hello friends!
welcome to my first inheritance games fanfic! Do NOT worry, I am still working on my Big Hero 6 fanfictions they're just taking a little more time (I just read The Brothers Hawthorne and it catapulted me into this fic so...yeah)!
I really hope y'all like this! I'm trying to stick as close as I can to JLB's writing style so hopefully it reads like TIG :)
VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: grayson (our protagonist!) is referred to by his given name and his nickname (gray) in the narration. when he's by himself or with most other people, he's grayson. but with his brothers, he's gray, because that's what they've called him for forever. I've tried to adhere as close to canon as possible but I have aged everyone down a year, so grayson is 19, jameson is 18, xander is 17, and nash is 25. I'm pretty sure I've got the age gaps right but correct me if i'm wrong :)
thanks so much guys! I'm endeavoring to populate the TIG archive :)
peace out!
Tahiti.
Grayson wasn't sure he liked it all that much, to be perfectly honest. Yes, the islands were spectacularly beautiful, and yes, it was a relief to get away from the pressure back home, but it somehow seemed too relaxed. Back in Texas, there was always something needing Grayson's attention, some new foundation sponsor or an idiotic mishap one of his brothers had gotten himself into. Although they had had their fair share of those in Tahiti as well, proving that mishaps were an enduring aspect of life as a Hawthorne.
No, the real problem was the overwhelming sense of impending doom. It had taken up residence in Grayson's stomach as a cold, hard knot, right behind his perfectly toned rectus abdominus. He had tried to ignore it, but when had he ever been wrong about that kind of thing?
When he'd tried to speak to his brothers about this, they had exactly the reactions they normally did. Nash tried to talk Grayson out of worrying, and Jameson adamantly refused to do anything but adjust his sunglasses, while Xander made a valiant effort to listen but eventually gave in to temptation and cannonballed into the pool, soaking Grayson's pristine suit jacket.
As he traipsed back to his suite in the resort to change out of his jacket, Grayson tried to put the sense of destruction out of his mind. Still, he couldn't help thinking that the sooner they were out of Tahiti, the better. Perhaps he was just being paranoid—after all, the last time they had chartered a private jet, it had exploded, nearly killing Avery. No one could blame him for worrying that it would happen again.
Grayson locked the door to his suite behind him and glanced in the full-length mirror on the wall, sighing when he saw his reflection. Water was splattered over the shoulder of his dark gray suit jacket, a monochromatic canvas, and the skin underneath his eyes was a pale shade of lavender. He had indeed been sleeping poorly—Tahiti was quite loud at night, too loud for Grayson's refined taste. It didn't help that Nash, in the next suite over, snored like a jet engine.
The selection of suit jackets that matched Grayson's coloring was dwindling rapidly, and he sighed as he sorted through the rack in his closet. He'd insisted that the clothing staff only select shades of gray and navy blue, but here he was with purple and brown and other colors that didn't suit him—no pun intended—although Grayson supposed the deep violet jacket could at least match his dark circles.
No matter, though. They would be going home tomorrow, although Jamie had insisted on extending his stay for another day so he and Avery could have "alone time." Grayson knew as well as anyone what that actually meant.
Grayson changed into the light silver suit jacket, then spotted a single lock of platinum-blond hair falling over his forehead, evidently disturbed by Xan's exuberant splashing. He sighed again and turned on the bathroom sink, combing his hair back into place.
Sometimes Grayson wished he could relax, not comb gel into his hair or wear the finest outfits—and that, actually, was what this vacation was for, but the habit was so deeply ingrained into Grayson's mind that it was nearly impossible to stop. The one time he'd tried to wear swimming trunks on their trip, Xan and Jamie had teased him mercilessly, not to mention the fact that Grayson Hawthorne did not tan—he sunburned almost instantly.
Grayson started to go back out to the pool, but he stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Why not try it, just this once? Relax?
He returned to the bathroom, pulling a simple white T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the closet. Grayson dressed with his back to the mirror, then turned slowly, his eyes widening at the result.
The shirt was a little tight around his chest, accentuating his pectorals, and the act of pulling it over his head had messed up his hair again, so the pale strands hung over Grayson's paler forehead. His hair was getting rather long, he realized—long enough to brush his eyelids if it wasn't styled. He made a mental note to trim it soon and continued scanning his reflection, analyzing the impact the outfit had on his appearance.
