The time I got recruited into the order, I was just a kid back then. A snot-nosed anklebiter muckin’ about with a didge in this dusty ol’ town up north called Katherine. Quaint sorta joint, they call it “where the outback meets the tropics.” Fair dinkum description, that one.

  One day, Remy’s old man rocks up, started chinwaggin’ with me, asked a few questions, then bam, I’m in. No fuss, no muckin’ about. Turns out, all you had to do was yarn straight, and maybe give the mad bloke a reason to think you weren’t a total drongo.

  Next thing I knew, I’m leggin’ it through some bloody door and ended up in London. Mum nearly lost her marbles that time. As for me old man, no clue where he buggered off to; ran off before I was born, and honestly, couldn’t care less.

  You’d reckon the course’d be like somethin’ outta Harry Potter, gettin’ chucked into houses ‘n all that jazz. Nah, mate, no houses, instead, it’s more like some real-world grind. We’re sloggin’ through geo, history, the proper history, mind ya, and even bloody maths.

  Only thing worth showin’ up for’s PE, where we get stuck into a bit of close-quarters punch-on trainin’. Mate, lemme tell ya, fair dinkum, that was the bloody best part of me day. Been on a real good run ever since.

  -from the personal accounts of Ryan Michael Lindsay, Archon of Oceania.

  ================================================================================================================

  “Mommy,” I said, getting my mother’s attention.

  She was sitting between me and my brother and was using our luggage as a footrest. She pushed her rectangular glasses onto the bridge of her nose to properly secure them before she leaned sideways towards me, lending me her ear. Her long hair, which went past her shoulders, brushed against mine.

  Though she did give me that long-practiced maternal half-attention, possibly one she reserves for children who are confused or in mild distress.

  “Remind me again. Why do we have to wait? Four—hours—In the airport!?” I said, dragging the words out like it physically pained me.

  Four hours. Not three. Not two. Four. Possibly, in her eyes, arriving any later was equivalent to inviting disaster and a missed flight—in whatever order.

  “To be early,” she replied simply. As if what she said was a law set in stone rather than a tradition that was bordering on obsession.

  “We have nothing to do!” I countered while gesturing a bit wildly at the waiting area. The cold metal seats were half-filled with probably equally miserable travellers, half of whom were trying not to die of boredom.

  I would have brought out one of my gadgets—my laptop or my phone. It wasn’t that I hadn’t charged any of them. What self-respecting man wouldn’t charge any of his personal effects?

  It’s just that all of the outlets of this terminal were already occupied. Throngs of people gathered around them like desert nomads crowding around a water source in the oasis that was this miserable place.

  Mom sighed.

  “We have to be early to account for potential delays in check-in, security, and even the boarding processes,” she said while gesturing at the flickering departure boards.

  She said all that like she was explaining chaos theory to a toddler. She also used the tone she often uses to explain things to particularly stubborn or dense government employees and clients. The patient kind. I suppose I was both in her eyes.

  I still didn’t get the whole paranoid punctuality thing. It was apparently an art of arriving far too early for absolutely everything, even nothing.

  It was my turn to sigh.

  “Even if we came here two hours before our flight,” I replied as calmly as I could manage. “And if there was a delay, the plane would still be here.”

  “And no airline, has ever decided, that it would leave earlier than their intended departure time. Ever.” I added, though it was as if explaining it physically gouged out my soul.

  My explanation made mom sigh.

  What? I speak sense. People would riot if their plane left early. What was this, a school bus in the sky?

  I waved a hand toward the nearest window, where our plane, presumably one of the many that landed last night, sat inactive on the tarmac.

  Honestly, I think it landed, only for it to die here.

  My brother on her other side, let out a soft snore. He was fully committed to his escape from whatever excuse of a purgatory this place was turning into. I was somewhat surprised that this bastard had the ability to sleep in a place like this.

  It was far too crowded for my liking. Everyone was very noisy and some were even talking as if their conversation partner was ten feet away. To add to that, some of the AC units were broken. All we had were these giant fans that did nothing but circulate everyone’s recycled breath like some sad, slow-moving whirlpool of sweat.

  This was supposed to be an international airport, dammit!

  “Couldn’t you sleep it out like your brother?” Mom asked, sounding a bit hopeful.

  “After what happened last night? You really think I can?” I replied, clutching my stomach. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know where my mouth ends and my stomach begins anymore.”

  She gave me a look equal parts sympathy and exasperation.

  “Then why are you even talking this much!?” she exclaimed, which made me shrug.

