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Flight 808 to the sun-baked tourist trap of Castrum Kremnos was completely, unapologetically overbooked. This meant that by the time the boarding doors were finally armed and cross-checked, Purser Cerydra had already quietly consumed two maximum-strength ibuprofen and was actively questioning her career choices.
The aft galley was currently a cramped, high-altitude theater of absolute absurdity.
"Mydei, I'm begging you," Cerydra sighed, aggressively massaging her temples as she leaned against a metal catering cart. "Please stop trying to organically slip your social media handle into the beverage service menu."
"I'm not slipping it in, Cerydra, I'm building vital brand loyalty," Mydei argued smoothly. He was checking his flawless reflection in the dark glass of the galley oven, carefully adjusting his flawless tailored suit to ensure it hugged his broad shoulders perfectly. "The young woman in 12B asked if the coffee was ethically sourced. I simply informed her that while I couldn't speak for the corporate coffee beans, my personal gym routine is entirely cruelty-free, and she could find the ten-step walkthrough in my bio."
"You are a flight attendant, not a lifestyle guru," Senior FA Tribios interjected, brushing past him with a stack of premium napkins. She looked absolutely immaculate, her vibrant red hair defying gravity, physics, and cabin humidity. "And your cologne is actively overpowering the smell of the roasted chicken. Tone it down. We are a prestige airline, not a VIP nightclub in Okhema."
"The passengers appreciate the effort, Tribios," Mydei sniffed defensively, offended. "An eighty-year-old woman in row four just told me I looked like a young Hollywood actor."
"She told you that you smelled like a duty-free shop exploded, Mydei, I literally heard her," Hysilens giggled loudly from the corner, almost dropping a pair of ice tongs as she completely lost her composure.
"Alright, enough! Places!" Cerydra snapped, pointing toward the aisles. "We are pushing back. It's time for the manual safety demonstration. Hyacine, take the forward cabin. Mydei, mid-cabin. Castorice, over-wing exits. Tribios, you take the aft. And please, for the love of the God, execute it like actual aviation professionals."
The warning chime echoed through the cabin. Cerydra picked up the heavy PA handset.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Amphoreus Air. May we have your complete attention as our crew demonstrates the safety features of this aircraft..."
Out in the aisles, the performance began. And it was a spectacular, deeply uncoordinated display of wildly contrasting personalities.
At the very front of the aircraft, Hyacine was executing the safety demonstration with the bouncy, terrifying enthusiasm of a cheerleader at a championship game. When Cerydra announced the seatbelts, Hyacine held up the metal buckle with a blinding, megawatt smile, clicking it together with a joyous little pop, looking as if demonstrating the seatbelt was the absolute highlight of her entire year.
In the mid-cabin, Mydei had turned the safety demo into a silent audition for a luxury watch commercial. He held the seatbelt buckle up at an angle specifically designed to catch the overhead reading lights, subtly flexing his jawline. He pulled the yellow strap tight across his waist with a slow, smoldering look of intense masculine capability, making direct, devastating eye contact with a blushing bachelorette party in row fourteen.
In the aft cabin, Tribios treated the safety equipment exactly like contaminated biological waste. She held the seatbelt with the very tips of two perfectly manicured fingers, her expression clearly communicating to the cabin that she was profoundly, infinitely overqualified to be showing grown adults how to operate a metal buckle.
And then, there was Castorice.
Standing rigidly at the over-wing exits, Castorice moved with the chilling, mechanical precision of a military android.
"In the highly unlikely event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure..." Cerydra’s voice echoed over the PA.
Hyacine gracefully let the yellow oxygen mask drop from her hand, catching it with a rehearsed little gasp. Mydei caught his mask smoothly, holding it near his face so as not to mess up his perfectly styled hair.
Castorice, however, did not drop the mask. She snapped it out in front of her. She stared directly, unblinkingly into the soul of a terrified businessman in seat 22C. With aggressive, lethal efficiency, she slammed the yellow plastic cup over her nose and mouth, violently yanking the elastic strap tight around the back of her head, practically giving herself whiplash to demonstrate exactly how securely it must fit to prevent hypoxia. She stood perfectly still, looking exactly like a tactical operative preparing for biological warfare.
The businessman in 22C slowly, nervously pushed himself deeper into his seat, visibly sweating.
"A life vest is located under or between your seats..." Cerydra continued, her voice sounding increasingly tired.
