Chapter Summary: Martin has a shattering interview with MJN Air, Douglas practices patience, and Carolyn exercises tough... well, it's not really love, it's Carolyn.

..

.

Martin's mouth opens and closes, his hands falling from his pockets. His mind has stopped working, save a small part that is babbling frantically, It can't be, it's not real, this is a joke, but but but - the smell. It's not real, he tells himself, there should be more than the awful reek of clothes left in the washer for weeks. Not real.

The thing's eyes are milk white, pupils misshapen, hair lank and thick with dirt. It's. Not. Real!

It reaches for him and the nails are broken, splinters of wood under nails and oh. Oh god. The fear jackhammers into his brain and Martin backpedals away, limbs beyond his control. His heel catches and he falls, head thunking into tarmac. Stars burst in his vision and he cries out. He hears the shuffle of its footsteps.

It's coming closer. His limbs aren't responding. He's stunned and it's coming -

..

November, 2012

Martin's eyes flew open. He sat up with a choked cry, dragging air into his aching chest. In. Out. In. Out. His alarm was bleating and had been for some time. He reached out and flicked it off. He jolted, heart thundering again at the knock on his bedroom door.

"Martin? Are you awake, love?" His mother was in the hall, respecting his privacy. She never woke him any more, no matter what noises he made in his sleep. Not since that time he'd woken up flailing and hit her. "Breakfast is on the table. Come on, you have a big day ahead of you!" So optimistic, his mother, even after three years of horrors. Martin sighed and threw back the covers. He rubbed a hand over the shiny scar tissue of his calf, massaging the quivering muscle until it relaxed. Time for the interview suit.

Breakfast was mostly silent, aching gaps between comments about the weather and the upcoming interview. Martin was grateful his mother didn't mention the probable sounds he'd made in his sleep. The nightmares still came, especially on nights when he was worried or upset. He never talked about them. Sometimes the pretense of normality was all they could hold on to.

Three years had passed since the Rising, with the horrors of the Pale Wars in the following year, those things attacking anyone outside their homes. People had barricaded themselves in, scavenged in abandoned shops for supplies. And when the Army couldn't help, too focussed on large cities to help with less populated areas, people banded together to help each other. To fight back. Martin had done his bit. Not fighting - he'd been useless for combat after… well, after. But as things had turned out, being a man with a van had come in handy - first for using his dad's old left-over electrician's supplies to do repairs. Then he'd begun to shuttle groups of people when petrol got scarce. Later, in the most desperate times, he'd been the driver for supply runs, waiting outside while people fitter and braver than he raided supermarkets for dry goods to take back to their neighbourhood.

But since the development of Neurotriptyline and the passing of the PDS Protection Act last year, things had leveled out. Life went on, after all. For most people, that is. Ha ha.

Wendy saw him out to his van. "Drive safe, love. I'll call you if there's any news -"

"I'll call you," Martin interrupted. He patted the fender over the cracked rear turn light and climbed in. He'd have to get that fixed, maybe get a new battery for the faithful old girl. "Whether I get the job or not." He leaned down for a kiss. His mother was wonderful, but he couldn't stand how she waited for the impossible. Martin prayed he'd get the job, because if he had to stay another year, another month living in that house with the grieving memories and shadows of terror, he'd go spare. It was time to stop odd-jobbing and get back to flying. He forced a smile for his mother, tamping down the guilt at the thought of leaving her alone. "Bye, Mum."

His calf twinged once more. He drove off.

..

.

Martin skidded on the floor of the lobby, soaked from the torrential downpour that had delayed traffic and his arrival at the London hotel where MJN Air was conducting its interviews. God, he was a mess, why hadn't he brought an umbrella? Water trickled down the back of his neck as he asked the receptionist where Conference Room B was.

"MJN? Just down that hall, sir, and to the left."

"Thanks. Thank you!" Martin jogged in the indicated direction. Left? No, the first corridor to the left, that's what she meant. He turned and his nose came into painful contact with someone's chest. "Ow!"

