the dinner?"

His cousin's name was actually Scott. When they were toddlers, Hiccup had made fun of his cousin's frequently runny nose in response to the teasing about his hiccupping; in the end, both names had stuck. The "-lout" had been added after Hiccup witnessed firsthand his cousin's attempts at picking up girls in a bar.

"And more importantly, a business dinner is absolutely not the right time or place for you to start pestering women!"

Despite saying it in a whisper-shout, Hiccup could feel the curious eyes of the passenger sitting to his other side.

He leaned back into his seat and fixated on the seatback display, jabbing a finger aimlessly at the unhelpfully unresponsive touchscreen and hoping to find something that would help block out Snotlout's impassioned defense of his flirting prowess.

Maybe the travelers around them couldn't understand English; it wouldn't be too unusual on an international flight. Maybe they only saw two Americans. Two rowdy, loudmouthed Americans.

To think that the trip had started out so well.

Hiccup's father had sent him and Snotlout to Beijing to finalize a business deal. It was largely ceremonial, something about building personal ties and showing how much the partnership meant to them, at least according to the overpaid "cross-cultural consultant" his father hired.

Their hosts had been amused by Snotlout's jock-like Americanness—Hiccup had silently thanked all the gods he could name for that one—and approved of Hiccup's appreciation for their culture. The cuisine they'd been treated to, not to mention the copious, liver-wrecking amounts of baijiu, and the sights they'd toured, it could have been a vacation.

And then on the last day, Snotlout had made a pass at the company chairman's daughter, and earned himself a slap in the face in front of the entire banquet. The following morning the deal was put "on hold," and their hosts brushed off Hiccup's repeated attempts to meet and make amends.

Hiccup couldn't quite recall the last time he dreaded something as much as the ensuing phone call to his father. Dread, apprehension, and anxiety were once familiar emotions when it came to interacting with Stoick.

Granted, it had been many years since he was a kid in school, sitting stiffly in a hard plastic chair outside the principal's office as the effects of his latest experimental contraption were described in what Hiccup still maintained was exaggerated detail to his father.

The butterflies in his stomach from then generally had a way of coming back though.

Somehow it would be his fault. Snotlout would get told off, but it was always Hiccup's fault. How he should've reigned in his cousin, or had the clairvoyance to see what was coming and intercepted, or preemptively chatted up the lady himself. Or something.

Surprisingly, Stoick had kept quiet while Hiccup's explanation of the previous day's events soon became rambling. A curt demand that they be on the next flight home was all they got before he promptly hung up.

Hiccup could only assume shouting at him over the phone wasn't satisfying enough for the man, and he wanted to do it in person while looming over them. Stoick was very good at looming.

As it turned out, the earliest flight to the US was the next day's Air China flight from Beijing to San Francisco. Few tickets were left at such short notice, which was why Hiccup was currently squished in the middle seat between his broad-shouldered cousin on his left, and a stranger on his right.

"Keep talking and I'll tell Dad about everything you did during the trip," Hiccup finally breathed quietly when it became apparent that Snotlout wasn't going to stop grousing of his own volition. His cousin harrumphed and grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "just jealous," but settled down anyway.

Hiccup downed the remaining water in his plastic cup, handed it to a passing flight attendant with a quiet thank you, and folded up the tray table that simultaneously took up way too much room and yet was never big enough.

Sliding a bit down his seat so he could lean against the headrest, he closed his eyes and made himself passably comfortable. Unable to look out the window or stand in the aisle to stretch, the one thing left to do was to try and sleep through the journey.

Taking over the family business had never been the plan.

Well, it had long been his father's plan, not his.

Hiccup had gone away to college to study engineering, and after a friend took him on a flight in dinky little bright yellow Piper Cub, he switched gears; being a pilot was suddenly all he wanted.

Even though the thing could barely be called a plane by modern standards—merely steel tubes, fabric, and an engine with less power than his old Toyota bolted to the front—it could go practically anywhere, take him anywhere.

Up in the sky, he felt… Free.

