I shuffle on board the plane with my fellow passengers in our paper flight suits, stripped of luggage, clothing and, for a few unfortunates, hair as well. The crew shov us roughly towards our cramped seats, lock us in, then disappear into the crew cabin, taking up the front half of the plane, including the cockpit. The message from the Party is clear: you do not belong with us. You do not contribute to the political stability of the homeland. You are the second-class peasant-cattle that we must manage, for your own good.
As the plane takes off, our cabin begins to freeze, and droplets of moisture form on the ceiling. Throughout our six-hour flight, Party commercials are the only available "entertainment", blazed loud and bright from the big screen in front. It is clearly the most expensive fixture in our section. I try to block my ears and shut my eyes. The crew reappears in their neatly-pressed Party uniforms to serve us each half a cup of gruel. As they open the door to their cabin, a collective sigh issues from ours. We smell fresh roasted meat, we smell wine, we feel the warmth of the heated cabin. The door clicks shut but does not lock, and in a second, a plan is formed in my head.
Keeping my voice low, I explain what I intend to a few fellow passengers. Some are too scared of the cameras. No matter. I will have enough allies. I issue the call to arms and we storm the crew cabin. Some of my revolutionaries are too ... "enthusiastic" in subduing the fattened crew, and there are black eyes and split lips in evidence. Before long, however, we are clearly victorious.
"The plane is ours, friends, and soon, the country! No more will we toil in fields for the good of our well-fed oppressors! We will start at the airport and create a new nation of equal opportunity for all! Today is the beginning of the second revolution!"
A great cheer goes up from my assembled allies, and I beam with pride, despite the crew glaring daggers at me. Today, I have made a difference. I have raised up the peasants and brought the mighty low. They eat heartily from the crew's larder and I take a seat to relax. Then I see the anti-aircraft missiles from the window, and my spirits sink again. The Party must have been alerted by the pilots, or a silent alarm, and they are so determined to stamp out rebellion that they will shoot the plane down, crew and all. Nobody will know of our stand against Party oppression. I consider telling my fellow passengers, but they seem so happy. They might as well stay that way for the rest of their lives, so I sip my wine and await the inevitable.
Mokalus of Borg
PS - This is actually a rewrite of a story from high school that was pretty much stolen from Seinfeld.
PPS - I wanted this to have more of a Nineteen Eighty Four feel to it.