12th of February, 10:00 am
11th of February, 9:00 am
"Call for all passengers of flight QA915, boarding begins in 15 minutes, that's flight QA915 to London, boarding begins in 15 minutes."
Parking inspectors hovered around the airport drop off like self-important hornets, administering justice through their painful stings. Keeping the hive of society protected from heinous predators and their propensity to take slightly longer than was required to part with their flight bound relatives. Defying the insectoid inspectors were thousands of voyagers, each with individual motivations, some mundane, some whimsical. They all headed for the terminal to be greeted with Sydney Airport's signature blast of synthetic winter. Giddy holiday makers armed with unattractive cardigans, state-of-the-art cameras, coin pouches and the occasional visor pranced excitedly down the terminal towards their gates.
Airport security checked their watches, practically simultaneously, not due to any freak coincidence, but rather the incredible frequency of watch monitoring that seemed to occur in all the employees. Bag upon bag x-rayed by disinterested men and women as the hippies before them silently prayed for a lack of suspicious residue in their canvas travel bags.
Further along the terminal was an ocean of cafés; wild and tempestuous. Bemused wait staff wandered aimlessly through tables searching for the appropriate number so as to unload their scolding beverages. Managers of the cafés stood rigidly in front of their coffee machines, as bitter as the coffee they ground, watching the café immediately beside them, each one paradoxically more popular than their own.
Beyond the caffeine stretch lay the gates, overseen by air hostesses warming their boarding pass scanners. While the machines hummed, they exchanged intimate details of their lives and respective partners' shortcomings, much to each other's amusement. Gradually, excited first time tourists gathered around the entrance to the gates, withheld by the impenetrable barrier that was the black airport cordon held up by a series of poles standing freely on the carpet. The hostesses exchanged glances of solemn mutual agreement; talk of their partners' curious sexual habits could wait until mid flight, for first, the cordon was to be taken down.
11th of February, 8:53 am
A silver service taxi rolled into the unloading zone before the sliding doors of terminal three. 20 metres away, a hornet turned to a fresh page of his ticket book and waited in anxious hope. Then, the door of the taxi was opened.
From the space between the door and the car, slid a leg, clad in a black stocking ending in a black shoe as dark as the depths of space, with a heel that seemed to question the very laws of physics. Shortly after, it was followed by a hand, clasping the roof of the car; light blue fingernails marked by intricate black drawing of wildflowers on each one. Working together, the hand and foot pulled from the car, the full figure of Jessica Ho. Eyes shielded by her sunglasses and clinging tightly to her customary taro easyway (complete with pearls), she walked to the boot of the taxi. Her dress of black lace ending just before her knees fluttered slightly in the wind, as she retrieved her crimson wheely bag. The hornet approached.
"You can only stay in the unloading bay for a period of tw-"
"Get Fucked" she replied.
Bag handle in one hand, easyway in the other and silver dragon ring wound around her right index finger, she left the shocked inspector standing by the taxi and entered the terminal.
She walked in her towering heels, still somewhat shorter than the average person, as though along an invisible tight rope, never faltering but rather walking with a steady, calculated rhythm.
The easyway was particularly good.
11th of February, 9:01 am
The coffee was somewhat burnt, and tasted like soil. In fact, so much so, that Michael Kennedy, quietly sitting in an airport cafe, drinking his soil coffee, was almost sure, he felt a centipede crawling around the rim of the mug. He was taking notes in a journal, for a short story he probably wouldn't write, that only made sense in his head, as per usual. All the same, he found it relaxing and somewhat calming to catalogue his thoughts in this way.
He checked his watch passively. There was still a reasonable amount of time before the plane was to depart and he was eager for the change of scenery his new home would provide, so he returned to his page as a distraction. With his brow furrowed, he attempted to return to his previous focus but instead found himself reenacting skits from the muppet show in his head.
11th of February, 9:06 am
"Do you have any aerosols?" asked the woman at the baggage check in desk, turning her nose up and thus showcasing it's potential as a marble carving tool.
"No," came the reply of Clare Delfendahl as she impatiently readjusted her Irish golf hat.
"What's the purpose of your visit?" asked the woman.
"Visiting family."
"And what about you?" she asked turning to Katherine Hoban, standing beside Clare, her hair an even brighter red than her friend's, "what is the purpose of your visit?"
"To visit her family," she replied casually.
"Don't you have your own family to visit?" asked the woman. An old saying connected a person's manner of speech when cold and rude to having recently sucked on a lemon; this woman had clearly had a lemon thrown at her face.
"My family all died in an horrific supermarket accident."
"My condolences," she said.
Clare's eyebrows raised somewhat as the desk woman moved her glasses back up her nose.
"I wasn't seriou-"
"Do you have visas?" she interrupted.
"We have citizenship," replied Clare, giving the employee a glance that could melt steel.
"Oh," she replied, "that's nice. Any weapons?"
"What?"
"Are you carrying any weapons with you?"
Clare was frustrated and hungry, and this woman looked like she hadn't eaten in over a decade so empathy was clearly a lost cause.
"No we aren't carrying weapons."
"Except for the rocket launcher," said Katherine in her inherently mischievous voice, proceeding to mime the action of firing a rocket launcher and the associated recoil.
"Rocket launchers are on the list of prohibited items."
"We don't actually have a rocket launcher!" Cried Clare, longing for a pastry of sorts.
"Your friend said you did."
"I was joking!"
"Terrorism isn't humourous."
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