The Total Jumbo Jet groaned, its aging metal frame vibrating violently as it leveled out at thirty thousand feet. Inside the economy class, the atmosphere was a toxic cocktail of stale peanuts, unwashed teenagers, and pure, unfiltered desperation. But for Team Amazon, the cramped quarters had suddenly become a battlefield.
"Cody! Look! He's out there! He's calling for me!" Sierra shrieked. Her face was pressed so hard against the small, oval window that her skin left a greasy smudge on the glass.
Her eyes were bloodshot, her pupils dilated to the size of quarters, reflecting a world only she could see. Without her medication to dampen her hyper-fixation, her brain was firing off electrical storms of pure obsession. To her, the swirling white clouds outside weren't water vapor; they were a stage.
"He's dancing on the clouds! He's wearing the tiny hat I made him! He needs me! I'm coming, Codykins! Hold on!"
With a strength fueled by sheer mania, she lunged for the red emergency exit handle.
"Whoa! Sierra, stop! That's a three-mile drop, eh!" Cody yelled, throwing his entire weight against her waist.
"Help him!" Gwen shouted, diving across the floor to grab Sierra's arms before she could crank the lever. Courtney joined in a second later, locking her arms around Sierra's shoulders. "Sierra, get a grip! You're going to depressurize the cabin and kill us all!"
"I don't care about physics! I care about love!" Sierra screamed, kicking her legs and nearly catching Gwen in the jaw.
The Cockpit of Rebellion
In the cockpit, Chris McLean stared at the closed-circuit monitors. Usually, this was the kind of footage he lived for. He'd be leaning back in his ergonomic chair, tossing popcorn into his mouth, and telling the camera crew to "zoom in on the crazy." He'd be thinking of a witty transition to a commercial break about how love is "in the air—literally."
But today, every one of Sierra's shrieks felt like a serrated blade scraping against his nerves. His own pulse was thumping—thump-thump, thump-thump—with a rhythmic violence against his neck. He looked at the blood pressure cuff abandoned on the floor; it had stopped giving him numbers five minutes ago and just displayed a "!" symbol.
"Chef," Chris said. His voice was flat, devoid of its usual theatrical flair. "Change the coordinates. Bearing 045 degrees."
Chef Hatchet didn't move his hands from the yoke, but his head snapped toward Chris. "Bearing 045? Chris, that's a sharp bank north-northeast. We're supposed to be crossing the Atlantic toward Tokyo. The producers spent six figures setting up that 'Human Pinball' disaster in the heart of Shibuya. They're expecting blood, screams, and a lawsuit they've already pre-paid."
Chris's eyes fixed on a small, red plastic bottle sitting on the center console. It was the one he had swiped from Sierra's bag back in Egypt—a "tactical acquisition" meant to ensure she remained "interesting" for the viewers.
"Forget Tokyo," Chris snapped. He reached out and tapped the glass of the altimeter. "The producers want drama? I'll give them drama. But I'm not letting a kid blow out the side of my plane because her brain is melting. Not because I'm a 'nice guy,' Chef. I'm not. But I can't deal with the international aviation lawsuits, the blood on the upholstery, and the mountain of paperwork that comes with a mid-air casualty. It's a logistical nightmare."
Chef raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And where exactly are we going on Bearing 045?"
"Switzerland," Chris clarified, rubbing his chest where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "The land of expensive watches, neutral politics, and most importantly, the best pharmaceutical labs on the planet. I need a refill of my own 'calm down' juice, and that girl back there needs her life back before she turns Cody into a cloud-stain. Do it."
Chef Hatchet didn't argue. He banked the massive plane. The engines roared in protest, a deep, mechanical howl that shook the floorboards.
Noah's Observation
In the loser section of the plane, Noah was slumped against a pile of luggage, trying to read a book on advanced cynicism. He felt the sharp tilt of the plane and frowned. He didn't look at the chaos of Team Amazon; he looked at the small, cheap compass strapped to his wrist.
"Uh, guys?" Noah drawled, closing his book with a loud thud.
Owen, who was busy trying to see if he could fit three mini-bags of peanuts in his mouth at once, looked up. "Whut is it, Noah? Are we there yet? I hope Japan has giant pretzels."
"Unless Japan pulled a tectonic shift and moved to Western Europe while we were in Egypt, we are going the wrong way," Noah stated. He watched the needle on his compass settle. "We're heading north-northeast. We're aiming for the Alps."
Tyler blinked. "Is that bad? Does Japan have Alps?"
Noah actually let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders visibly untensing. "No, Tyler. Japan has Mount Fuji, but it also has a massive typhoon warning and localized hail storms currently hitting the Tokyo area. I checked the weather report before we left. I was genuinely expecting to die in a lightning strike or get impaled by a flying neon sign."
