The helicopter was gray with no markings. It lifted off, with them inside, and leaned into the wind, choppers pounding. Soon they reached high altitude, impossible altitude. The occupants breathed a sigh of relief. They would escape. No one could stop them.
Except for the Surreal Army.
The sky above the clouds was a clear, sharp, cold blue, and utterly silent, but for the chop of the helicopter blades.
Then the skiers appeared, hundreds of them, thousands, in the cloudless blue. Ski jumpers, leaning forward in elegant lines, arms at their sides, heads forward, graceful and perfect, soaring and fearless.
The gray helicopter lurched, as the skiers glided by, and discarded their unholy long skis by hurling them towards the helicopter. The helicopter lurched from side to side, trying to face the onslaught, but without grace or purpose, as the skiers fell away, without their skis, into an abyss.
But not before the gray helicopter, the blades compromised by a full surreal attack, its balance lost, careened into the ocean from a great height.
The Surreal Army.