"Mayday, mayday, mayday, coast guard, mayday, mayday, mayday."
"Aircraft calling mayday, vessel in distress. This is the United States Coast Guard, Cape Canaveral, Flordia, state your position, nature of distress and number of souls on board, over."
"This is Challenger 604, Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot, off the coast of Cuba. Exact position unknown, en route to Turks and Caicos. Twelve people on board, over..."
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, coast guard, come in."
There was no answer after the first response. Stan Marsh, captain of the aircraft, was not supposed to panic. In the face of an emergency, they were to remain calm, collected, and think of solutions. But currently, unless either he or his first officer could magically repair two engines with a snap of the finger, could do nothing to problem solve. Gripping the yolk, Stan smashed the button on the radio, switching it out of emergency frequency, and then back again. Try turning it off and on. The universal initial quick fix for everything, these days. Stan spoke into the headset again. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, Flordia. This is Challenger 604, Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot. Dual engine failure. Twelve on board. Come in. Over."
Still nothing. "Cartman, alert cabin crew to prepare for emergency landing."
"Yes, captain." Under normal circumstances, getting Eric to address him properly was like pulling teeth. Stan thanked the Lord that for once, he didn't respond with cheek and simply did as he was told. Alerting Kenny in the galley, his voice came through the intercom. "What's up?"
"Prepare cabin and passengers for water landing, Kenny," Cartman said, voice cracking from worry as he watched Stan hold onto the yoke with one hand muscles staining to keep from diving forward, and smacking at the dash with the other. "What is going on?!"
They didn't get a response from Kenny, only to hear muffled over the speakers in the cabin that he was walking them through the procedures. They could tell Kenny was calm. Of course he was.
Kenny feared death the way Stan feared puppies.
Stan couldn't help but be bitter. Kenny had nothing to lose, if he died he woke up again hardly twenty for hours later, feeling better than before.
"The altimeters are all over the place," Stan hissed, scooting up in his seat to look out in front. The nose of the plane was maybe six to seven fingers below the horizon, a clear descent, yet when he looked, the one stated they were ascending, the other suddenly dropping to zero. Clearly one was wrong, they weren't ascending, but at the pace of the other they'd hit the water in seconds.
Also wrong.
"Estimate our altitude," Stan commanded, and Cartman looked out the side window. "I'd estimate five thousand, Captain." It was a rough one. The only thing besides sky they could see was water, and it didn't offer much of a way to gauge height. So Cartman had to guess from time, and last known altitude.
Stan flipped a few switches, a desperate attempt to get the aircraft under control. Absolutely nothing was working. The whole flight deck was filled with various robotic female voices screaming about various failures. "Is anything on your end working, Cartman?" Stan asked, his voice shaking.
"No, Captain..." Cartman stared at the instruments, all of them going wild, lights flashing on and off, the ground proximity warning, even the fire alarm for the bathroom was going off and on. "This is useless, man, even my yoke isn't working!" To demonstrate, Cartman pulled back with way to much ease considering Stan was clutching his for dear life.
"Seatbelt on?" Stan asked, eyes darting down to make sure his was on.
Cartman responded in turn. "Seatbelt is on,"
"Prepare for landing," Stan ordered. "Preparing for landing."
It was almost laughable, Cartman thought. There wasn't anything he could do but tighten the straps around him, and push the yoke away to avoid crashing into it and breaking a few ribs. No point in it being there if it was useless.
Stan had somehow managed to get enough control to slow the descent, bringing the horizon up to about four and a half fingers to try and level them with the water that was so close, they could make out individual white caps in the water. At least they wouldn't be going nose first.
Stan gave one last, hopeful try, despite radio being shot. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Captain Stan Marsh, Challenger 604, call sign Golf Charlie Oscar Foxtrot. Twelve souls on board, please respond."
Stan swore, ripping the head set off his head and tossing it somewhere behind him.
"Pleasure flying with you, Eric," Stan said, just in the chance one of them didn't make it. Or both. They were at the biggest risk.
"You too, El Capitan," Eric chucked, voice dark as he extended a hand to shake. Stan took it, gripping tight as they collided with beautiful blue waters.
"Stan," someone called, and Stan groaned, wishing them to go away. Everything hurt, and the sun was much to bright, shining through his lids. "Hello! Earth to Skip!" Stan shot up in an instant, cheek on fire as Kenny came into focus. "What the fuck?!"
"The Boy Who Lived lives on!" Kenny cheered, sitting back on his knees. Stan wiped at his face, trying to ignore the pain in his chest and head. His hands came back wet, both with water and blood. "Careful, the cute little redhead reckons you've got a broken rip and a concussion. Says he's a med student. Also says he knows you, too."
What?
"Broflovski ring any bells?" Kenny continued, and Stan groaned, trying to push the blonde away from him. "Stop, Ken, Christ. Let me figure everything out."
Stan remembered the events up to the crash, but the specifics just before hand were lost. Judging by the squish he sat on, they were on the emergency raft. "Is everyone okay?" Stan asked, heart sinking as he thought the worst. How it would reflect on him and his career if he had lost anyone, yet survived himself.
"Mostly. Everyone's got an injury or too. You and Cartman turned out the worst, obviously. But I think Eric's fat helped him out a bit, he's just got a busted arm and dislocated shoulder." He wasn't awake yet, Stan could see, once the sun stopped being so damn blinding.
"You okay?" Stan asked, leaning against the lip of the raft and breathing deeply. Kenny nodded, lifting a wet, white sleeve to wipe at the cut on Stan's hand. "All good, you know me," Kenny said softly, looking out past the raft. "We're close to land. Wendy, the dark haired girl over there, thinks it might be part of a resort. Either way, it's out of the fucking ocean and onto something that isn't making everyone sea sick."
Kenny had gone over the roster early on in the flight, and chatting to most of them for the first few hours had given him the information that they were carrying mostly a group of grad students, almost all of them in their mid to late twenties. A handful of them, Kenny had learned, were friends of the Ike a Broflovski, Kyle's little brother along for the ride.
"Kyle says you're not to sleep for a few hours," Kenny continued, noting Stan's drowsy eyes. "Says you might not wake up, and what would we do without our skipper?" Kenny smiled, prodding Stan in the cheek.
Kyle?
Broflovski?
"Are Kyle and Broflovski the same person?"
"Mhm, he knows you, he said." Kenny said again.
"Oh, god," Stan groaned, looking at Kenny's confused face. "He's my old high school, uh... boyfriend? Best friend? I dunno, it was complicated..."
Of all the gin joints in all the world.