"Whoops!" Arms grabbed Martin's shoulders as he staggered back. "Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you coming." Martin held his aching nose and blinked watering eyes at the 'Hello! My Name is Arthur!' name tag. "Brilliant tag, isn't it?" the young man said, noticing his attention. "The hotel gave it to me. It sounds so friendly, like something I'd say. I would say that, actually. Hello! My name is Arthur!"

"Oh," Martin said. He worked for the hotel? "Great, can you show me where Conference Room B is? I'm running late -" He looked up and couldn't help the strange gurgle in his throat. This close up, the cover-up mousse makeup was clearly visible in the crinkles of the man's eyes and over thin scars on the man's face as he grinned at Martin.

"Interview? Brilliant!" Hello-My-Name-Is-Arthur said. "Follow me. Gosh, is it raining out? You're all wet."

In shock, Martin followed the dead man down the left hallway to a door on the left. Arthur gave the door a couple of raps.

"Yes, come in," an impatient woman's voice called. Arthur grinned again at Martin and gave him a thumb's up.

"Good luck! I hope you do better than the others did. They all looked kind of red-faced and scowly when they left. Or sick."

Martin swallowed. God, this Carolyn Knapp-Shappey must be terrifying. He nodded and pushed the door open. Within, a middle-aged woman was sorting papers into a satchel with a disgruntled expression. "Hello?" Martin said. "Carolyn Knapp-Shappey? Martin Crieff, here for the…" He looked at his watch and winced. "12:30 interview. I'm so terribly sorry, there was a delay on the M4, construction and rain and…" His voice trailed off. A drip fell from his mussed reddish hair.

"Yes, very well," Carolyn said with a sniff. "You're lucky you caught me. I was just about to leave, you were the last interviewee. Have a seat."

Martin sat, conscious of his wet-cat appearance and how his suit must be soaking the fabric of the hotel chair. Could this day get any worse?

Apparently it could.

After a decimating interview where he stuttered through standard questions, defended his employment record as a pilot with too much vehemence (It was the Pale Wars! Excuse me for not sending out CVs when I was busy not getting eaten!), and blanked for the first time in his life when asked why he wanted to be a pilot, Martin was drained. Carolyn sighed and pressed her lips tight.

"But you kept up your licence."

"Yes," Martin said. He wet his lips. "It's… flying. It's everything to me. I wanted… want nothing more than to get back to it."

"Hm." She was non-committal. "Well, certainly you are qualified for the position. Barely."

Martin sat up, a flicker of hope warming him. Would it sound desperate if he said he'd do anything to get the position? Maybe. Probably. He said it anyway.

"That's very good, Mr Crieff," Carolyn said. "A very positive attitude. Now, I am required to tell you about the working conditions."

Martin's thrill of optimism began to fade as Carolyn explained the company's focus. Piloting for a small charter, but transporting Rotters? Working with two of them, one of them in the very flight deck? The cheery dead man from the hallway was her son, the airline's steward. Martin's chest felt funny. He had no idea what his expression was but it couldn't have been good. After a sharp look, Carolyn began to speak at a quicker pace, explaining the refitting of the Lockheed-McDonnell and its new safety features for their clientele - and pilots. It was as if she were afraid he would bolt. Martin stared at her, hands knotted together in his lap to keep their shaking from being obvious.

Carolyn considered him. "The position is for captain, if that interests you." She quoted a starting salary. Martin's jaw was frozen; he couldn't utter a word. That was… that was good, much more than he'd ever earned, but… but the other thing…

"Well, if you're not interested, then good day, Mr Crieff." Carolyn huffed, snapped her satchel closed and stood. "Another fine waste of time, setting up these interviews," she muttered. "Especially since we should have started flying last week. Really, you'd think people would want jobs."

"Wait!" Martin stood so quickly the chair clattered over. This job, it would mean flying again, at last, at last. And he could move away from Wokingham and all its bad memories. As for the other thing, working with Ro… PDS sufferers... He opened his mouth and the most audacious thing he'd ever said in his life fell out. "The salary you quoted. I - I - I think you made a mistake."