  She sighed, even longer this time.

  In Filipino culture and maybe even tradition—I think—people said you just have to deal with it. Or rather, that is the general advice when things go wrong. You just have to deal with it.

  Like if you are having trouble with, let’s say, mental health, the advice is just to be happy or act like you are happy. That is usually the case for old families or families with more traditional roots.

  Then again, some attributed it to supernatural causes rather than personal weakness. Which is weird to me, but I digress.

  Such events and circumstances, unfortunate as they are, are things to be endured never indulged.

  She didn’t say all that, of course. She didn’t have to. It was already clear in the silent pause before her next breath.

  “You’re already 21 years old—can’t you just endure it!? Have some patience!” she exclaimed, anger rising in her tone.

  Ah. There it is. I was wondering what she was going to say next. Turns out it was the “you’re old enough so you should be able to handle this” argument.

  A favorite tactic when a parent loses an argument, runs out of logic, but refuses to lose the upper hand against their child.

  She tends to use that line a lot though. Then again, I get it. I really do. Neither of us was wrong exactly. Just exhausted. Irritated by the long wait time and the potential delays.

  “Mommy, I am still 20. You’re going senile,” I said, waving both my hands in a circular motion in front of her like I was performing a budget exorcism.

  “I'm not senile you stupid son of mine!” she roared while slapping me on the head. “And even if I was it would be because of you!”

  To be honest, I was trying to annoy her. Why? There was nothing to do!

  I already walked past the sign where it said “The line starts here,” past the overpriced coffee store, down to the bathrooms, and back again.

  Like an unexpected journey—three times. I suppose a giant fire-breathing wyvern guarding the bathrooms would make things interesting.

  Why did I think the best way to counter boredom was to annoy my mother? I have no idea.

  I suppose in a moment of stress-airport-induced insanity, my brain decided the best way to entertain itself was to poke the maternal bear. Did I think annoying my mother would prevent or even counter boredom? No, no I did not.

  But I hoped she’d launch into one of her long, maybe even meaningful lectures that somehow ends with a long-distant cousin I've never met, so that I didn’t have to physically feel the seconds tick by.

  Or maybe I was just bored and desperate enough to risk death by slippers.

  Suddenly my brother snorted himself awake beside us. He blinked once, then looked around with visible confusion. His voice loaded with pure disbelief and incredulity said, “Wait, we’re still not on the plane!?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  We stared at him. My mother had the weary gaze of a woman questioning the life choices her sons had made. Unfortunately for her, what my brother pulled off, was an excellent follow-up, so I rounded on my mother.

  “You see! Even he was dreaming he was on that damned plane already!” I said with as much manic energy like someone one iced coffee short from completely losing it.

  My brother, while rubbing his eyes, said wearily, “I wasn’t dreaming we were on the plane,” before he began stretching.

  We both turned to look at him again.

  “I dreamt we already landed!” he sighed, before slumping back on the metal chair.

  There was a pause.

  A long, very exhausted pause.

  Which was a bit concerning.

  What in Terra is this shared airport madness!?

  That almost broke me. I wasn’t even sure the plane existed anymore.

  ================================================================================================================

  That whole schtick with my mother, the arguing, the sighing, and the bickering, took around 30 minutes. Maybe more. At that point, time had lost all meaning. It was the kind of low-stakes verbal joust that felt life-or-death-ish when you’re emotionally burdened by peak airport delirium.

  Another round of back-and-forth with my mother began again of course. My brother, meanwhile, managed to just stare at the ceiling, like he was trying to divine the secrets of the cosmos by simply staring straight up.

  The lucky bastard probably did find some profound or ancient secrets that would allow his mind to time travel a few hours into the future.

  And then, finally, finally the time came and we boarded the plane without incident.

  As I walked down the airplane aisle and the cool wave of air conditioning blasted my face like the breath of an unforgiving god, I made a vow—a sacred vow.

  Next time we get invited to go abroad, mysterious or not, free of charge or not, even if it’s the Queen of England herself who invited us, offering me a title, a castle, and afternoon tea with corgis…

  I am not going.

  She can knight me over Zoom, Skype, or whatever it is people use, for all I care.

  ================================================================================================================

  After four and a half hours of flight, we safely landed on the tarmac of Narita Airport. The captain gave the standard greetings of welcome in English and then again in Japanese, his voice calm and practiced, like he hadn’t just delivered a cargo of barely sane humans across the sky.

