Rejected, dismissed out of hand for being a crank, having lost it all ... how far can a Lion go to prove his point ... and what happens when 'there's no going back?'

(Inspired by Poetigress' Thursday Prompt)

oOo

Mask 1 : The Traveller.
The airport security officer was cautious as she looked through his baggage. However, there was nothing of interest to her within the rucksack, so she waved him on and in. He breathed a sigh of relief as he strode into the departures area.
The airport was all too familiar to him — its sights, sounds and smells. Especially the smells. Every airport has a scent that is unmistakable. Plastic furnishings. Kerosene. Bad food. All the experiences and thoughts that meant most to him were resolved when he was in an airport.
And this airport was more special than most. If not for this airport, he would still be a well-respected member of the community; his life would be good and his mate ...
He swallowed hard and blinked his eyes to clear the sudden misting that came over them.

Mask 2 : The Shopper.
He padded into the duty-free shop. Despite the best efforts of the powers-that-be, this haven of consumerism was still in full flood, with hoards of greedy bargain-seeking faces checking tiny price tags with the hungry look of the feral. He ignored the whiskered and fanged faces peering at the shiny things, the occasional 'Daddy get me this' carrying in the over-heated air. He knew what he wanted to get.
Vodka.
A wonderful spirit; so clear, so pure, so perfect. Taking six two litre bottles in his damp paws, he savoured the weight and solidity of the glass, shuffling up to the bored cashier with his treasure.
"Boarding pass."
Her voice was so flat and dull that it took a monstrous effort not to lose his temper. He smiled, made small-talk, whittered inanely about something of no importance, projecting an image of a sensible, intelligent and friendly man. She didn't respond and didn't care. His change was smacked carelessly onto the counter-top and already her dull eyes were on the next customer ... and the next ... and the next.
He wiped the scowl off his face. He didn't want to make himself too noticeable. Sweat on his paws caused them to slip a little on the bottles as he thrust them into two bright yellow plastic bags; bags that proclaimed they come from somewhere thirty percent cheaper than High Street shops. Lies, he scowled. It's all dangerous lies.

That was the worst part of everything to do with the place. The management lie to the staff, the staff lie to the customers. The airlines lie about their schedules. The airport lies to the airlines. Everyone tries to get their fistful of fur; their pound of flesh. And sometimes, sometimes people get hurt. People get the blame for things that they shouldn't. The liars make it happen and the liars will pay. His mind flashed back to the meeting in the executive level upstairs.
Oh yes, they wanted to hear him out. Naturally, you have a point, they soothed him with their weasel words. And then he committed the crime of the decade. He told them if they didn't do something about it, he would go public.
You never threaten those in control.

Mask 3 : The Observer.
Different people lined up in different queues at different gates. His heart was thumping so fast; he tried to calm himself down by looking at the myriad faces arranged about him. All the nationalities; going to distant lands. All the species, too. And yet, through all their colours, shapes and accents, a universality surrounded them. He watched Gate 42 for Lundun. The people there stood in line: patient, quiet, self-restrained to the Nth degree, and wholly dull. No excitement for them — Wolves, Bears, Felines, whatever. They stood like farm animals in a paddock, waiting to be let into their field.
Not so the southern Europans. Itals, Spanites — they were boisterous, rumbustious and loud, bouncing off each other with laughs, squeals and non-stop chatter. Such life, such joie-de-vivre. That is how life should be. Not sheep-like. Active. Real. Like a firework, not like a candle.
He sat quietly and lost himself in his thoughts. Some groups were scented differently. Must be their food. Some were dressed exotically. Some were poor and hopelessly self conscious; some were flying for the first time and their muzzles moved in silent supplication to their gods. Most of them had duty-free bags, just as he had. Idiots.
God, he thought. Please keep me calm. They deserve this.
The flight was called. A distorted and too-fast voice announced the gate was open. Sweat beaded on his face and a single drop hung from his nose, irritatingly.
'Be calm!'
The sitting hoard at his gate rose all at once and chatter ascended in volume. So many people on this flight! It is usually one of the most quiet of the week. And children ... so many children — noisy, excited, happy.
He shrugged mentally.
'Que sera sera.'

Mask 4 : The Passenger.
Underfoot, the metallic cling of the air-bridge, with its strange bouncing feel; he was almost at the door to the aircraft. With his paws full of duty-free bags, he had held his boarding card in his mouth as he moved from the gate. A smiling and kind-faced flight attendant took it from his muzzle with a grin and guided him towards the back of the aircraft. Unable to take the card back without dropping one or other of the bags, he opened his mouth again. His sweat must be stinking of panic by now. The attendant, obviously familiar with the fears expressed by nervous passengers, gave a playful smirk and carefully placed the card between his teeth.
"Fank 'oo," he said, and she giggled.
Past the rows of faces, anticipation on each and every muzzle.
Otters. Don't see many of them flying.
Wolves everywhere.
Tigers. Lots of Tigers. Ones and twos, families and groups.

They arranged themselves all over the aircraft, getting comfortable, fixing their seat beats, Preparing themselves. He found a seat in the very back, to the left of the cabin, and placed his bottles carefully on the floor before him.

"I'm sorry, sir. You will have to place your duty-free in the over-head rack. You are in an emergency escape row, you see and—"
"Yes, yes. I'm sorry. I forgot. I'll - I'll do that now," he flustered.
She gave him a little 'make sure you do' look and continued up the cabin to harass other non-complient flyers. As if it mattered. Nothing matters. She doesn't know. She doesn't 'know'.