There was a dangerous gleam in Carolyn's eye. "Did I?"

"Yes. It's a bit lower than one would expect for, for flying under… under dangerous conditions! Transporting UK rabids… citizens, I mean citizens! Who may go rabid. Or are already rabid, did I say that? From abroad. That does sound a bit… dangerous?"

"Untreated PDS sufferers," Carolyn said, stressing the phrase, "will be drugged and kept in a locked enclosure, escorted on and off the plane by handlers. There is no danger." The look in her eye warned him to never imply her son was a hazard. "All of MJN's PDS clients and crew are be required to be dosed with Neurotriptyline before flights, given by a duly-appointed medical technician at the airports."

"Nevertheless." Martin lifted his chin. "It… it looks like I'm your last candidate. Arthur mentioned how the others all legged it." She lifted a brow at this, implying that the flight of the other candidates was only a minor inconvenience. "And, and if… if you want to start flights this week, then you'd better hire me. I'll do it. I'll fly for you." He could do it. He would do it. Arthur had looked quite… normal. For a… PDS sufferer. Scars aside. And quite friendly, as well. Surely MJN's first officer couldn't be much worse.

Carolyn stared at him with an odd mixture of irritation and consideration. "Fine. You make a good case, Mr Crieff. I'm surprised you had it in you. And as you point out, you didn't run screaming." Yet, her tone seemed to imply. She didn't mention his trembling hands and showed her teeth in something almost like a smile. "I'll want you to come by the office in Fitton tomorrow to finalise paperwork and begin going over the flights ops and regs. As you guess, a number of them have been changed to cover our situation. Congratulations. You're a captain - probationary, of course. If things don't work out…" For any reason, the pause said. "You'll be out on your ear. Welcome to MJN, Captain Crieff." She passed him her card, shook his hand and sailed out without confirming whether he'd get the pay increase or not.

Martin barely noticed. The title made him light-headed and he swayed in the breeze of Carolyn's exit. He couldn't help the wide smile stretching his face. Captain. Of an aeroplane. Flying again! He hoped he could live with - ha, ha - working with two dead people onboard who could go rabid if they missed injections. Ha. Ha.

Oh, right. That.

..

.

Edinburgh

"Goodness, Carolyn, he's practically wet behind the ears. This is who you've hired to lead our merry band into the great wide beyond?" Douglas griped. Carolyn sniffed, annoyed.

"How far the mighty have fallen, Douglas," she said. "Yes, this is our newest employee and your captain, Martin Crieff. If you're done putting your worst foot forward?" Not that Douglas' comment hadn't done good - from looking spooked at the sight of his undead first officer, Martin now looked irked at being discussed as if he weren't even there. "Martin, as you may have guessed, this is Douglas Richardson, your first officer."

Martin visibly steeled himself and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you." His shoulders relaxed as Douglas gave it a perfunctory shake.

"Grand," Carolyn said. "Now, as you know, the flight will be straightforward, shuttling some boffins from Edinburgh to London for a conference. As per their request, Arthur won't be steward. You'll have the pleasure of my company this jaunt."

Douglas' mouth flattened out at the news that the scientists were disinclined to be in contact with a PDS sufferer but made no comment. Martin's chest fell with a silent exhalation of relief. Carolyn mentally made a note to continue accepting job applications. Martin bore close watching.

This was confirmed by Martin's reaction to G-ERTI's interior. Neither the new contact tasers located fore and aft in the passenger section, nor the currently tastefully-curtained cage located to the left of the toilet caused more than a slight pause in their tour. But his face paled at the 'safety buffer zone' of the galley with its locks between the flight deck and cabin.

"The - the updates on the manual weren't clear," Martin said. "Is this to prevent rabids from breaking into the flight deck, or… or?"