The jeans were slightly loose around the waist—they had been purchased before Grayson had gone on his strict exercise regime—but they complemented his coloring and grounded the outfit, making it just a tad less casual. The problem now was what shoes to wear, as Grayson had exactly one pair of tennis shoes, and they were back at Hawthorne House.
Dared he wear flip-flops? Grayson did not exactly relish the idea of putting sunscreen on his feet as well as his face, but dress shoes simply wouldn't do for a poolside outfit.
He finally made up his mind, slipping a pair of black flip-flops onto his feet. Grayson knew he would probably regret this later, but it was the Hawthornes' last day in Tahiti, so he may as well make the most of it.
Grayson surveyed himself in the mirror one last time, trying to shove his irrational fear back down his throat. Sure, his brothers would probably tease him, but Avery would at least offer some helpful feedback. Besides, he would rather get a T-shirt wet than a suit jacket.
The sun nearly blinded Grayson as he walked back out to the pool, in which Xander was still splashing wildly. Nash sat at the end, his feet in the water, while Avery and Jameson had situated themselves on lounge chairs. Grayson wasn't certain where to sit, so he joined Nash, cautiously dipping his feet into the water.
Nash glanced over at Gray, his eyes widening under the brim of his hat. "New look, huh?"
Gray stared at the turquoise water of the pool, narrowing his eyes against the glints of sunlight reflecting off it. "I suppose. I feel incredibly exposed, though."
"Whatever, little bro," Nash said nonchalantly. "You look great. Ain't no shame in relaxing once in a while."
Xan splashed loudly over to them, his dark hair clinging to his light brown skin. "Gray! Why do you have a T-shirt on? You never wear T-shirts! I'm pretty sure the last time was when you were, like, eleven!"
Gray shrugged. "It is our last day in Tahiti. But I don't know what came over me, to be honest."
Xander flicked a few sparkling droplets of water at Gray, who flinched as they landed on the fabric around his waist. Almost subconsciously, he scooted backward, farther away from Xander's exuberant splashing.
"And your hair's crazy too!" Xan exclaimed, and Gray winced as more drops landed on his cheek. "I've never seen you without gel, like, ever! How painful was it to take it out?"
"It was not," Gray replied, his tone clipped. "What will we be having for dinner tonight?"
"That steak thing!" Xan said cheerfully, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes and collapsing into the water. Gray leaped up immediately, flinching away from the splash. Xan bobbed back up, water running down his face. "I don't know what the steak thing is called, but it was super good last time, so I'm excited! Do you guys know what the steak thing is called?"
"Steak frites," Gray replied, cautiously easing himself back down once Xander had pushed off the wall, drifting out a few feet. "Steak served with fried potatoes and poisson cru."
"He means French fries and raw fish," Nash translated. "Seriously, Gray, do ya have to speak French whenever possible?"
"That is the traditional name of the dish," Gray protested. "Poisson cru translates to raw fish in English."
While Gray didn't care for that part of the dish—his palate did not tolerate seafood—he was rather partial to the steak part. It usually required an hour or two of swimming to burn off the calories, though, so he avoided it whenever possible. But tonight was the last night, so why bother?
"You're starting to burn, buddy," Nash pointed out. "Didja put on sunscreen?"
Gray dragged a hand down his face, letting out an exasperated groan. "No, I did not. Excuse me for a moment."
He got up, walking back toward the resort. When he passed Avery's chair, she flashed him a smile, which Jamie accompanied with a thumbs-up. Gray took this as a mark of approval for his more casual outfit and gave them a nod, then opened the door and allowed the cooler air to envelop him.
When Gray returned to his suite, he squirted a thin line of sunscreen down the length of his nose, then did the same with his cheekbones and forehead, spreading it out until the white faded into his skin.
When he finally finished applying the sunscreen to his whole body, the sun was beginning to descend, promising one last glorious sunset before the Hawthornes' time in Tahiti came to an end. Struggling against the impulse to smooth his hair back into place, Gray headed back out, finding Xander with a towel wrapped around his waist and Nash with his pant legs still rolled up.
"Dinner's in an hour, Gray!" Jamie called, taking off his sunglasses and placing them in his pocket. Gray couldn't help but be envious of Jameson's perfect tan, something that he had so effortlessly achieved while Gray burned until his skin started peeling.
