Lupa

They say that flying is the safest form of travel. At this moment, hurtling through the air filled with bitter black smoke, tangled oxygen masks, and the panicked screams of a hundred or so other passengers, you find yourself inclined to disagree. As the Boeing 737 hurtles into the conifers of the Canadian taiga below, gravity wavers for a second, launching your head into the screen of the in-flight entertainment system. Pain—darkness. When you come to, you find yourself lying in the damp, acrid smoke of a wreckage, grimy blood crusting around a gash on your forehead. The aluminum fuselage of the plane is split down the middle like a banana peel, allowing the cloudy skies above to relentlessly soak you in rain. All around you, limp bodies slump in their seats. You're the only survivor. Behind you, you hear sniffing. Whipping your head around, you see an unfamiliar girl in pelts warily creeping through the insides of the wreckage with a fierce glare. Hit by a ferrous waft of chemical fumes and blood, she grimaces and clamps a hand firmly over her nose and mouth, shutting out the smell.