"Yes," Douglas said unhelpfully. His smirk belied his irritation with Martin's unfinished sentence. Carolyn quelled him with a glance.

"It is important for passengers to know that if anything untoward happens, there are refuges in both ends of the plane," Carolyn stated.

"I can think of a much better use for the toilet," Douglas said.

"Such as, the purpose for which it was intended?" Carolyn retorted. "I was a stewardess for years. Believe me, I know what passengers can get up to."

"Who said anything about the passengers?" Douglas said, smirking. Carolyn held on to her temper as Martin looked from one to the other, mouth open. She opened the flight deck door and gestured them inside.

"Well… I can see that no expense for refitting was spared here," Douglas remarked as he took in the worn surfaces. "Literally. No expense at all."

"Why would I waste money where no paying customer can appreciate it?" Carolyn said.

Martin's brows had drawn together. He gingerly touched a piece of duct tape covering a crack in a plastic panel. "Maybe in the interests of having future customers?" he said, voice going high. "Really, Carolyn, is this plane safe to fly?"

"It's passed inspection."

"By how much?" Martin said. He'd forgotten Douglas' presence in his outrage. "I know the Lockheed-McDonnell is a classic, but -"

"But nothing. We are wasting time, pilots!" She clapped her hands. "Fly, my pretties!"

Douglas was barely restraining a smile. Without further comment, he slid into his seat. Martin gave her one last agonised look before taking his own.

The flight up was uneventful. Carolyn cheerfully disregarded the new regulations and kept company with her pilots in the flight deck. Douglas proved her instincts right - undead he might be and resentful of it, yet he matched her light conversational tone. Friendly in that way new colleagues are, professional and very good at the actual flying business, calm and relaxed as he contacted ATC. Perhaps she'd have Douglas make the cabin addresses in the future - his voice was rather lovely and reassuring. It's not as if passengers would know that he was speaking from beyond the grave, Carolyn thought, and smiled to herself.

Martin, on the other hand, seemed to have a problem with his neck. Certainly he would take quick glances over his shoulder at her, but he seemed unable to look in his copilot's direction. His additions to the conversation were disjointed and stuttering. Douglas, for his part, seemed to take his captain's nerves in stride. Well, at least the boy could fly. The way he dove at the controls for the smallest corrections with hardly a fumble looking for the correct toggles in what must be a new layout for him boded well. The smile that spread over his thin face as G-ERTI lifted from the ground drew even Douglas' attention. Oblivious to the curious glances Douglas and Carolyn exchanged, Martin flew, eyes and attention fixed on the job.

A pity Arthur wasn't with them, Carolyn thought as she guided the group of scientists to their seats. He would test Martin's limits, and not simply because Arthur would try the patience of a saint. At the very least, having a PDS sufferer in their midst might stop these smug eggheads discussing the 'problem' of Partially Deceased Syndrome in less than polite terms.

"All set back there?" Douglas asked.

"Indeed. Gentlemen, are we ready?" At Martin's nod she smiled. "Well then. Have a good flight." She closed the flight deck door on Martin's appalled expression, the automatic lock clicking. The keypad was on both sides, really, there was no need for Martin to look like that. It was like leaving a lamb alone with a lion in its den. Granted, a relatively mannerly and medicated old lion, but if Martin wasn't going to last, better to know sooner rather than later. She chuckled to herself and began to load the drinks trolley.

..

.

Martin gulped as the door closed. The flight deck was abruptly too small. Was it warmer in here? His neck began to prickle with sweat. Oh, god. He was locked in with a Rott… with a PDS sufferer. Meeting Arthur again when he'd gone to sign a contract had been fine. Even close up the scarring was barely noticeable under the heavy mousse, and the warm colouring suited Arthur's contacts and wavy brown hair. Douglas had been fine today as well, though dismissive and cool in more ways than one. It didn't help Martin's confidence that Douglas looked the part of a pilot in comparison to himself. Douglas was tall, broad-chested and in his fifties, with greying brown hair framing a handsome face. Next to him, Martin felt short and inconsequential in his uniform, ginger curls flattened unflatteringly from his pilot's cap. Their handshake had been tepid, Douglas' hand slightly cooler than the air temperature. But now Martin's nerves were jangling and the locks on the door weren't helping his mental state.

