Arsene was scared shit of flying. He's terrified of sailing too, though it was more akin to the fear of the boogeyman than anything else—a healthy trepidation for the unknown. He knew that if a ship sank, he could swim as good as a certifiable lifeguard (because he was), heck, he's even confident of his chances against some aquatic predators. His National Geographic fetish wasn't because of some kinky connection to nature at all, it's about this morbid fascination of its serial killers and how to survive them.
When a plane is set to crash, however, there's no going around it. Life and death are oversimplified into a coin toss, from a trick, same-sided dime nonetheless. Nothing says helpless like deportation from up high back to earth, and Arsene was a proud agent of the con air movement who'd stay grounded on their own terms. You could always go hiking if you're craving for some elevation, even freestyle a rollercoaster ride if you're feeling epic—both would still be safer than the alternative. Screw Superman and statistics; the safest way to travel is through a moderately paced, armored vehicle, not an alloy death trap repurposed to kickbox gravity.
But even flight paled in comparison to a syringe just shy of being a power tool.
The time was up. As promised, Clarinae's party contacted Arsene exactly three days and three nights after their first meeting. Within that allowance, he had confirmed the enclosed figures, made sure he'd signed everything, planned for retirement, and not much else. He didn't reach out to his parents, didn't even bother to Google the Solomon clan in fear of seeing fifty shades of red flags. He's got his eyes on the prize now. The winning mindset was that if he couldn't have it post-tease, he may as well die dreaming.
When they boarded the mobile lab, however, Arsene wished he read the contract more, or at least raised the use of needles during the preliminary inquiry. It's one thing to sit down for some blood and DNA sample, getting bored for an expressway installation was another. "I thought you said this contract won't have me selling my soul?" he queried Clarinae very fretfully. First his blood, now even the masculinity seemed to be draining away from his veins. "Why does that thing look like it'd suck my marrow dry?"
Clarinae squeezed her liaison's hand tight, before clutching her side for a proper chortle. "You didn't strike me as a needle-fearing type, Mr. Clemente."
"Please call me Arsene," Arsene grunted as the power drill hovered over his forearm. "At least first name basis me before I die—"
The pointy end went in, quick but not necessarily painless. Arsene glimmered with images of his mother and Clarinae succumbed to a full-blown laughter.
In the following hours, their party was scheduled to fly back to Israel. Needless to say, Arsene signed the paperwork and was undergoing the agreed upon requisites. The man was officially a millionaire at the very least, and should his genetic signature check out, his chances of becoming the new Tony Stark would increase tenfold. It was a win-win situation excluding the traveling part.
After the procedure, they had a full hour before the lab results turned up. Since they had nothing to do until then, Clarinae opted to check on their flight preparations. Arsene requested to tag along to run his own inspection as well.
None of the airport staff stood Clarinae's way, even proving to be very courteous to her, as though she owned everyone in the payroll. They weren't even searched when they entered the airfield and crossed to hangar 68, an impressive structure that could hold at least six private planes and a showroom of land vehicles. At the moment it held but two, one bearing a striking resemblance to the X-Men's Blackbird, and another that could be used for a live reboot of Ducktales. The 'Solomon' namesake was branded before the dome's opening, fittingly aglow with gold lighting, and worn high like crown to a king's head. The two mobile bouncers from before were inside, overseeing the labor, the chauffer, Mr. Thanos Brownversion, was thankfully nowhere in sight.
"So, which one's ours?" asked Arsene. He had mixed feelings between the Blackbird and the smaller, propeller type. Superhero engines tend to be more reliable, but then they also flew in near-supersonic speeds, a feat that first time, fearful flyers may find disquieting.
"Which one's your bet?" Clarinae shot back.
"Uhmmm… a leisurely cruise from an unsinkable, luxury yacht?" said Arsene, grinning wisely.