But with the downturn in the industry and his father's heart attack, Hiccup could no longer stay away.

It hadn't been as bad as he feared though. The income meant he could start putting together a home flight simulator rig, and Stoick, in a rare moment of recognizing the burdens he had placed on his son, had arranged flying lessons for him on weekends too.

The plane rocked slightly as it hit a patch of light turbulence, and Hiccup let the mild swaying sensation lull him to sleep.

When Hiccup blearily became aware of his surroundings once again, he let out a soft moan and wished he could sink back into a slumber.

Throat dry, saliva thick and sticky in his mouth, he could feel a growing throb in his skull. Not to mention a faint twisting in his stomach. He struggled to remember; had he asked for any wine or beer during the flight?

Then the smell hit him.

It was an overwhelming, pungent odor, like wet gym socks, except ten times worse. The air was heavy with the smell, so thick that Hiccup could almost taste it, crawling into the back of his throat. He coughed, and nearly choked on the next breath.

"Snotlout! Did you take off your shoes again?" he hissed, his still-sluggish mind jumping to conclusions as he fought the urge to gag and tried his best to only breathe through his mouth at the same time.

But Snotlout had both his hands clamped to his face, his voice muffled when he answered, "It's not me, I swear!"

Hiccup looked around was met with a similar sight across the cabin.

Many passengers were holding their clothes, blankets, or travel pillows to their faces, or shoving their noses into the crook of their arms in an effort to filter out the acrid smell. The noise of coughing was everywhere, and Hiccup thought he might have heard someone further behind retching.

A handful of people braved the risk of drawing deeper breaths to yell through their improvised masks. Many more were repeatedly punching at the flight attendant call button, the usually unobtrusive chime now adding to the cacophony.

Over the din, flight attendants standing in the aisles were trying to make themselves heard with their hands cupped around their mouths.

Several rows ahead in the center seats, a woman had stood up from her spot and was scrabbling at the paneling above, digging her fingers into the gaps between the dull white plastic. The young man in the neighboring seat had his arms around her shoulders trying to restrain her.

Someone shouted and a flight attendant rushed over to help as well. Hiccup belatedly realized the woman was probably attempting to get at the oxygen masks.

This was insane. This was chaos, and the cabin crew were struggling to keep people from panicking.

The normally unobtrusive mood lighting that bathed the cabin in a soothing orange glow instead seemed too close to emergency red. Hiccup could feel his heart thumping, its pace picking up, and a growing tightness in his stomach as he grasped that he too was stuck in a giant metal tube in this. Whatever this was.

There was no way out, and nothing out there. Only freezing cold and a several-mile drop.

He pushed passed Snotlout to look out the window, and then at the moving map on the seatback screen. They were near Seattle, continuing to fly straight and level at 39,000 feet in the same direction. Surely this was something worth diverting for?

Amid the clamor, the ding of the public address system caught his attention. Strangely, the voice began straight away in English, rather than Chinese first as usual.

"—ssengers… on board…" Hiccup strained his ears to hear over the commotion.

"Any pilots on board, please make themselves known to a flight attendant."

Wait, did he hear that right?

He looked at Snotlout, who mirrored his expression, gawking. No, he couldn't have. The announcement repeated itself one more time, and there was no mistaking it.

Pilots, they were asking for pilots.

Snotlout grabbed his arm and shook him. "Hiccup! You're a pilot, aren't you? Didn't you have, like, a test right before we left?"

Hiccup nodded dumbly, uncomprehending. He had indeed gotten his multi-engine rating a few weeks ago.

Finally, his thought process caught up.

"What? No!" he sputtered back, prying his cousin's hand off him. "They mean off-duty airline pilots, not amateurs like me!"

And more importantly, why did they need pilots? Maybe the flight crew needed a hand; some help with communications, a language difficulty perhaps. That would explain why it needed to be someone with experience, and the English announcement.

A flight attendant passed their row and the man sitting to Hiccup's right grabbed her by the forearm. They started arguing, but he couldn't understand the language.

On his other side Snotlout jumped up, catching the attention of the agitated flight attendant, who gestured downwards with her free arm.

