High above the clouds, at an altitude where the blue fades into an endless abyss, there exists a plane that has not touched the ground for years uncounted. Its engines, a marvel of an unknown technology, hum with the constancy of the stars. This is the Skyliner Eternal, a plane caught in the limbo of the skies, a modern myth whispered among air traffic controllers and pilots, yet seen by none.
Those who dwell within its economy section lead a life of perpetual discomfort, their seats the unyielding thrones of their airborne kingdom. The seats, with their thin cushions and rigid backs, have become the bane of existence for the passengers, who have long forgotten the solid embrace of terra firma.
In the beginning, the Skyliner was a testament to human innovation, a non-stop flight around the world that promised to revolutionize travel. The passengers embarked with the thrill of novelty coursing through their veins, unaware that they would become prisoners of the sky. As hours turned into days, days into months, and months into years, the passengers' initial enthusiasm waned, replaced by a collective restlessness that spread like a slow poison.
The cabin crew, once cheerful and attentive, now moved like specters through the aisles, their uniforms frayed at the edges, their eyes hollow from the endless cycle of service. Whispers among the passengers spoke of a curse, of an ancient lore that bound the plane to the heavens, of a captain who had made a pact with the very skies to escape the mortal coil.
The economy class had become a microcosm, a society divided by the circumstances of their flight. There were those who had accepted their fate, creating a semblance of normalcy among the cramped rows. They cultivated friendships, shared stories of the lives they once knew, and found solace in each other's company. Others, driven mad by the never-ending journey, would pace the aisles, speaking in tongues only they understood, their minds lost to the altitude.
Children born on the plane had never known the sensation of standing still, their first steps taken in the narrow confines between rows 30 and 45, their playground the cold, unyielding floor. To them, the concept of 'landing' was as foreign as the sea is to a desert nomad.
The food carts no longer held a variety of meals; they were now laden with the same recycled fare, a bland sustenance that kept hunger at bay but never satisfied. Water was rationed carefully, each sip a precious commodity that sustained life but reminded them of their plight.
Despite the despair, rumors circulated of a rebellion brewing in the aft rows, where the most disgruntled passengers plotted to seize control of the plane, to force it down, to end their aerial odyssey. They spoke in hushed tones of the cockpit, a place none had seen since the flight began, and of the elusive captain, whose voice over the intercom had become nothing but static.
As night and day lost meaning, the plane flew on, a ghostly vessel charting a course through the unknown. The outside world had become a distant memory, the stories of the ground fading into legend. The Skyliner Eternal, with its cargo of souls, continued its flight to nowhere, a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who still dreamed of the day when the wheels would once again kiss the earth, and the plane would release them from their sky-bound purgatory.
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