In true fashion, she'd nearly missed the plane. To be fair, Usagi would have argued, it was a decision that was days into wracking her already frazzled nerves. Procuring a ticket with the help of her disguise pen and her mother's ID had been the beginning. Then came the playing it cool in-between, the night before packing. Staring at the haphazard contents of her suitcase, she'd actually felt like crying. Relief, partly. Finally getting some answers, knowing Mamoru was alright. But she felt bad, too. Running off with little more than a note, especially now of all times.
It was selfish. But she was allowed a little, wasn't she?
Maybe not, if this had anything to say about it. After the early, too early, mad dash and nearly thrown ticket, the too late realization by the stewardess ( had this ever happened before? What was the protocol? ), it wasn't the United States that Usagi landed in.
Still bleary eyed from her long, airborne nap, she'd stepped off none-the-wiser. Intent on collecting her few belongings, carry-on heavy over a shoulder, the blonde with the peculiar hairstyle had been pulled aside before she could wobble out of sight. What followed the weighty apology was an onslaught of tears and anxiety, a jumble of barely understandable questions. Preya? No way back? How could that be?!
Hours later, well after being escorted to a nearby motel, she'd wandered in a haze and found her way to Brightford Park. Eyes puffy, she sniffled with a fresh onset, white knuckling the edge of the bench.