"Sir, please stay seated and keep your seatbelt fastened, the situation is under control!"

"He's a pilot! My cousin knows how to fly!" Snotlout hollered, pointing in his direction. The flight attendant stopped moving and looked down at him expectantly.

Hiccup returned their gazes, glancing between them, unsure of what to say.

Goddammit. Damn it all.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "I'm—I'm a pilot."

The next moment, the flight attendant had yanked herself free from the other passenger's clasp and practically dragged Hiccup out into the aisle. He stumbled but she paid him no mind and led him forward in the direction of the cockpit, weaving and pushing through others in the narrow space.

The awful odor faded as they moved closer to the nose of the plane. By the time they were striding past the galley between business and first class, the smell was tolerable and getting weaker. It was a lot quieter too, with far fewer seats in the space.

Another flight attendant stood in the front galley speaking into the interphone. Her face was set in a grim expression, but nevertheless composed. Hiccup noticed she wore a dark purple uniform, unlike the vermillion red on the others.

His guide exchanged a few words in Chinese with her, and she looked over at him. "You are a professional pilot?"

"Ah no, no I'm a hobbyist," he said quickly, scratching at the back of his neck. "I fly small propeller planes, general aviation."

She merely nodded, gestured for him to wait and went back to the interphone. Hiccup stood there, shifting his weight between legs.

He took a glance over his shoulder to see how the other crew were faring in the cabin—it sounded like things were calming down—and immediately froze.

In the closest row of first class were three men, slumped against the seats, their heads down or lolling to the side.

Each had a portable oxygen mask on, and were wearing white shirts with black and gold shoulder badges. Two flight attendants were keeping a close eye on them.

Slowly, Hiccup turned around and took a few halting steps toward them.

Closer up, he could clearly make out the bars on their epaulets. Four golden stripes on one, three on the other two. A captain, and two first officers.

The captain and first officers.

A hand touched his arm and Hiccup started, whirling around and staggering backwards. It was the flight attendant in purple.

"I'm the chief purser for this flight," she told him. "It appears you are the only pilot on board. The cabin crew will continue asking around. Please follow me."

The woman turned on her heel and strode in the direction of the flight deck, but Hiccup stood rooted to the spot.

Eventually, he found his voice again, "Wait, wait! What's going on, what happened here?"

"We don't know. They called us, but there was no reply when we answered. When we opened the door we found them asleep. They are alive, but they won't wake up."

It was like a plot from some crappy TV action movie, except it was actually happening. To him.

A lump lodged in Hiccup's throat, the nausea he'd been experiencing for the past several minutes flaring, and he pushed past the flight attendant into the lavatory, slamming the door shut behind him.

Doubled over before the toilet, he retched but nothing came out. Another dry heave wracked through him and he kneeled down, his stomach twisting painfully.

Waiting until he was reasonably confident he wasn't actually going to vomit, Hiccup moved to stand up. The world spun, and he grabbed the sink edge to steady himself. It took another moment to be sure it was all in his head, and not the plane rolling.

He ran the tap, splashing himself with water and cursed under his breath when the water automatically stopped after a couple of seconds.

Bracing himself against the countertop, Hiccup stared at himself in the mirror.

The person that stared back looked exactly the same as the one this morning in the hotel. There was nothing different, nothing about him had changed, no sign that he was all of a sudden capable of magnificent feats.

He was still just Hiccup.

It's as if you asked a hatchback driver to drive a big rig. No, scratch that, it's actually way worse. It's like telling a yacht-owner to captain the Titanic through the ice fields. In a storm. Sure, the basic principles were the same, but that was beside the point.

Yet in the end, it didn't matter, did it?

Right now, he was the only one who remotely stood a chance of getting the plane onto the ground. Without turning them all into a giant fireball in the process, that is.

If he could make a difference, he owed it to himself to at least try.

He had to. For his own sake, for his cousin, and for the several hundred passengers and crew on board.

A few more splashes of water on his face later and Hiccup stepped back out into the galley. He gave the chief purser a tiny nod, not quite trusting his voice yet.

