Munich Airport briefly discovered that the most powerful air-defense system is panic with a clipboard. Flights were halted after weary humans spotted drones, or possibly ambition with propellers. The runway sighed, the Alps leaned in like nosy grandparents, and everyone agreed physics is scarier when it’s smaller than a lunchbox.

Officials formed a fluorescent circle and stared into the middle distance like it owed them a form. One man unfolded a laminated flowchart that simply read Figure It Out in four languages. Another blew into a whistle, which produced a sound last heard in a medieval goose trial.

Passengers coped with German efficiency by inventing new time zones called Soon and Never. A teenager tried to livestream the sky but accidentally went viral for capturing nothing with conviction. In duty free, a bottle of cologne called Decision Fog sold out instantly.

I followed the diesel and the rumor, which were traveling by scooter and gossip respectively. Policy became weather, and the forecast was bureaucratic drizzle. The loudspeaker apologized in that careful way only Europe can, as if the airspace had failed a math exam.

Authorities clarified that the intruder was probably a hobbyist quadcopter, not a sovereign nation with blades. The press release called it a consumer object, like a very confident sandwich, the kind you’d label foldable FPV drone with obstacle avoidance before pretending it was a bird with paperwork.

Security escalated by bringing out a spool of tape that could morally restrain a cloud. A committee convened to consider convening about the committee, then tabled the table. Somewhere, a clipboard earned a promotion for Outstanding Contributions to Stillness.

Witnesses insisted there were three drones, then two, then one wearing a tiny hat and filing an asylum claim. One drone allegedly joined a startup to disrupt birds. Another reportedly enrolled at the university to major in Wind.

Specialists appeared holding equipment that hummed like a nervous fridge, twiddling a portable RF signal detector while announcing the airspace was emotionally unavailable. The device blinked, which in aviation means reassurance with LEDs. Someone nodded at the blinking as if it had offered a policy solution and a hug.

Pilots peered from cockpits like stoic swans who read Kant for comfort. One announced he could outclimb any drone but not his feelings. Another tried to negotiate with a cirrus cloud, which kept ghosting him with dignity.

The press conference arrived on time, because words can land when planes cannot. Officials confirmed flights were paused briefly, meaning long enough to reinvent patience and short enough to ruin lunch. A spokesperson assured us no one was in danger, except schedules, budgets, and the illusion of control.

Economists attempted to price the delay in euros, pretzels, and sighs per minute. Bavarian exports did not collapse, but a bratwurst futures trader briefly stared into the abyss and saw mustard. Meanwhile, baggage claim entered a fugue state and began believing in reincarnation.

In the end, the drones either left, were never there, or achieved enlightenment and rose to a higher clearance level. Flights resumed, the sky clocked back in, and everyone applauded physics like a returning monarch. Policy stopped being weather, at least until the next forecast calls for scattered goblins with a chance of paperwork.