The so-called "half-protection" is just a smidge better than no protection at all.
But how much better? That's anyone's guess—it all comes down to luck.
In a moment, after Luke leaps from the plane, the mask that Bob tampered with will crack.
Once the seal breaks, the deadly dangers of oxygen deprivation and low pressure will hit him head-on. As for how much insulation the suit will still provide, well, that's up to chance.
Once he jumps, the earpiece communication will cut out too. That means he's on his own—no one can save him, and no one can offer any advice.
Not that it would matter much anyway. Without a mask, in the midst of roaring air currents, he wouldn't be able to talk to anyone even if the comms worked.
This plan is so dangerous that Director Cohen and the crew would never have signed off on it. But Luke? He's itching to push the limits.
He'd tried plenty of parachuting plans before, but none earned a B-grade rating from the system until this one came up.
Luke carefully assessed his body, honed to the peak of human capability, and figured he could probably handle it.
Plus, the system gave him an 86% success rate.
Taking two deep breaths, Luke stepped to the cabin door.
"Ready, Luke?" Director Cohen's voice crackled through the earpiece.
"Ready!"
For today's shoot, no other crew members were on board. They were all on the ground, watching the live feed.
No clapperboard either—just keeping it simple.
"Action!"
With Cohen's command, the rear door of the C17 transport plane swung open.
Luke immediately felt a massive pull, like the air itself was yanking him out.
But he was ready, strapped to the seat with a safety harness.
Once the pressure stabilized, Luke unbuckled and walked to the cabin door.
He stared down at the dark, churning cumulonimbus clouds below, not a hint of hesitation in him, and jumped.
"That's some serious guts. At that height, I wouldn't jump even with a parachute!" Depp said, watching the screen.
"If anything goes wrong, the last thing going through his head before he dies will be his own kneecaps," Bob quipped over the comms.
"Geez, did you have to make it sound so graphic? That's terrifying," Vin Diesel grumbled.
"Why hasn't Luke opened his parachute yet?" Depp asked.
"Are you kidding? Open it that early, and he'd be dangling up there forever. You wanna get tossed around in a storm cloud with wet, gale-force winds? You'd feel like a sock in a washing machine!" Bob, now tight with Depp, didn't hold back on the sarcasm.
"Ahh!"
A sudden scream from Yuffie cut through the comms.
"Luke's mask—it's gone!"
On the screen, Luke's mask had completely come off.
"Damn it! How did this happen?" Vin Diesel slammed his fist on the table.
"Why isn't he moving? Is he unconscious?" Cohen shouted.
"Bob! Do you know something? Spill it!" Cohen suddenly recalled Luke's earlier conversation with him.
He grabbed Bob by the collar.
"He asked me to do it," Bob said. "He said this was the only way to make the most thrilling action movie ever. He wants everyone in the theater to be shocked speechless."
"So what now? He's out cold!" Cohen roared.
Over the comms, Yuffie's stifled sobs broke the silence.
"The sudden low pressure and freezing cold must've knocked him out, but he'll come to soon," Bob said.
"How long?" Cohen demanded.
"No clue. Depends on the person. Maybe 20 seconds? But if it's more than 40, he's done for…" Bob trailed off.
The comms went dead silent. Everyone's eyes were glued to the screen.
…
…
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Consciousness flooded back into Luke's mind, the howling wind screaming in his ears.
How long was I out?
Ten seconds?
Twenty?
No time to dwell on it. His first move was to grab the oxygen mask flailing wildly in the air.
Without oxygen, he'd pass out again—and this time, he wouldn't wake up.
With a desperate lunge, he snatched the mask and clamped it back onto his face.
No time to catch his breath. Pain seared through his entire body—face, neck, chest, legs—like he was being burned alive.
Luke knew why. Exposed to the subzero high-altitude air—probably negative 50 degrees Fahrenheit—the suit's insulation was barely holding up.
Soon, his left hand and right leg went numb, frozen stiff.
But the cold wasn't the only threat. The violent winds cut like knives, tearing at his body.
The effects of explosive decompression hit hard too.
His stomach swelled like he was pregnant. Burst capillaries and the crushing pressure difference made it feel like his eyes were about to pop out.
His eardrums felt ready to rupture, and blood trickled from his nose.
[Warning: Due to extreme cold, the host's limbs are freezing. Maintain body temperature…]
[Warning: Due to pressure imbalance, the host's eardrums have sustained minor damage…]
[Warning: Due to pressure imbalance, the host's capillaries have ruptured…]
A string of alerts flashed in gold across Luke's vision.
"Good. Nothing too serious," Luke thought, glancing at the warnings with relief.
Thank God for his maxed-out physique. Even this insane stunt hadn't caused major damage.
Sure, he was in agony, but these minor injuries? A week or two in the hospital, and he'd be good as new.
Back on the ground, the crew erupted as they saw Luke regain consciousness and secure the mask.
"My God! It's Source God! He saved himself!" Depp shouted.
"Eight seconds unconscious. This guy's body is unreal!" Bob said, checking his watch in awe.
"There's blood all over his face—is he okay?" Yuffie asked, voice trembling.
"Explosive decompression. Doesn't look too bad," Bob said quickly, trying to ease her worry.
"He's a beast! Decompression, no oxygen, freezing cold—he powered through it all!" Cohen said, pumped.
"Now we just wait for him to pop the chute safely."