Tribios elegantly pulled the yellow vest over her head, carefully ensuring the coarse fabric did not snag a single strand of her hair. She lightly touched the inflation tabs with the grace of a woman displaying a diamond necklace at an auction.
Castorice, meanwhile, executed the life vest demonstration like she was physically preparing to fight a great white shark. She threw the vest over her head, aggressively strapped it to her waist, and violently mimed yanking the red inflation tabs with a downward thrust so fierce it made a teenager in row 23 physically flinch.
When the demonstration finally concluded, Cerydra hung up the PA phone, closed her eyes, and prayed for a swift, turbulence-free flight.
Thirty minutes later, at cruising altitude, the beverage service was in full swing, and the absolute chaos of the Amphoreus Air crew was unleashed directly upon the paying public.
Mydei and Castorice were paired on the forward cart. It was a psychological whiplash for the passengers.
Mydei stopped the cart at row three. "Good afternoon," he purred, offering a devastatingly charming, warm smile to a middle-aged couple. "Would you care for a beverage? We have an excellent selection of chilled juices, or perhaps a premium coffee, brewed at exactly the right temperature to complement the atmosphere?"
"Oh, wow," the wife whispered, slightly flustered by the sheer volume of charisma radiating from the cart. "Um, I'll just have a Diet Cola, please."
"An excellent, classic choice," Mydei validated her with a handsome wink, elegantly pouring the soda over ice with a flourish of his wrist.
He moved the cart forward to row four. A stressed-looking man in a wrinkled suit looked up from his laptop. "What kind of hot meals do you have left?"
Castorice stepped forward, her expression entirely blank. "We are currently offering a choice between the roasted herb chicken and the vegetarian penne pasta."
"What exactly comes with the chicken?" the man asked, rubbing his tired eyes.
"The roasted avian protein," Castorice stated, her voice a flat, robotic monotone, "is accompanied by a 150-gram serving of steamed Daucus carota—commonly known as carrots—and a starch composite of mashed potatoes containing exactly 14% dairy fat. The meal contains approximately 640 kilocalories, 850 milligrams of sodium, and is preserved using a standard, FDA-approved mixture of sodium benzoate and potassium sorbate to ensure molecular stability at high altitudes."
The man stared at her. He blinked slowly. The entire row of passengers fell completely silent, staring at the stoic, unblinking flight attendant.
"I'll... I'll just have the pasta, please," the man whispered, looking slightly terrified.
"A statistically safer choice for cardiovascular longevity," Castorice deadpanned, retrieving the foil-wrapped tray and placing it on his tray table with mathematical precision.
Further down the aisle, Tribios was engaged in a fierce battle of wills with a highly demanding frequent flyer in premium economy.
"Excuse me," the arrogant passenger snapped, holding up his plastic cup. "This coffee is lukewarm. I specifically asked for it piping hot. I'm a Gold Tier member."
Tribios stopped walking. She slowly turned around. She looked down at the seated man with the terrifying, majestic disdain of an Empress looking at a mildly annoying peasant.
"Sir," Tribios purred, her voice dripping with dangerous, velvet-wrapped condescension. "Water boils at a significantly lower temperature at a cabin altitude of eight thousand feet due to the laws of atmospheric thermodynamics. Therefore, it is physically impossible to serve you coffee at ground-level boiling temperatures unless you would like me to manually light a fire in the galley, which violates several FAA safety regulations. Shall I fetch you a blanket if you are feeling chilly, or will you manage with the lukewarm reality of physics?"
The man's mouth opened, then closed. He slowly lowered his cup. "It's... it's fine."
"Wonderful," Tribios smiled thinly. "Enjoy your flight."
Back in the aft galley, Cerydra was actively hiding. She had pulled the curtain shut, poured herself a massive cup of black coffee, and was staring blankly at the wall, aggressively trying to disassociate from the airline industry.
Hysilens pushed through the curtain, giggling so hard she was practically wheezing. "Cerydra! Cerydra, you have to help! Mydei just accidentally tried to flirt with an off-duty Federal Air Marshal in row ten! The guy flashed his federal badge, and Mydei practically threw a bag of pretzels at him in a blind panic!"
Cerydra let out a long, hollow groan, resting her forehead directly against the cool metal of the catering cart. "I'm resigning. I'm officially typing up my resignation letter the minute we land in Castrum Kremnos."
