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Nathan Green absolutely detests flying. He almost wishes that the airplane had never been invented. When he is forced to use the sky as a means of transportation, he is the one who is seen gripping the armrests long past his knuckles turned white and murmuring a fervent prayer as the plane detaches itself from the earth. If his face could turn any paler, it would.

He sits in Terminal E in the Atlanta airport trying desperately to restrain himself from looking out the window at the metal behemoth designed to carry him home. It's not working very well. He hopes he isn't going to hyperventilate this time. He runs his fingers through his shock of white-blonde hair again, almost as if trying to reassure himself that his head is still attached to his body.

Nathan had asked for a seat not by a window. He hopes he gets it. Then he can attempt in vain to sleep for a couple of hours without the glare of "nothing to catch him if he falls" shining too brightly in his face. Maybe he will be seated next to a nice, quiet old lady and he can fool himself into thinking he's riding a bus, or the more familiar subway.

The flight to Newark Airport is not going to be pleasant, and the thought of navigating the through all the traffic afterwards is almost as scary as the actual journey. Nathan doesn't know why he loves New Jersey so much. He figures you're born with it. Why do people from South Dakota love South Dakota? It must be in your blood.

But to love Jersey is like loving the teddy bear you're had since you were two. It's really torn up, and all your friends make fun of you for it, but you keep it anyways, because you just can't bring yourself to throw it away. New Jersey is loaded with misconceptions, like how being a twenty some odd year old man having a stuffed animal has negative connotations, and yeah, maybe it IS a dump, but go ahead and try to find people who are more proud of where they're from.

That's right. There aren't any.

Nathan is traveling home to meet up with his small band (and by "small" he means "virtually unknown outside of Central Jersey but hopefully on the rise") to finalize their contract with the record label Zombies of Jersey. He's extremely excited because this is just another step in the process to take them where they want to be.

It helps that his girlfriend is home in North Brunswick waiting for him. Not a lot of people like her, including some of his best friends in the world, but it goes back to the Teddy Bear Theory. He can't let her go. Maybe it's just Nathan's inherent hate of change. Maybe he simply loves her. Maybe.

He's thinking about her when it starts. He begins to feel a tingling in his fingers, very slightly, but it's getting worse ever so slowly. Shit. I was supposed to be covered till after the flight. Where does Nathan go now? If he leaves, he misses the plane.

But rides in machines of death with the capability to tumble violently and crash spectacularly are bad enough without experiencing withdrawal symptoms. He attempts to stand. Rather, he tries, and he epic fails.

The feeling can be likened to being cryogenically frozen in place. The only movement he thinks he has the ability to make without collapsing/passing out/dying far too young is to grit his teeth. And pray. Nathan isn't exactly religious, per say, but right now he's kind of between a rock and a very, very hard place.

He's aware that they're boarding the plane right now. Aw, hell. He tries to less strenuously lift himself, and just sticks his legs out, but even that sends a wave of pain spiraling up is poor, almost too-thin body. It nearly makes him cry, except that Nathan can't remember when he last cried and he doesn't want it to happen right now. All he knows, all he feels, is numb, and he can't move.

He's halfway down the extremely comfortable yet completely odd path to unconsciousness when he vaguely realizes that he's moving. No no no. If it's the ambulance, they'll take him to the hospital, and doctors call cops…

Nathan tries to focus his eyes. He's not doing a very good job. But he's in a car. And at this point, it doesn't really matter to him how he got there. It doesn't worry him that he's probably not going to New Jersey anymore. He's probably gonna get raped or beaten. Or both. Whatever. It's not a problem.

A very warm hand is on his forehead, brushing back his short bangs. Then the car stops and the engine is turned off. The voice attached to the hand says, "Don't be afraid. You're gonna be fine." And then it occurs to Nathan that it's possible that he just got sedated and is being dragged off to rehab. Well shit.

He feels a tiny pinprick and then a rush of alive is jolted through him. He knows what this is now, because he experiences this same sensation on a regular basis. It's like being a corpse and then being defibrillated and his heart's restarting. Whoever this is, whoever she is, has given him a dose of very welcome but highly illegal heroin. That was how he got to the car – somehow he'd gotten a little shot of it and was able to move himself while simultaneously blacking out. Incredible.

This is a fucked up situation, Nathan thinks. His vision (and his mightily confused brain) is clearing up, and he looks outside the window. His plane is taking off. There's a woman with fiery red hair talking on a cell phone. He assumes that this is her car.

She hangs up and then gets in the driver's seat, next to him. He feels glazed over. The drug is entering its next phase. He knows once it all settles down, he will feel wonderful.

"I'm Pixie. Sorry you had to miss your flight." Her voice is another narcotic. It winds its way up his spine, twisting around and latching hold. In this suddenly surreal chain of events, she seems to be the center point from which all of it originated in the first place. He hears himself mutter his name.

"Where were you going? I mean, you know…"

"New Jersey. Home."

Pixie smiles and has a longing look in her faraway eyes. "…Y'know, I could…take you there…" She becomes a bit shy, as if she just asked a deeply personal question.

This is a miracle to Nathan. He doesn't have to leave the ground in any way, shape, or form. All he has to do is pay some gas. And maybe it is the drugs, but the thought hasn't even crossed his mind that a pretty stranger with heroin is the one offering this blessing. Wasn't he ever told not to take anything from strangers?

That was candy. This is an opportunity to save his ass. It probably won't present itself again. Ever.

"Were you going there anyways?" Nathan asks after a second. He's a nice guy deep down. If she was going to Texas he'd more than likely try to find a train. Maybe.

He might just skip town to Texas.

"Yeah I live there. It's no problem," glinting orbs gaze at him in expectation. He watches her pick at her black fingernails while trying to figure out why this has become such a difficult decision. Sure, he's never seen Pixie before in his life; sure, if they were stopped by the cops they'd both end up in federal prison not in New Jersey, but what the hell. Never look back.

"Okay. I'll...pay for gas if you want…" Fumbling for words is so unattractive in his opinion, but he's quickly becoming a pro.

"Split. 50-50. Unless you pay all the gas south of DC…"

"Haha. Nice try." He laughs. She's a funny girl.

"Fine. You're obviously not new to fluctuating gas taxes. 50-50. Are you ready to go?" She has very straight, white teeth. Nathan wonders if she ever had braces.

"Yeah. Tally ho," a sigh and a mumble under his breath as he buckles up. His uneasiness is palpable and it's rising in his throat. Yes, he's ready to go.

Nathan Green has no idea what's going to happen next. Common sense says get out of the car, Nathan, get out of the car now. However, old Irish tradition says that redheads can be trusted. Most importantly his gut says "I am not on that plane. Praise the Lord."

He would swear he can hear God giggling.