After what seemed like an eternity, dinner arrived, and Grayson had to restrain himself from devouring the whole plate of steak frites. He ate slowly, as he had been raised to do, though all three of his brothers finished in five minutes flat. Still, by the end, Grayson was full, so as soon as everyone else left, he hit the pool again.
Grayson loved this feeling—cutting through the water with the speed and grace of an Olympic swimmer, the moonlight bathing him in a silvery glow. This was his favorite part of Tahiti—the moonlit nights in the pool, the soft whispers of the wind through the palm trees.
Really, it was a shame that it was coming to an end.
The next morning dawned humid and rainy, with a tropical shower soaking the island. Grayson was back in the suit jacket from yesterday, his hair perfectly smoothed down—although the rain wasn't doing him any favors as he, Xander, and Nash prepared to board the private jet.
"Do not, I repeat, do not do anything stupid today," Gray begged Jameson as he clasped his younger brother's hand. "And keep your phone on—if anything goes wrong on our flight, we will contact you."
Jamie seemed to shrug it off. "Aw, Gray, you'll be fine. Nash is a great pilot."
"I still don't understand why you are staying," Gray protested. "You and Avery have had excessive alone time while we have been here—why do you need more?"
Jameson's smile was ever so slightly evil. "You wouldn't understand, Gray. Have a good trip."
Gray sighed and climbed into the jet, sitting down on one of the plush seats and buckling the lap belt around his waist. He was not looking forward to the flight home—Gray suffered from severe airsickness, and the feeling of impending doom was not going to help matters any.
Nash bid his farewells to Jamie and Avery and then climbed into the pilot's seat, followed by Xander, who sat down across from Gray, not bothering to buckle his seat belt.
"You look kind of pale, Gray," Xan observed. "You okay? Cause if you're gonna violently throw up like you did on the way here, I'm gonna go find a seat far away from you."
"I did not violently throw up," Gray argued. "If you don't remember, I was in possession of a bag."
"But it was pretty loud," Xan reasoned. "And I did not need to hear that. So excuse me for moving away when you start becoming violently ill."
Gray sighed, exasperated, and stared out the window at the rain. Xander was probably correct—though he hadn't eaten anything for breakfast that morning for this very reason, Gray worried that he might lose anything else in his system.
The jet's engines revved, and Nash took off. Gray squeezed his eyes shut, his grip on the armrests of his seat tightening. Taking off and landing were the worst, but any bit of turbulence threatened to send Gray's insides into rebellion.
"Whoa!" Xan exclaimed, and Gray opened his eyes to see his little brother with his nose pressed against the glass of his window. "Look at all the little islands—Gray, seriously, it's awesome—oh my gosh is that a whale?!"
Gray shook his head vehemently, wanting to wait until they had reached cruising altitude to look at anything besides the darkness behind his eyelids. He feared that anything else would make him vomit.
The jet leveled off, and Nash's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. "Attention, y'all, we've reached thirty-six thousand feet. Xan, don't fall out the window, and Gray, try not to throw up. We're heading into a little turbulence."
Gray closed his eyes again, leaning back against his seat and trying to take deep breaths. The ten-hour flight home might have been enjoyable if he wasn't so prone to airsickness.
The jet did hit a spot of turbulence, thunder rolling through the sky. Gray tried to pretend it wasn't happening as Xan yapped away about the clouds and the rain and the heaving ocean. Nash's voice would occasionally come in with an assurance that everything was going well and that they only had eight (or seven, or five, or three) hours left of their flight. Eventually, Gray managed to open his eyes without breaking into a cold sweat.
Xander had fallen asleep at some point, and Gray wished he could do the same, but that feeling was building back up again—that feeling that something terrible was imminent, looming on the stormy horizon. It could have been nausea, but it felt more like that knot from earlier.
Closing his eyes, Gray tried to sleep. He could see the faint outline of land ahead, so they had to be close to Texas. Everything would be fine.
And then, suddenly, without warning, a massive boom shook the jet, and Xander snapped awake. Gray's eyes flew open, and he caught a glimpse of fire licking at his window.
A moment of stillness, and then the jet began to spiral toward earth.