Before Hysilens could comfort her exhausted Purser, the curtain rustled again.
"Hey crew! Did someone say there were leftover macarons back here?"
Captain Cyrene popped her head into the aft galley. The Captain had stepped out of the cockpit to stretch her legs, leaving Phainon in charge of the radios. She looked completely different from the terrifying Demiurge the trainees feared. Her gold-striped blazer was unbuttoned, a colorful, non-regulation lanyard was peeking out from her collar, and she was holding a cute, heavily-stickered travel mug. She was practically bouncing on her heels, sporting a bright, genuinely bubbly smile, fully expecting a fun little chat with her favorite crew.
But as Cyrene stepped fully into the galley, she paused.
She looked at Cerydra, whose face was physically pressed against a cart in pure despair. She looked at Hysilens, who was actively crying tears of hysterical laughter. From beyond the curtain, she could hear Tribios aggressively explaining thermodynamics to a passenger, and she could hear Mydei frantically apologizing to a federal agent about a bag of pretzels.
Cyrene stood there, her bright, bubbly smile slowly falling from her face as her brain desperately tried to process the sheer, unmitigated circus unfolding around her.
She opened her mouth to speak. She closed it. She opened it again.
She was completely, utterly speechless.
Cyrene blinked twice, her purple eyes wide as she looked between the sobbing Hysilens and the broken Purser. The Captain slowly took one step backward. Then another.
"You know what," Cyrene squeaked, her voice an octave higher than usual, completely abandoning her commanding pilot persona. She offered them a highly awkward, nervous little wave. "I actually just remembered that Phainon needs me to help him... look at a very important cloud. Yes. A cloud."
"Captain, wait, the Air Marshal—" Cerydra pleaded weakly.
"I love you guys so much, please don't get us arrested by the federal government!" Cyrene blurted out cheerfully, flashing them a panicked, bright smile.
Without waiting for a response, the Captain completely noped out of the situation. She spun on her heel, pushed the curtain aside, and practically sprinted back down the entire length of the aircraft to the absolute safety and quiet of the cockpit.
"Well," Hysilens noted cheerfully, popping a leftover pretzel into her mouth. "More snacks for us!"
The reinforced, bulletproof door of the A320 cockpit burst open with a frantic whoosh of pressurized air.
Captain Cyrene practically threw herself through the threshold, her golden-striped blazer slightly askew. She slammed the heavy door shut behind her, throwing the deadbolt with a loud, decisive CLACK.
She pressed her back completely flat against the door, her chest heaving, her purple eyes blown wide in pure, unadulterated trauma. She was clutching her heavily-stickered travel mug against her chest like a protective shield.
In the right seat, First Officer Phainon was absolutely not monitoring the ECAM displays.
Instead, he had his smartphone held high at a highly specific, mathematically calculated angle, actively trying to capture the perfect high-altitude lighting. He was mid-way through adjusting a stray lock of hair—practicing the devastatingly charming, slightly brooding smile he planned to direct exclusively at Mydei during the layover—when the door violently exploded open.
Phainon let out a highly undignified yelp. He physically jumped in his seat, his hand violently jerking.
The smartphone slipped from his grip. For three terrifying, heart-stopping seconds, the First Officer aggressively juggled the expensive device between his hands like a hot potato, desperately trying to keep it from falling directly into the deep, dark abyss of the center pedestal.
With a final, desperate snatch, he managed to trap the phone flat against his chest, breathing heavily.
He stared at his Captain in profound, wide-eyed confusion, his heart hammering against his ribs for entirely non-aerodynamic reasons.
"Captain?!" Phainon gasped, his carefully crafted handsome pilot persona completely shattered. "You nearly made me drop my phone into the thrust levers! You were gone for exactly forty-two seconds. Did... did you get the macarons?"
"There are no macarons, Phainon," Cyrene gasped, her bubbly voice completely breathless. She quickly scurried over to the left seat and practically dove into it, rapidly pulling her five-point harness over her shoulders as if physically bracing for an impending impact. "There is only chaos. Pure, unmitigated chaos."
Phainon blinked, completely lost. "Did... did we hit clear air turbulence?"
"Worse," Cyrene squeaked, her hands gripping the armrests. "Tribios is currently bending the laws of thermodynamics to verbally annihilate a Gold Tier frequent flyer in row five. Castorice is distributing chicken like she’s rationing supplies in a post-apocalyptic bunker. And Mydei..." Cyrene swallowed hard, closing her eyes in sheer despair. "Phainon, Mydei just accidentally flirted with an undercover Federal Air Marshal and then threw a bag of pretzels at his head in a blind panic."