He leaned back, a rare, genuine smirk appearing on his face. "If Chris is actually avoiding a natural disaster zone, it means he's either lost his mind or he's finally realized that killing his cast is bad for his pension. Either way, Switzerland is a lot less likely to involve me being struck by a stray bolt of electricity. I'm actually... okay with this."
The Confession
"Sierra! Confessional. Now! And someone bring a straightjacket if you have one!" Chris's voice boomed over the intercom, though it lacked the usual bite. It sounded tired.
Two minutes later, Sierra stumbled into the cramped, foul-smelling bathroom that served as the confessional. She was shaking, her skin a ghostly shade of grey, her hands twitching at her sides. Chris was already shoved into the small space, leaning against the sink.
Before she could speak, Chris did something that would have ended his career if anyone saw it: he reached up and slapped a thick piece of black duct tape over the main camera lens. Then, he clicked off the 'On Air' light.
"Where... where's Cody?" Sierra whimpered, her eyes darting around the tiny room. "The clouds... he was falling..."
"Cody is in the back eating a lukewarm bagel, Sierra," Chris said. His voice was a low growl, but not an angry one. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the red bottle. "Here. Take two. Now."
Sierra's eyes locked onto the bottle. The recognition was instant. She snatched it with trembling fingers, fumbled with the child-proof cap until Chris had to groan and open it for her, and then downed the pills with a cup of lukewarm sink water.
Almost instantly, the frantic energy began to drain from her limbs. Her breathing slowed from a terrified pant to a shaky exhale.
"Why did you take them, Chris?" she whispered, her voice returning to its normal pitch. She looked up at him, her eyes finally focusing. "You took them in Egypt. You wanted to watch me break. You told the producers it would be 'gold.' I saw the production notes on your desk once."
Chris looked at the scarred plastic floor of the confessional, then let out a long, ragged sigh. He reached into his other vest pocket and pulled out a different bottle—this one was blue and had his own name on the label.
"Because I'm an idiot, Sierra," Chris admitted, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at his own bottle of beta-blockers. "I thought if I was the only 'sane' person left on this plane, I could keep the producers happy. I thought I could control the chaos. But look at me. I'm fifty percent caffeine and fifty percent panic-suppressants. My blood pressure is high enough to power the hydraulic lift on this jet. I'm popping these things just to keep my heart from vibrating out of my ribcage every time a producer screams in my ear that I'm 'replaceable.'"
He leaned his head back against the cold, metal wall, closing his eyes. "We're both just playing parts in a sick little play, kid. You're the 'obsessed fan,' and I'm the 'sadistic host.' It's what the contracts say we have to be. But God, it's exhausting, isn't it?"
Outside the door, a shadow froze.
Heather had been following Sierra, intending to catch her in a moment of weakness to force her into a new alliance. She had her ear pressed to the thin metal door, her mind already racing with insults.
But as she listened, her smirk vanished. She didn't hear a monster. She heard a man who was terrified. She heard the "invincible" Chris McLean admitting he was a puppet for people even worse than him.
"You're not gonna tell the cameras?" Sierra's voice was small.
"The cameras are off, Sierra," Chris lied, knowing he'd have to go into the server room and manually wipe the hardware later. "Just get your head straight. We're landing in Switzerland in a few hours. I told the producers the weather in Japan was a 'No-Fly Zone.' We're going to do a challenge involving chocolate, mountains, and yodeling. Something that doesn't involve you trying to jump out of a moving vehicle. Now get out of here before someone thinks I'm being a decent human being. It'll ruin my reputation as a prick."
As the door creaked open, Heather ducked into the shadows of a nearby equipment locker. She watched Sierra walk out, her steps steady, her eyes clear for the first time since Egypt.
Then, she saw Chris step out. He paused, looking at his shaking hands. He took a deep, rattling breath, smoothed his hair, and adjusted his designer collar. In a split second, the "McLean Mask" was back on—the arrogant, untouchable smirk was plastered onto his face.
Heather stayed in the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had spent two seasons thinking Chris was the final boss—the monster you had to out-manipulate to win. But if Chris was struggling just to stay alive... if he was actually sabotaging the "suits" to protect them...
She looked toward the back of the plane, where Alejandro was likely sitting, perfectly calm, weaving his next web of lies. For the first time in her life, Heather didn't want to be the best villain. She realized that in a world run by the producers and Alejandro, being a "villain" was exactly what they wanted her to be.
"If the pilot is jumping ship," Heather whispered to herself, her eyes hardening with a new kind of determination, "then it's time I stopped being a passenger."
She knew what she had to do. She needed to talk to Noah. If Chris was changing the game, she needed someone smart enough to help her rewrite the ending.