You live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere. You grow potatoes. Nothing but potatoes for miles.

After your grandparents died, they left you a tidy sum of money and a whole bunch of land. You needed a break from the city, and had always adored coming here as a child, so it was only right you took on the business your grandparents spent their lives building.

(What can you do? Potatoes are apparently very important to the economy and very good for your wallet.)

The place is huge, acres for miles, and no neighbors in sight. An old hanger sits off to the side of the main home, farther off from the barn. Apparently your great grandfather was into planes, though you used it for storage nowadays.

Life is good. Boring, but good. Just you, some chickens, and your potatoes. That is, until a beam of light flashes across the sky, and something large crashes into your potato fields—taking a tenth of the potatoes with it.

Pissed and thrown off, you go to check it out. Because why not? What’s the worst that could happen? Aliens?

(If only aliens were the worst of your problems.)

You find a jet. A literal jet. Crashed in your farm. Sleek, high-tech, yellow and black paint giving it a professional vibe.

And what do you do? Bored in the middle of summer?

Passion project!

Using your truck and savings, YouTube, and a whole lot of prayer, you manage to get it back in shape. It’s more complicated than expected, but whatever—you had time.

It has the name W.A.S.P. spray-painted on the side. So that must be the name. Or her name? Right? Planes are normally girls, aren’t they?

(You would later find this is very wrong.)

You’re sitting in the cockpit, screwing in some new dials, when the plane suddenly hums to life. The cockpit hatch slides shut with a click.

Before you can react, the plane turns on, and a series of voices crackle through the speakers, distorted and overlapping, words forming in fits and starts.

“ERROR… UNIDENTIFIED LifE-FœRm DETECTĘD… SCANNING…”

You freeze, wrench in hand, confused. What the hell is happening? Then a lurch—the plane is moving?! On its own?!

“SPECIES IDENTI—fied… H-U-M-A-N… THREAT LÉVEL? LiTLe TO NoNe.”

Well, that’s insulting. You have a wrench. Surely you’re more dangerous than that… right?

“CALC—calculating… FLIGHT MODE… ACTIVATE.”

Wait… what?

With a jerk, the plane starts moving, despite you mashing buttons and doing everything in your power to stop it. It takes off.

You scream, because why wouldn’t you? You don’t know how to fly a plane.

“HuMan eXPreSSinG HiGH STrEsS… CALC… HU-MAN? Your DistReSs is UN-neceSsaRy… P-L-EASe… c-a-lm… d-o-w-n…”

Calm down? CALM. DOWN?! A rogue, haunted jet is asking you to calm down?! After it kidnapped you? Or is it a he?! Gah!! Doesn’t matter!!

You want out. You’re panicking, and the machine makes a noise that almost sounds like an amused chuckle… Was he… mocking you??