  The flight itself wasn’t bad—no turbulence, no screaming babies, not even a crying adult, which was a shame. I would have liked some entertainment.

  In short, nothing eventful happened.

  My mom and brother managed to sleep peacefully through most of it. I, on the other hand, was busy playing games on my 3DSs, aggressively playing games as if I could somehow speed up time with sheer button mashing.

  When we landed, they were still asleep. Despite the deceleration of the plane, the descent and the jerk you feel when the wheels of the plane hit the ground, as well as the ding of the seatbelt icon, nothing. I had to wake them up.

  This happened every time we took a plane, which, in hindsight, made sense.

  These two could sleep through the zigzag of a thirty-five-seater bus running at speed through a mountain trail like it was Japanese street racing anime.

  Of course, a smooth plane landing was nothing to them.

  “Are you alright?” Mom asked as she stood up and stretched.

  “Yup,” I replied eagerly as I packed my 3DSs. “No problem. See, like I keep telling you planes are different.”

  I moved aside to let some of the passengers move ahead of me.

  “Even played all night,” I added proudly.

  She nodded, though she still gave me that sideways mother look, the look of a mixture of doubt, concern, and the quiet suspicion that I was running entirely on bravado and pride.

  She took out and powered on her phone to check the time. My brother freshly resurrected from the dead, reached up and retrieved both of their hand-carry bags from the overhead compartment.

  “Your father said that it will take around two hours to get to the hotel from here. It’s already close to 9, so we should arrive around 11,” she informed the two of us before taking her bag from my brother and began to march toward the exit, as if jet lag were all just minor inconveniences.

  After we stepped off the plane and shuffled through the terminal like dazed freezing livestock, we collected our suitcases from the rolling—conveyor—thingy—I don’t know what it’s called, alright!? Sue me!

  Most of the people here were beginning to wear jackets and some even brought scarves.

  “You’re just going to wear that?” My mom asked as she looked at me like I was crazy.

  I wasn’t fishing for clothes in my bags like most of the people here.

  I was just standing there.

  At her question I simply looked down at what I was wearing, a black long-sleeved shirt. It didn’t make me look slimmer, if that’s what you’re all thinking. It was rather roomy, not tapered and less form fitting, but with this kind of climate, it was perfect. At least for me.

  My mother didn’t seem to think so, but my body, my rules.

  “Meh,” I replied while shrugging. I was fine, however, both she and my brother were shivering.

  I suppose that was normal considering people in the Philippines don’t have spring. We mainly get sun—and more sun. Sometimes rain, maybe depression.

  After they both finished, we followed the wave of people heading toward the arrivals area. There, we managed to find our guide.

  He wasn’t that hard to spot.

  How did we know it was him? With one hand he was holding up a stick, and duct-taped to the stick was a cardboard sign. Like a DIY flag of welcome, that read:

  Welcome, Philippine Delegates

  Red Curtain Event to Western Cape

  Subtle.

  Wait. It was handwritten?

  The message was handwritten and duct-taped on a cardboard sign?

  Really?

  This was all they could come up with?

  They’re flying people in from across the world, spending what must be hundreds of thousands of dollars to bring them here.

  Having the financial capability to house said people in a luxury five-star hotel that can serve something like gold-leaf-wrapped sushi rolls or saffron-stuffed Kobe beef topped with beluga caviar or something equally degenerate—and they greet us with duct tape and cardboard?

  Duct tape. And cardboard.

  Was the glitter printer out of ink? Did the person in charge of signage suffer a last-minute existential crisis? Grew a conscience? Is this some kind of avant-garde psychological test to weed out those too high and mighty to appreciate minimalist design?

  Sigh. Fine. Let’s get this shit over with.

  Some of my fellow Filipino travelers had already found him. Some were chatting amongst themselves, some were chatting with him. Others were on their phones, likely calling their families and friends to let them know they had landed safely and wouldn’t be kidnapped by syndicates, cultists, or royalty.

  Yet.

  Our party hung back for a bit, mostly because mom had to use the bathroom.

  Hopefully she wouldn’t be too confused at the kind of toilet Japan uses.

  I swear those things require a user manual and maybe a pilot’s license to operate.

  While waiting from afar, I managed a quick headcount of the number of people gathering while the guide was checking out a clipboard he pulled out from somewhere. Including us, there were twenty-eight people from the Philippines in all. Some had parents or guardians but some were also alone. They were either brave or seasoned travelers, possibly both.

  So far, this was all real. And we were all real. And the plane. So was the airport. And the sign. Unfortunately.

  It was… something.