She wasted no time, moving to enter a code on a keypad mounted to the bulkhead. Several beeps later he heard a lock click and she pushed the cockpit door open, holding it ajar for him.

Hiccup moved forward, stopping at the threshold. He could faintly hear a voice coming from inside, crackling and repeating, and he realized it was the radio.

"Air China Nine Eighty-Five, Seattle Center, how do you read?"

The flight deck looked a lot like the flight simulators he played around with. An overhead panel with more knobs and switches itself than in the entire plane that he normally flew, five big color displays taking up most of the instrument panel, and the throttle levers and yet more buttons on the center pedestal.

The difference was the view outside.

Directly ahead out the windows were clear blue skies, the color gently darkening from ground to the heavens. In the far distance, thin wispy strands of cirrus clouds blanketed the horizon.

There really wasn't anybody else here. He was really going to do this alone. Yeah. He could do this.

"Air China Nine Eighty-Five, do you copy?"

Or not. The first snag came as soon as Hiccup entered and sat down in the left seat: he had no idea how to move it into the flying position.

Fortunately the chief purser came to his rescue, pressing a button at the seat's base and it slid forward. He gave her an embarrassed smile and buckled in, pulling on the shoulder straps too for good measure. The purser did the same in the first officer's chair.

"Air China Nine Eighty-Five, Seattle Center."

Looking around, Hiccup took in all the dials and displays. He knew that most things on the right half was a duplicate of what he had in front of him, and he likely didn't need to touch anything on the overhead panel.

At the top of the instrument panel on the glare shield were the autopilot controls, and he had his attitude, navigation, and engine indicators on the displays. So far so good.

The control column was comfortingly familiar, a simple "W"-shaped yoke much like on the Piper he earned his license in, and his feet found the rudder pedals where he expected.

"Air China Niner Eight Five, Seattle Center on Guard. If you can hear, squawk IDENT."

Hiccup's first thought was the quick reference handbook might contain instructions for this sort of emergency too. Digging through the document pockets, he was relieved to find a spiral-bound book labelled "QRH," though the feeling rapidly evaporated when he flipped through the pages. Of course it was in Chinese.

"Do you think you could translate this?" Hiccup asked the chief purser hopefully, and only got a helpless shake of the head in reply.

"Air China Niner Eight Five, Seattle on Guard. Squawk IDENT on your transponder if you read."

The radio. He should probably answer that. Grabbing the headset off its hook, he put it on and reached for the control wheel.

Hiccup's hands hovered over the handles for a few seconds before deliberately closing around the cool, smooth plastic.

This was it, he was officially in control now.

On most of the planes he'd flown, the radio's push-to-talk button was a small knob on top of the yoke within thumb's reach. There was one here too, and he pressed it.

Right away a wailing siren blasted in the cockpit, the master warning lights on the glare shield lit up, and an "AUTOPILOT DISC" message flashed on the center display panel.

"Shit!" He hastily pressed the autopilot engage switch, and things calmed down again.

"Air China Nine Eighty-Five, Seattle."

Not that one then. Hiccup felt around the yoke, and found another button under his left index finger. Yeah, that was another common place to put it.

He pressed down and when no alarm blared at him, breathed deeply and tried his best to not stammer, "Seattle Center, Air China Nine Eight Five."

The reply was instantaneous, words coming quickly, almost aggressively from the cockpit speakers, "Air China Nine Eighty-Five, say your intentions."

Well, at least he got the radio correct on the second try. That was a decent enough start, right?

Finger resting against the mic key, Hiccup hesitated.

What was he even supposed to say, hey the pilots are all incapacitated, can you help me land this thing? He was willing to bet nobody had an emergency protocol for this situation.

"Seattle Center, Air China Nine Eight Five, um… We have a problem up here. The, uh, the pilots are unconscious."

Silence. The background hum of the engines was the only sound in the cockpit.

Hiccup swallowed thickly and pressed on, "I'm just a passenger. So, Mayday, I guess?"