Clarinae chuckled again. This time, with the absence of laboratory power drills and impending demise, Arsene was able to fully appreciate it. She was even more adorable when she smiled, as her bearing and fashion statement combined suggested its latent improbability. To think that he was responsible for such phenomenon gave it even more meaning—made him proud in a way that only lovelorn fools would know. "Are you sure?" he continued, "Last call… I heard the Pacific Ocean is just breathtaking this time of the year."
"You'd want that do you?"
"Want what?" Arsene played dumb.
"Cruisin' with just you and me, our sun-kissed bodies close and glistening with sweat?" Clarinae said, still smiling; only this time, it was no longer cute and innocent.
Arsene had nothing in his sleeves against something like that. So he did the reasonable thing and hung his jaw like a complete idiot, stammering half-finished words and making other involuntary body movements. Clarinae then went on to check on his staff with her usual demeanor, leaving the knave to muse if he just imagined it. When he next approached her, it was after a full hour of doing nothing but watch planes come and go in the distance. She was on the phone with someone, and from her reaction, it's the lab people reporting in.
"How'd it go? Am I sick?" Arsene had to ask because Clarinae seemed shocked for a moment. He never thought he'd see her with that face anytime soon. He figured it'd be after their second date at least.
"You're not sick, Arsene," she replied after hanging up. "In fact, you're our most promising candidate yet."
"How so? I'm not really the poster boy of wellness, you know."
She looked at him from top to bottom, and then back, minus the usual gloating. "I wouldn't say that… You're not too shabby, if I do say so myself…" She smiled again. "Are you ready to go? If you are, then we're off to meet with your inheritance."
Mixed feelings again. A little tornado building up in his gut. He was excited to know that he's a step closer to forming his own Avengers, but the flying part still concerned him. "Can you give me a minute? Where's the comfort room?" he suddenly blurted.
Clarinae pointed back to the Solomon hangar. "Around back," she said. "Take your time. It's a straight flight so get a good feel of the ground. The next time we land, we'll be in the Middle East. I'll go ahead and talk to the crew."
"Ye—yes, a very sound advice," stuttered Arsene. He lumbered away to the direction he received, hearing Clarinae's stiletto heels tapping amidst the revving plane engines.
As soon as he entered the comfort room, Arsene felt the color swirl out of his face. He rushed to the lavatory, where he hunkered down and threw up his Italian-turned-Mexican brunch. The knot in his stomach lifted a bit, and after slaking his face, he sensed the fever starting to leave his system. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the man who stared back. His hair felt thinner than its ragged Caesar cut, his features sharper than they already were. His eyes also looked heavier for someone on an extended leave, and the saving grace of his no-smoking lips barely hung around to appease him.
A part of him wanted to run away, or even do the decent thing of at least calling his parents. Apart from the H.R., none of his office friends even knew he was leaving the country. If Clarinae and his people turned out to be elaborate organ harvesters after all, the police wouldn't know where to look for his body. In just a few moments the fever came back, hot sweat melding with the cool water on his face. He was this close to a panic attack when three loud knocks scared it off him.
"Are you okay in there?" Clarinae called from outside.
Arsene washed his face some more, heaved a sigh, and then answered, "Yeah! I'm just peachy…"
"We're ready to go—just checking on you."
"Here goes nothing…" Arsene muttered to himself. Then he squared his shoulders and met with his dream date outside.
In the plane, Clarinae was kind enough to sit next to Arsene, who had strapped himself secure unlike everyone else. She held his hand as the jet blasted to life and the pilot maneuvered the vessel to the far side of the airstrip. "I know about the phobia," she told him. "Would you like to go under? I could give you something."
It was sweet. But Arsene wasn't ready to let go of the organ theft conspiracy just yet. "No, thank you," he declined with a nervous grin.
"Understood." Clarinae then offered him a white envelope, not quite sealed, but fancy as ever. "Hopefully, this counts as a fitting consolation."
The plane had taken off. It was smoother than Arsene anticipated, although, if he was being honest, the twenty million dollar check he just stowed in his coat pocket deserved most of the credit. Still, he'd pick Clarinae's enchanting fairy princess touch any day.