Hero's Welcome 2/4
anonymous
March 29 2009, 20:03:22 UTC
When the planes hit the Twin Towers, none of the phone calls from people on board were messages of hate or revenge: they were all messages of love.
Alfred loved to fly. He always had - he was the nation that had invented flight, after all, it was only natural. But there was still a part of him that rebelled. Ever since he was attacked with his own planes, a small part of him had been petrified of what he had once adored. But still, he loved to fly, and still, he wore his beaten leather pilot’s jacket with pride.
His least favorite part of flying was passing through the arrivals gate. He was always flying to his fellow Nations’ houses, and they always sent someone to pick him up. Even when he returned to his own house, there wasn’t a soul at the arrivals gate who was genuinely happy to see him. When he wasn’t whisked immediately away into a half-dozen meetings, he returned resignedly home to resume business as usual. And why should this trip to see Arthur be any different? Sure, he and Arthur had that “special relationship” thing going on, but Arthur had never actually come to collect him personally at the airport.
He never really got too down, though, at the arrivals gate. Even as his eyes sought out the sign with “Jones” printed on it in bold black lettering, they ran over the people who did have someone to greet them, and he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot. Especially in his own airports. Whenever he landed in JFK, or LAX, his heart swelled at the pure love running through and around everyone. Like Lady Liberty with her torch aloft to guide weary travelers safely into their new home. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Yet no matter how much he loved to fly, no matter how much he loved his airports and his planes and his people, he never managed to make time to just stand at the arrivals gate, waiting for no one, and just watch those around him. He didn’t have the patience for that, he supposed. And besides, while the other Nations might understand, they would probably think he was rather odd. They already did, given that he greeted each and every one of them personally at the arrivals gate when they visited his country. He was America, after all. He prided himself on making everyone feel welcome when they landed within his borders.
The announcement came on that they would be landing at Heathrow Airport soon, and Alfred set about fastening his safety belt and etcetera. He stretched his legs out as much as he could (he liked to ride coach, and always - recently - in the emergency exit seat) and sighed, closing his eyes, feeling the wind rush over the wings of the plane and set off tremors in his seat, the angle change as the plane circled around for a clear shot at the runway.
His suitcase had a wheel that would stick every moment or two, and his backpack that he used as a carry-on was slung over one shoulder as the other arm fought to actually pull the suitcase straight forward. In that way, he came through the arrivals gate. There was a small smattering of people waiting for his flight - which made sense, since his flight was full mostly of Americans. Two women corralled a group of teenagers all in matching bright red polos and khakis off to the side: student ambassadors, America grinned. He pushed Texas up on his nose, and looked around for the sign bearing his name.
Alfred loved to fly. He always had - he was the nation that had invented flight, after all, it was only natural. But there was still a part of him that rebelled. Ever since he was attacked with his own planes, a small part of him had been petrified of what he had once adored. But still, he loved to fly, and still, he wore his beaten leather pilot’s jacket with pride.
His least favorite part of flying was passing through the arrivals gate. He was always flying to his fellow Nations’ houses, and they always sent someone to pick him up. Even when he returned to his own house, there wasn’t a soul at the arrivals gate who was genuinely happy to see him. When he wasn’t whisked immediately away into a half-dozen meetings, he returned resignedly home to resume business as usual. And why should this trip to see Arthur be any different? Sure, he and Arthur had that “special relationship” thing going on, but Arthur had never actually come to collect him personally at the airport.
He never really got too down, though, at the arrivals gate. Even as his eyes sought out the sign with “Jones” printed on it in bold black lettering, they ran over the people who did have someone to greet them, and he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot. Especially in his own airports. Whenever he landed in JFK, or LAX, his heart swelled at the pure love running through and around everyone. Like Lady Liberty with her torch aloft to guide weary travelers safely into their new home. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Yet no matter how much he loved to fly, no matter how much he loved his airports and his planes and his people, he never managed to make time to just stand at the arrivals gate, waiting for no one, and just watch those around him. He didn’t have the patience for that, he supposed. And besides, while the other Nations might understand, they would probably think he was rather odd. They already did, given that he greeted each and every one of them personally at the arrivals gate when they visited his country. He was America, after all. He prided himself on making everyone feel welcome when they landed within his borders.
The announcement came on that they would be landing at Heathrow Airport soon, and Alfred set about fastening his safety belt and etcetera. He stretched his legs out as much as he could (he liked to ride coach, and always - recently - in the emergency exit seat) and sighed, closing his eyes, feeling the wind rush over the wings of the plane and set off tremors in his seat, the angle change as the plane circled around for a clear shot at the runway.
His suitcase had a wheel that would stick every moment or two, and his backpack that he used as a carry-on was slung over one shoulder as the other arm fought to actually pull the suitcase straight forward. In that way, he came through the arrivals gate. There was a small smattering of people waiting for his flight - which made sense, since his flight was full mostly of Americans. Two women corralled a group of teenagers all in matching bright red polos and khakis off to the side: student ambassadors, America grinned. He pushed Texas up on his nose, and looked around for the sign bearing his name.
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