Alas, a Benry.
Ben had never experienced a plane crash before.
How exhilarating! If he ever flew again, he would never feel that irrational fear of turbulence. At its worst turbulence never felt like the rattling that accompanied Ajira Airways flight 316 as it made its descent in the sky, hurtling towards what other passengers assumed would be certain death. He smirked in spite of the anxiety he felt inside. They would survive the crash. Curling his free hand around the end of the armrest, Ben closed his eyes, leaning back into his seat. Frank Lapedus, he had learned, was a damn good pilot. He would land them all safely, land them right on that runway on the other island where the Hydra was located. Yes, they'd be safe. They'd survive.
Wouldn't they?
He was certain they would, even as the shaking got worse; even as suitcases began to fall from the ceiling; even when the people behind him continued to scream and the arm that was in a sling shot up in a pain so fierce he thought he would scream from it too; even when, in an unexpected state of panic, he started to believe that he would die the instant; even when --
-- even when he felt nothing but a cool breeze.
A cool breeze.
...a cool breeze?
Ben's eyes fly open, and stay open, as wide as they can go. Here's a man who's spent most of his life living among monsters made of smoke; secret temples, marked all over by Egyptian hieroglyphics, that heal can save people from certain death; a man who doesn't age, and a man only Ben can see -- here's this man, arm in a sling, face marked all over with bruises, standing in the middle of a park, looking mildly freaked out (which, for him, is very freaked out).
Must be very freaky, what he's seeing.