Phainon stared at her for three very long, completely silent seconds.
"He threw pretzels," Phainon repeated slowly, his highly analytical brain actively struggling to process the visual. "At a federal agent?"
"Hard," Cyrene nodded frantically.
"Captain," Phainon said, his voice dropping into a register of profound, rising panic. "Are we going to be intercepted by fighter jets? Do I need to squawk seventy-five-hundred for an unlawful interference?"
"No! No, don't touch the transponder!" Cyrene yelped, waving her hands. She slumped back in her seat, rubbing her face. "Just... just keep flying the plane, Phai. Look at the clouds. Look how fluffy and non-threatening they are. They don't have federal badges. They don't demand piping hot coffee. The sky is safe. Down there is danger."
Before Phainon could process the absolute downfall of his brilliant mentor, a sharp, electronic BEEP-BEEP echoed through the quiet flight deck.
Both pilots physically jumped.
It was the ACARS. A small digital envelope icon flashed violently on the lower center ECAM screen, indicating an incoming text message directly from Amphoreus Flight Operations.
Cyrene let out a high-pitched whine. "Oh no. No, no, no. They know. The feds called the airline. We're going to jail, Phainon. I'm too beautiful for federal prison! My skincare routine requires a ten-step humidifying process!"
"Captain, breathe," Phainon urged, his own hands shaking slightly as he reached down to the center pedestal and pushed the button to print the incoming ACARS message.
The small thermal printer in the center console began to whir, aggressively spitting out a strip of white paper.
Phainon tore the paper off and read it. He instantly choked on his own saliva, a sudden, violently repressed laugh bursting from his chest.
"What?" Cyrene demanded, leaning over the pedestal. "What does it say? Are we fired?"
Phainon simply handed the strip of paper across the console.
Cyrene took it with trembling fingers. The message was printed in sharp, blocky, all-caps text.
FROM: AMPHOREUS FLOPS - SENIOR DISPATCHER AGLAEA [LICENSE ID: 20378]
TO: FLIGHT 808 COCKPIT
MESSAGE: CAPTAIN CYRENE. I JUST RECEIVED A HIGHLY CONFUSING SECURE COMM FROM THE AIR MARSHAL ON BOARD YOUR AIRCRAFT. HE IS REQUESTING CONFIRMATION ON WHETHER THE ASSAULT WITH A MINIATURE BAG OF SALTED PRETZELS WAS A THREAT, OR A VERY POORLY EXECUTED FLIRTATION TACTIC BY YOUR MALE FLIGHT ATTENDANT. PLEASE ADVISE.
P.S. I CHECKED THE CABIN CAMERA FEED. RUNNING AWAY FROM YOUR CREW AND HIDING IN THE COCKPIT IS NOT A STANDARD EMERGENCY PROCEDURE, CAPTAIN. HANDLE IT.
Cyrene stared at the small piece of thermal paper. Her mouth fell open. A massive, violent flush of dark red immediately rushed straight to the tips of her ears.
Aglaea had seen her run. The terrifying, beautiful dispatcher had pulled up the live security feed from the cabin and had physically watched her girlfriend take one look at the absolute circus in the galley, completely panic, and sprint away like a terrified golden retriever.
"She saw me," Cyrene whispered in sheer horror, completely mortified. "Phainon, she saw me nope out of there."
Phainon bit his lip so hard it almost bled, desperately trying not to laugh at his commanding officer. "To be fair, Captain, the flight manual doesn't explicitly cover pretzel-related federal assaults."
"I'm never looking Aglaea in the eye again," Cyrene groaned, burying her face directly into her hands. "I'm going to have to fake my own death and move to a remote island."
DING-DONG
The loud, piercing chime of the cockpit interphone suddenly rang out, indicating an incoming call from the cabin. The glowing blue light on the overhead panel flashed aggressively.
Cyrene peeked out from between her fingers, glaring at the glowing blue button exactly as if it were a live grenade.
"Don't answer it, Phainon," Cyrene ordered, her voice completely serious.
"Captain, it's the Purser," Phainon reasoned gently. "Cerydra might actually be having a medical emergency. Or Mydei might have escalated to throwing ginger ale."