Douglas reached to toggle the flaps and his shirt cuff rode up, revealing bare skin where make-up had rubbed away. Martin couldn't tear his eyes from that translucent gleam. Douglas saw the direction of his gaze, glanced down at his wrist and back to Martin. Some complicated emotion moved in Douglas' eyes behind the brown contacts. He made no move to tug the cuff down again.

"Problem, captain?" The tone was challenging.

"N-no," Martin said. "Sorry. It's nothing. Just…" He trailed off. Nothing, just that'd he'd been able to put the fact that his first officer was dead out of his mind for long stretches and now he was alone with him, trapped in a tiny cockpit with him, within arm's reach… Martin's eyes flickered over the copilot's seat, the extra dangling straps that would trap Douglas' arms, keeping him from touching the controls in the case of… in case. Oh god. Unconsciously Martin's own hand dropped to his belt, brushing over the contact taser holster.

"Eyes on the skies, captain. Shall I radio in?" Martin jerked a nod. Douglas unclipped the mic and called in. "Golf Echo Romeo Tango India to…" He frowned, held up the mic and held the button down. Nothing.

Oh god, was the radio broken? What if something dire happened? "I can try mine," Martin said but Douglas wiggled the cord at the bottom and held the mic at an angle. The radio clicked, hissed and Douglas repeated their altitude and bearing to a bored ATC. Martin throttled back a hysterical giggle.

"My mobile is just the same," he gabbled in relief. "I mean, you have to hold it just so to maintain connection, it's this cheap thing, it's ridicu- anyway."

"G-ERTI does seem rather vintage," Douglas said. "Probably a loose connection."

They lapsed into stiff silence. Martin turned off the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign button, or tried to. The damned thing wouldn't release. He jabbed at it, getting more flustered.

"Allow me," Douglas said, reaching over. Martin pressed himself back in his seat away from that long arm. Douglas pushed the recalcitrant thing. Nothing. He balled up his hand and pressed his thumb hard against the plating beneath the button. With a snap, it popped up.

Face burning, Martin let Douglas make the announcement that the passengers were free to leave their seats. "I could have got it," he said.

"I'm sure Sir has reservoirs of hidden strength," Douglas said. "Think nothing of it."

Douglas' relaxed condescension flustered Martin even further. God, he was being out-piloted by a dead man! "Carolyn really must get these things fixed," he sputtered. "How am I expected to do my job when the plane is well-nigh unflyable?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say be so hard on the old girl," Douglas drawled. "She may have some idiosyncrasies and is bit set in her ways, like any old lady. It's up to us to learn her ways, not the other way - hm. I say. That's interesting."

A red warning light was lit up. "Oh, god. Smoke? Smoke in the cabin!" Martin said. "Douglas, get hold of ATC, we may need to ditch." He fumbled for the private intercom. "Carolyn? Is there a problem? Is anyone smoking? In the toilet?" He glared at Douglas, who hadn't moved to obey. "First officer, will you please -!"

"No," came Carolyn's bemused reply. "No one's even left their seats."

"No fire?"

"None, and if you don't mind, I've pretzels to hand out," she said and hung up. Martin looked at Douglas, eyes wide. He shrugged.

"Figure it out yet, Captain Sherlock?"

Martin looked at the red light. Taking his cue from Douglas' previous action, he finger-flicked it. The light went out. "Oh, for pity's sake!"

Douglas chuckled. "The old girl has bits falling off her faster than I do."

Martin cringed at the thought of both scenarios. "How can you say that?"

"Because it's true? I would know, after all." Douglas heaved a sigh. "From Air England to this, this airdot."

"How can she even claim this thing is air-worthy?" Martin railed.

"Bribes?" Douglas suggested.