The flight ascended into the bright space above the clouds. Although the sun was going down, the light was rich and ruddy, making bright lozenges of brilliance pattern themselves along the port side of the cabin. Some lozenges were absent. Several people found the light too rich for their taste and pulled the window shades closed. He stared into the light, thinking of red sunsets and chilled bottles of wine and ...
So much was gone ... his mind wandered again. The executives didn't want to know about his fears for the travelling public.
It was simple, they told him, and he should realise it. The public is sitting in a departure lounge for hours before their flight. Let them shop and spend money, and the airport gains. That is what pays your wage, after all.
But can't they shop when they land? Wouldn't that be safer? All that alcohol on an aircraft ... it's just not safe.
You fool, they told him, and you travel enough to know yourself. When you land, you want to get to your destination, not shop for another hour. That's pointless. And no, there's no alternative. Stop wasting our time.

Mask 5 : The Alcoholic.
It was time for action. He squeezed past the Bear sitting on the aisle seat and opened the over-head locker. Quietly, calmly, he took the two bags from the overhead locker with an encouraging smile to the passenger sitting on the opposite row. She smiled easily back at him as she heard the clinking of the glass.
Yes, he thought, you would smile, wouldn't you, with your red-rimmed eyes and your drooping lips. You're an old sot if I have ever seen one. Soon your past will catch up with you and you will see that your time has been wasted. Wasted, like mine. Wasted - yours with your gin and tonics, no doubt. Mine with — with being honest and thoughtful for idiots like you ... and what happens? They think I'm unstable and untrustworthy. And they fire me? And I lose the one person who loved me. And now she's gone.
Before the expression on his lips faded to a taut line, he turned his head away from her and went into the toilet. Behind him, he heard the red-eyed one talk to her friend in the window seat.
"Poor man. Desperate for a drink. You can see it, you know. It's all in the eyes..."

Mask 6 : The Conspirator.
Such a small room ... a small room for big events, and big events make things happen. He saw his dilated pupils and sweat-slicked fur in his reflection on the restroom mirror. It was so huge in the tiny room it almost seemed to lead to some different reality — one which also had a nervous and damp-pelted Lion staring back. But who was the more in need?
Slowly, carefully and deliberately, he placed the six bottles onto the miniscule countertop. They just about fit. Twelve litres of Russhia's finest, all distilled in a small factory in Miltone Keanes, where the only thing Russhish about it was the manufacturer's name. He unscrewed the caps off each and pulled back the flap under the counter to dump each cap into the waste bin.
He smiled to himself, even though his paws were shaking.
It is ludicrous, he sighed, that even here, at the brink of everything, the need to be tidy overwhelms everything else.
His nose wrinkled as the fumes of the flammable alcohol suffused the room, then he delicately poured the contents of two of the bottles into the half-full waste paper basket, leaving one bottle in the flap to hold it open.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, looked his reflection square in the eyes, and took off his shirt.

Mask 7 : The Panicked.
Old red-eyes was still regaling her friend with stories of so many people she knew that had gone down the dark, unhappy path of alcoholism. Oh yes, she had some sad tales she could tell, and the few they shared were recounted with obvious enjoyment; until a strange sound came from the toilet.
Ripping fabric? It couldn't be. Those places are lined in plastic, not in fabric. It must be something else.
Do you think that gentleman is having a problem? He might be choking in his own vomit, perhaps?
That would be terrible! It might be wise to check...

A light knock at the toilet door startled him. The shredded remains of his cotton shirt littered the floor, all except four wads of the material, placed like wicks into each of the remaining bottles. He looked around in panic as the handle moved and the voice of an elderly lady came from the other side of the panel.
"Sir, are you alright? Sir? Can you hear me? Should I get an attendant for you?"
He had to find his voice and keep his nerve.
"N-no. NO! No." He cleared his throat. He didn't realise it was so dry. "No, but thank you. I'm — I'm quite alright. Thanks. Thank you very much."
She seemed satisfied by that, gave another platitude or two and it went quiet.

He sat on the toilet seat, heart thumping wildly in his chest, sweat dripping through his fur, all thoughts of his plan in as many shreds as his shirt. How could be have conceived such a crazy plan? What was he really going to do? Was all of this worth his life? And — and what of the other people.
How could he not have thought of the others?
The little old ladies. The children with their parents. The young lovers. The middle aged couples. The teenagers with their angst. The businessmen in their suits ... the businessmen in their suits ... the businessmen ... them.
It takes something extraordinary for the executives to do something that is pure common sense. He will provide their reason to change the regulations forever. He was not cruel. He was making a terrible sacrifice to prevent a larger one by people with different morals.

Mask 8 : The Terrorist.
The face in the mirror set back into a hard frown. It was worth it all. There's no going back. He fumbled within his trouser pocket for the small lighter he bought in duty free. Quietly and deliberately, he set each wick alight. There's no going back.
He dropped the lighter into the waste basket and it caught immediately in a blaze of blue flame and heat. The plastic started to melt and his mane and chest fur scorched. There's no going back.
The smoke alarm in the toilet began to chime. There's no going back. He opened the door, threw two bottles into the empty galley where they exploded in loud bursts of shattering glass. He held the last two in his arms, and strode up along the cabin, into the destiny he had chosen.

There was no going back.