Vince shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking terrible. He’d never been comfortable with flying in a plane. When you can fly on your own, there is always something so…fundamentally wrong about sitting in a metal tube, held aloft a mile in the air by heavy metal engines and shaped steel. Aside from the surreality of modern flight, there were two other things affecting his mood. Mainly, it was the idea that he, effectively a human napalm fountain, was stuck in a thin metal high over an ocean. 

A flare up now would likely kill everyone on board, probably him as well. The though made the bile in his stomach rise threateningly, his face paling. He wanted to not be on board anymore. He wanted to be back in Belgium, take a nap in the homeless shelter, and eat his crappy soup in his crappy bed. His breath starts to become ragged as a panic attack begins to set in, his neighbors giving him queer looks (though, to be fair to them, it was probably because he smelt like a smoked garbage can at the moment, Puriel not having given him much of a chance to shower before shoving him on a plane). 

He stands up quickly, “E….excuse me” he mumbles in English quickly, pushing his way to the bathroom. He sits there for twenty or thirty minutes, returning the inflight meal and trying to calm down. The bathroom jars roughly as the plane touches down, Vince quietly listening as the announcements played, hugging the porcelain (in this case, quite literally) throne. Exhausted, and now hungry, he stands up, deciding he should probably leave before someone yells at him. Wincing, he quickly washes his hands, the cold water feeling like molten glass across his skin. Thankfully, he didn’t have a carry on, not really needing one, considering the whole of his possessions fit into a plastic bag. Quickly he gets off the plane, standing around uncomfortably. He silently hoped he had missed an announcement made by the staff or something.