Everything was chaos, and Gray was vaguely aware of Nash's voice screaming "Emergency landing! Y'all gotta brace—now!"
His dizziness was through the roof, but Gray tucked his chin to his chest and bent forward, pulling up the seat in front of him so he'd have something to brace his head against, and wrapped his hands around the back of his skull, his heart pounding wildly.
"How do you brace?" Xan wailed, and Gray held back the urge to curse. He shoved the seat back down so Xan could see, shouting, "Just copy me, you idiot!"
A snap sounded, audible even over the chaos, and the jet was no longer spiraling.
It was nosediving.
A scream—a decidedly unmanly, very high-pitched scream—was torn from Gray's throat, and it mingled with both Xander's and Nash's as the jet plummeted toward earth.
A massive impact, a rush of cold air, a splash of water and a shock of pain and a flash of brilliant light—
And then it was over.
And everything was gone.
Grayson's consciousness flickered in and out like a broken lightbulb, allowing him flashes of his surroundings—water lapping at his shoulders, the feel of sand under his fingertips, drops of water landing on his cheeks.
Then his eyes snapped open, and Grayson abruptly rolled onto his side, his lungs violently protesting the entrance of water into his airways. He coughed for what must have been a full minute, hacking up all the water he'd swallowed and/or inhaled. He was thankful he hadn't eaten anything on the jet, or he'd probably have thrown that up too.
When he was done, his throat burning, Grayson rolled back over onto his back, staring up at the cloudy gray sky. He became aware of a dip in the sandy floor beneath him—his head was elevated, while most of his body was partially submerged in three or so inches of water. A sandbar, then—Grayson was incredibly lucky. That sandbar was probably the only reason he hadn't drowned.
He hadn't been entirely spared, though—there was definitely pain. Not excruciating, but enough to make him grit his teeth when he tried to move. Grayson's forehead pounded mercilessly; his soaked hair plastered to it. Gingerly, he moved his hand up to his face, concerned that the appendage may be injured too, but there wasn't any sharp pain there, just the sting of what must have been several cuts and scratches.
Grayson carefully probed his forehead, finding a bump of considerable size. The swelling was tender to the touch, warm and pulsating with every beat of his heart.
His fingers brushed against something slimy, and Grayson shuddered as he pulled a piece of seaweed out of his hair. The ocean was downright disgusting.
Clenching his teeth, Grayson sat up, steeling himself against the all-consuming ache. Mostly, it was his head—though that seemed normal enough for a jet crash—but then a jolt of pain shot through Grayson's ankle, and he stopped moving, letting out a low hiss of pain and peering down at the extremity.
The first thing he realized, somewhat dizzily, was that he appeared to have lost his shoes. And his socks. How unfortunate. Grayson pulled up his pant leg—shredded, like the rest of his suit—and examined his foot. The joint was swelling, though not excessively, and a deep shade of purple. Wonderful—it was clearly broken, but Grayson didn't see any deformity, so that pointed to a simple fracture, nothing grotesque or twisted. It really wasn't as bad as it could have been, considering.
Once the initial shock had passed, Grayson started to feel a deep-seated sense of annoyance and frustration. A jet crash? Really? Now? At least the sense of impending doom was gone, presumably because doom had arrived.
Grayson squinted through the rain, searching for any sign of his brothers, but the rain was so thick that only the massive, smoldering shape of the jet was visible, and it was a mere silhouette. There were no signs of life anywhere, only what seemed to be eternal water and dark clouds.
Grayson sat in the shallow water, rain streaming down his face, rubbing his forehead and generally feeling sorry for himself. His ankle throbbed dully, but Grayson knew that if he moved, it would send stabs of pain through his leg again, so he opted not to move. It was the safer option.
A splashing noise reached Grayson's ears, along with a weak cry of "Help!"
Actually, it sounded more like "halp," so Grayson assumed it must be Xander. He would have called out, but his throat was hoarse from screaming and coughing.
The splashing drew nearer, and Xan's figure appeared through the rain. "Gray!"
Xander stumbled through the water, his dark hair plastered to his face, which Grayson winced at the sight of—a wide, bloody scrape marred Xan's cheek, and the remnants of a bloody nose stained the skin above his lips. His clothes didn't look any better than Gray's—Xan's pants were ripped at the knees and his shirt torn at the shoulder, exposing another scrape. To top it all off, Xan held his hand protectively against his chest, and his eyes were wide with fear.