Cyrene let out a long, pathetic groan of profound defeat. She reached up and snatched the interphone handset off its cradle, pressing the push-to-talk button.
"Flight deck," Cyrene answered, aggressively trying to force her voice into its deep, authoritative, 'Captain' register, completely failing to hide the slight tremor of panic.
"Cyrene, thank the Aeons," Cerydra’s exhausted, hollow voice crackled through the speaker. "I need YOU to come back out HERE."
"Negative, Purser," Cyrene immediately shot back. "I'm currently flying a highly complex, heavy commercial aircraft. I'm extremely busy doing... pilot things. Pressing buttons. Looking at the horizon."
"The autopilot is engaged, Cyrene, I know how an Airbus works," Cerydra snapped, the last threads of her professional sanity clearly snapping. "The Air Marshal is currently standing in the forward galley. He is highly confused. Mydei is locked inside the forward lavatory and refuses to come out because he says his brand is ruined. Tribios is threatening to charge the Air Marshal for the pretzels. I NEED the Captain."
Cyrene looked at Phainon. Phainon slowly raised his hands in surrender, silently communicating that he was absolutely zero help in this situation.
"Fine," Cyrene whined softly, entirely dropping her authoritative act. She pressed the button again. "Tell Mydei to stop crying in the bathroom, I'm coming out to negotiate with the federal government. Have a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me."
"Make it two," Cerydra sighed heavily. "And Cyrene?"
"Yes, Cerydra?"
"Hysilens saved you a raspberry macaron."
Cyrene’s face instantly brightened, a genuine, bubbly smile completely returning to her features. "You guys are the absolute best! Tell the Air Marshal I'll be right there!"
She slammed the phone back onto its cradle, her panic entirely erased by the promise of a fresh-baked pastry. She unbuckled her harness, adjusting her gold-striped blazer with renewed, cheerful confidence.
"Alright, Phai," Cyrene announced brightly, giving her First Officer a sunny, highly inappropriate thumbs-up. "You have the flight deck. I'm going to go explain to a federal agent that our flight attendant is just deeply, pathologically charming and completely uncoordinated. If I don't return in ten minutes, tell Aglaea I loved her, and squawk seventy-five-hundred."
"Good luck, Captain," Phainon chuckled, watching as the pilot marched confidently back toward the door to face the absolute chaos of her crew.
Cyrene took a deep, centering breath. She reached up, straightening her gold-striped Captain’s hat and pulling her blazer perfectly into place. She was an aviation educator. She was a leader of her crew. She was the absolute master of a seventy-ton flying machine. She could handle a mildly salted federal incident.
She unlocked the reinforced cockpit door and pushed it open, stepping out into the forward galley with the brightest, most reassuring smile she could legally muster.
"Attention please!" Cyrene chirped cheerfully, completely failing to sound like an intimidating commander. "Captain Cyrene here! I heard we had a tiny, microscopic little misunderstanding with the snack service!"
The forward galley was a scene of absolute, unmitigated psychological warfare.
Purser Cerydra was leaning heavily against the espresso machine, looking exactly like a woman who had aged ten years in the last fifteen minutes. Hysilens was hiding behind a catering cart, actively biting her own fist to suppress her hysterical giggles.
Standing dead center in the galley was a very tall, very broad-shouldered man in a tactical fleece jacket. He had a federal badge clipped to his belt, a highly bewildered expression on his face, and several crumbs of premium honey-mustard pretzel clinging stubbornly to his collar.
Next to him stood Senior FA Tribios, who was holding a digital Point-of-Sale credit card machine directly out toward the federal agent with an expression of icy, uncompromising expectation.
"Captain," Tribios greeted without lowering the machine. "Please inform this gentleman that flashing a federal badge doesn't exempt him from paying for the premium snacks he provoked my junior flight attendant into throwing at him."
"Tribios, put the credit card machine away right now, that is a direct order," Cyrene squeaked, her eyes wide. She immediately turned her megawatt, bubbly smile onto the Air Marshal, aggressively trying to radiate harmless, friendly energy. "Sir! I'm so, so incredibly sorry about this. Welcome aboard Amphoreus Air! Can I get you a wet nap? A premium coffee? A written apology from my own mother?"
The Air Marshal blinked slowly. He looked down at Cyrene, then at Tribios, then at the locked door of the forward lavatory.