"Fine for you, I suppose you wouldn't even be worried about the very great possibility of the whole plane falling out of the sky!" Martin snapped. He gulped when Douglas fixed him with a hard look. He hadn't meant that, not like that. Douglas was an experienced pilot, he must have seen some tricky situations in his career, that was what he'd meant to imply. He tried to backpedal. "You, er…"

"No, I'm not," Douglas said, voice even. "Not much for me to lose, isn't that right?"

That shut Martin up. Oh god. Was Douglas that heedless of his… afterlife? The very idea of flying with a person who didn't care if he died, who would have in his cold hands the lives of passengers and crew - it scared Martin to the core. He gripped the yoke to conceal the tremor in his hands. Next to him, Douglas heaved a gusty sigh. "Captain…"

"Radio for a weather update, please, first officer," Martin said, and hated himself for how his voice slid and cracked.

He kept control and landed G-ERTI in several rough bounces that would have had his old flight instructors shaking their heads and scribbling on their clipboards. Douglas, for his part, had kept their exchanges brief, nothing being said beyond the necessary discourse for professionals. With G-ERTI parked, he waited until the scientists had deplaned before bolting from the plane, calf aching.

Alone in a men's restroom, he braced arms on the sink and hung his head. That… that had been horrible. Not the actual flying, that had been wonderful. But the rest of it… god. He wetted several paper towels and laid them on the back of his neck, releasing a hoarse sigh.

"Martin? Ah, there you are." Martin spun, towels falling with a wet plop. Carolyn stood in the doorway. "I'd like to have a word."

So much for his new job. "Sure," he said, listless.

"Good." She stepped in and closed the door, wrinkling her nose at the urinals.

"Here?" Martin said. "You can't be in here!" Great, not only had he been frightened silly today, he was about to be sacked in a toilet. Humiliating.

Carolyn ignored his feeble protest. "I'm not going to ask about that landing despite it rattling my teeth, because I hadn't expected perfection from a very junior pilot who hasn't flown a commercial aircraft in years."

"Thank you," Martin said. He waited for the axe to fall.

"Well? What do you mean by running off like that?"

"I…" Martin pressed a hand to his eyes, scrubbed his face. "It was a difficult flight. For me, today, I mean. What with… the radio was acting up, and… There was a warning light, I, I was afraid that… Nothing bad happened, I handled it. I'm sure Douglas would have taken care of it if I hadn't. I think he would've, anyway. Er. And… and I apologise. I - I shouldn't have left Douglas to finish the post-flight work."

"Quite right, though as you say, Douglas can handle it." Carolyn eyed him. "A warning light?"

"Smoke detector," Martin said.

"Ah, that. Well, at least you attempted to follow procedure, from what Douglas said."

Martin lifted his head at that. Douglas had spoken up for him? That was… unexpected.

"But I do expect better, Martin. Both in flying and professionalism. You do know that I can't afford to keep a pilot whose shirt is soaked with fear-sweat merely because his copilot is a PDS sufferer -"

"That's from the paper towels," Martin protested.

"Be that as it may. It gives clients the wrong impression. And sends the wrong message to Douglas, as well as Arthur. Again, if you are unable to work in an environment with Partially Deceased..."

"I'm sorry," Martin burst out. "I - I'll do better, I swear." It had to get better, didn't it? His traumatic first day was over and apparently he still had a job.

Carolyn sniffed. "I hope so. Now, if you've finished your business in here -"

The door swung open. A man on coveralls stared at Carolyn in outrage. "Hey! You're not supposed to be in here!"

Carolyn's smile was all sweetness and sharp teeth. The man took a step back. "Young man, I'm always exactly where I'm meant to be." He scrambled out of her way as she left.

Martin slumped against the sink, dizzy with relief. Thank god. Thank god he hadn't been fired.

And thank god he wasn't the only one terrified of her. Between Carolyn and his PDS coworkers, he was almost sure he was less scared of Arthur and Douglas.