"Gray," Xan gasped again, crouching down in front of his older brother. "Oh my gosh, are you okay?"
"No, I am not okay," Gray huffed, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "I'm wet—you know how I get about being wet. I feel positively awful."
Xander reached out, genuine concern mingled with amusement on his face. He touched Gray's shoulder, pulling a long strand of kelp off. "I wonder if this is edible."
Gray shuddered again. "Xan, that's disgusting. Are you alright? Have you seen Nash?"
Xan nodded, the amusement fading. "He's on the beach. But he's gasping all weird—I think something's wrong with his lungs. But I'm not a doctor, so I don't know."
"How long has it been?" Gray asked urgently, trying to gather his thoughts. "We have to get Nash to a hospital as soon as possible."
"I don't know," Xan said desperately. "Hopefully not that long? Come on, Gray, we've gotta go get help! I texted Jamie, but he won't pick up—I also called him thirty-seven times! And left voicemails! With yodeling!"
He started to hurry off towards the beach, and Gray, apprehensive, tried to stand—slowly, of course, but it did no good. His ankle promptly gave out, and Gray hit the water again with a stifled hiss.
Xan heard the splash and turned around. "Gray—"
"I'm fine," Gray insisted through gritted teeth. "Just—ow—actually, just help me up, okay?"
"And there goes the dignity," Xan sighed happily, but Gray could tell he was worried.
Xander reached out and took Gray's hand, and both of them gasped, recoiling. Gray brought his hand to his face to investigate the source of the pain and was unsurprised to discover a gash running the length of his palm—not deep, but still bleeding. He looked up at Xan, who was clutching his wrist, biting his lip and rubbing the swollen joint.
Gray sighed. "Are you alright, Xan?"
"I think I sprained it," Xan mumbled, his eyes round and bright. "It really hurts."
He shook his head, probably trying to dispel the pain. "Let's try this again—different hands this time."
They tried again. This time, Xander managed to pull Gray upright and wrap his older brother's arm around his shoulders, although the five- or six-inch difference in their height did not help matters.
"You are too tall to be a crutch," Gray grumbled, standing on one foot.
"It's not my fault you're short," Xan defended. "I could just carry you—ooh, I could give you a piggyback ride!"
"No piggyback rides," Gray said adamantly. "I'll manage. Let's just get to Nash before he dies of boredom."
"Or his lungs!" Xan added, and they set off towards the beach. They weren't fast, but at least Gray could move, albeit with some hopping and a death grip on Xander's shoulders. The hopping was rather undignified, but Gray would rather do that than crawl.
Finally, they reached the beach, where Gray was horrified to discover Nash, collapsed in a sodden heap on the sand. Miraculously, his cowboy hat seemed intact, if singed around the brim and sopping wet.
Xander helped Gray sit down next to Nash, and Gray stretched out his leg, resting his throbbing ankle on the sand and glancing at his older brother. Nash was in pretty bad shape—his clothes were, if possible, even more torn up than Gray's, and cuts and scrapes were scattered all over his exposed skin.
"Glad y'all made it," Nash gasped, clutching his side. His lips were turning an alarming shade of blue, clearly a sign of lack of oxygen.
"What are we gonna do?" Xan moaned. "Jamie still isn't picking up!"
He turned to Gray, who shrugged. "My phone is probably dead—it's been in the water for who knows how long. Should I call 911, Nash?"
"I already sent all three of our 911s to Jamie," Xan reassured them. "Hope you guys don't mind."
Gray rolled his eyes. "I meant 911, Xander. The three numbers you dial when you are in dire straits. If our situation does not qualify as dire straits, I don't know what does."
"Oh." Xan grinned sheepishly. "Well, carry on, then."
"My phone works," Nash rasped. "Use that, Gray. Xan, keep trying to get ahold of Jamie."
It took a few tries, but eventually Gray managed to connect to the emergency line, though explaining the situation proved to be difficult when Xan finally got through to Jameson and started yelling at him.
"Hello," Gray started. "Grayson Hawthorne. I regret to inform you of a most unfortunate situation—"
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" Xander screeched. "I have been calling you for TWENTY MINUTES! And I left VOICEMAILS! With YODELING!"
