[centre][img]http://i1062.photobucket.com/albums/t486/isthistaken1/Melissa-Wu.png[/img][/centre]

Melissa couldn't remember the last time she had flown but no amount of recollection might have prepared her for the opulence experienced on-board. Inside consisted of three single-seat columns, parted with enough room to swing a leg; but more like compartments than seats and the separations must have been constructed with basketballers in mind. Each compartment was came equipped with a beige recliner, a similar-coloured dining table, and a  personal television. The soft-lighting seemed to cast the perfect balance between enabling sleep and reading. For the street-girl it might have been heaven. She followed the directions on her ticket to the rear-most compartment: 18C; possessing full view of the rest of the cabin and bare metres from the bathroom, secure.

She was quick to settle into her seat as the pilot began to speak over the intercom.

[color=yellow]"Good afternoon and welcome ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain: Richard Knox, speaking. We at Virgin Airlines would like to welcome..."[/color]

Melissa stopped listening. Her fellow passengers were the focus of her concentration; the young woman's gaze dancing across the seating ahead, checking on suspicious characters. It was for the most part men: middle aged and older; people on business, she imagined. In a number of cases she caught their acrimonious glances back. Nothing might have undermined their self-conceit more than her undue presence: she didn't doubt for a minute she'd be next weeks golf house chit-chat. Nevertheless, there was nothing untoward. It seemed safe - and that made perfect sense. It was at the point where she was close to indulgence in some relaxation when a high feminine voice snatched her attention.

[color=green]"Hello miss, we've been informed that a meal has been purchased in advance for you. So, if you might just take a look at the menu -"[/color] she nodded in its direction: towards the dining table [color=green]" - we'll be along once we're in the air to take your order."[/color] Her tone was professional: stable and calm. Melissa commended her for that and offered a half-smile of gratitude in return. Her gaze didn't linger long enough to catch the attendants parting courtesies - however - herself being quick to turn to the menu: 

[color=purple]... Seared, Cured Tourchon, Confit Rhubarb, Brioche ...[/color]

She read the first starter: "Foie Gras", not recognising half the ingredients never mind the dish. 

If she was being kidnapped, then her kidnappers were doing it in style.