"—I would estimate our location to be somewhere on the coast of Texas—"
"You ignored THREE 911s—"
"My brother has experienced blunt force trauma to the chest. I suspect pneumothorax—"
"Do you have ANY IDEA how WORRIED I've been?"
"I believe you are capable of tracing our coordinates, and I request that help be sent as soon as possible—"
"IF YOU DON'T GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW—"
"Twenty minutes is fine. Thank you."
"GOODBYE!"
Xan jabbed at his phone and then shoved it into his pocket, his uninjured cheek bright red with fury.
Gray arched an eyebrow, then winced as it put pressure on the bump on his forehead. "I take it your call connected?"
"Yes," Xan seethed. "And he kept going on about how great Tahiti was and all the things he was doing with Avery and how it was so unrealistic to expect him to come back even though I sent him three 911s!"
He stopped his tirade, chest heaving almost as much as Nash's.
"Haven't heard you yell in years, Xan," Nash laughed weakly. "Makes sense, though. Jamie's gonna get what's comin' to him when he gets back."
The Hawthornes sat in the rain for a long time, waiting for rescue, and eventually, Xander decided to go back into the jet to retrieve any luggage that had survived the crash. Thankfully, most of the suitcases were intact, and Gray was secretly relieved. He'd brought his whole supply of suit jackets.
Speaking of suit jackets, the one Gray was wearing was incredibly tattered, little more than a collection of scraps of fabric—he suspected he'd been thrown through the window of the jet, shattering the glass and consequently tearing up his clothes, as well as his skin. There seemed to be no other use for the jacket, so Gray tore off the dangling part of his sleeve and wrapped it around the gash on his palm, which stung furiously as he bandaged it.
Suddenly, the chopping of a propellor echoed through the stormy sky, and a helicopter descended, landing softly on the beach.
Several paramedics rushed out of the helicopter, going immediately to Nash and checking his vital signs. Two with a stretcher soon followed, loading Nash onto it, and one insisted that Gray lay down as well. He tried to protest, but the paramedic arched an eyebrow, exactly as Gray normally did, and he complied—he couldn't walk anyway.
The helicopter took off, with Nash being given temporary oxygen and Xan sitting against the wall. Gray decided to at least sit up on the stretcher—he felt too vulnerable to lay down.
When the helicopter landed at Hawthorne House—yes, they did have a medical wing, with doctors on call twenty-four-seven—Xan and Gray were brought inside, while Nash stayed in the helicopter to be flown to the hospital. The doctors at Hawthorne House were competent, but they weren't surgeons.
A myriad of CT scans and x-rays later, Grayson was sitting, rather annoyed with all the attention but admittedly feeling a lot better, on the edge of his bed. He'd changed into a collared shirt and khakis—his suits were all soaked—and his ankle was strapped into a brace. Grayson had adamantly refused the cast and crutches.
He looked up, glancing at his reflection in the mirror on his wall. The bump on his forehead was rather unsightly, as were the Band-Aids taped over the cuts on his chin and cheekbones. Grayson's injured hand had been wrapped in gauze—thankfully, the gash hadn't needed stitches—and while he did have a concussion, it was mild and should heal quickly. Really, he'd been lucky.
Xander had actually been luckier—he'd gotten away with only a sprained wrist and a few scrapes. Grayson supposed it was because he'd told Xan to brace and hadn't had time to get back into the position himself—unintentional heroics, he thought dryly.
Nash's surgery had gone well, and though the doctors at the hospital were keeping him overnight to monitor his pneumothorax, tomorrow he'd be back at Hawthorne House—which was also when Jameson was scheduled to return. He'd insisted on staying in Tahiti for another day, and Grayson knew he and Xan were prepared to give Jamie the tongue-lashing of his life for ignoring them.
It was raining, the drops pounding on the roof with a vengeance. Grayson enjoyed the rain—the sound relaxed him, and the monochromatic palette outside always served to soothe his overactive mind. He closed his eyes, laying back and resting his aching skull on the pillow.
Then a thought entered Grayson's mind—a rather disturbing thought. In the aftermath of the crash, he hadn't thought much of how it had happened—but it was weird, if not nearly impossible, for both of a jet's engines to explode at the same time.
Well, it was impossible for it to be an accident…