"Captain," the Air Marshal said, his voice a deep, thoroughly confused rumble. "I literally just walked back here to ask for a glass of water to take an aspirin. Standard procedure, I discreetly showed my badge so the crew knew I was armed. Your flight attendant looked at my ID, shrieked, and threw an entire bag of pretzels directly at my face."
From behind the locked door of the lavatory, a muffled, dramatic sob echoed loudly.
"I panicked!" Mydei’s voice wailed from the other side of the thin door. "I thought I was being audited! I didn't declare the three bottles of duty-free cologne I bought in Xianzhou, and I have a highly delicate constitution! My jawline will not survive the harsh lighting of a holding cell!"
"Mydei, nobody is arresting you for cologne!" Cerydra groaned, pressing her forehead against the espresso machine. "Come out of the bathroom!"
"I can't!" Mydei cried dramatically. "My brand is ruined! I assaulted a man of the law! Aglaea is going to review the flight logs, and she is going to fire me, and then I’m going to have to fly commercial economy for the rest of my life!"
Cyrene winced, physically feeling that specific pain. "Mydei, listen to me," Cyrene called out, stepping up to the lavatory door and knocking gently. Her voice was incredibly sweet and entirely lacking in Captain-like authority. "It's me! Cyrene! It's okay! We are not going to jail. And Aglaea isn't going to fire you, because she is currently way too busy aggressively making fun of me on the secure dispatch feed for running away earlier."
The Air Marshal stared at the Captain. "Your dispatcher is making fun of you?"
"Yes, she is, it's a whole thing, please don't report us," Cyrene beamed at him, completely shameless. She turned back to the door. "Mydei, please come out. The nice federal agent just wants some water. And Tribios is trying to extort him, which is actually a real crime."
"It's not extortion, it's inventory management," Tribios corrected smoothly, finally lowering the credit card machine. "Those pretzels retail for eight dollars."
Before the Air Marshal could fully process the absolute insanity of the Amphoreus crew, Castorice emerged silently from the premium cabin.
The stoic flight attendant walked into the galley holding a small, silver tray. Without saying a single word, she extended the tray perfectly toward the Air Marshal. Resting perfectly in the center was a crystal glass of ice water, two aspirin, and a neatly folded hot towel.
"Hydration," Castorice stated, her voice a flat, robotic monotone. "Accompanied by acetylsalicylic acid for your cranial inflammation. Please note that the pretzel bag impacted your left pectoral at an estimated velocity of fourteen meters per second. This was a highly inefficient use of complex carbohydrates, but mathematically insufficient to cause bruising."
The Air Marshal stared at Castorice for five seconds. He slowly reached out and took the glass of water. "Thank you," he whispered, looking genuinely terrified of her.
"You are welcome," Castorice unblinkingly replied. "Have a safe flight." She executed a perfect, ninety-degree military pivot and marched right back down the aisle.
The Air Marshal drank the water in one long, desperate gulp, exactly as if he needed the alcohol he knew wasn't in it. He looked back down at Cyrene, who was still smiling so brightly her cheeks were starting to hurt.
"Captain," the Air Marshal sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not writing a report. I'm not arresting anyone. I just want to go back to seat 10F and pretend the last ten minutes of my life never happened. Can I do that?"
"You absolutely can!" Cyrene cheered happily, clapping her hands together. "You are an Amphorean hero, sir! Hysilens, please give this wonderful man a complimentary upgrade code for his next flight!"
"On it, Captain!" Hysilens giggled, immediately typing on her company tablet.
The Air Marshal offered Cyrene one last, deeply exhausted look of sheer bewilderment before turning around and fleeing the galley as fast as his legs could carry him.
The second the curtain closed behind him, the lock on the lavatory door clicked.
The door slowly creaked open. Mydei peeked his head out. His blonde hair was perfectly styled, his uniform was flawless, but he looked completely, tragically devastated. He looked down at Cyrene with the wide, mournful eyes of a kicked puppy.
"Is he gone?" Mydei whispered. "Am I a wanted fugitive?"
Cyrene couldn't help it. Her bubbly, sweet nature completely overrode any attempt at discipline. She let out a bright, ringing laugh, reaching out to pat her towering flight attendant reassuringly on the arm.
"You are safe, Mydei," Cyrene promised him warmly. "No federal prison. Your jawline is secure. Though next time, maybe just ask to see the badge closer before you launch the premium snacks, okay?"
"I will exclusively throw the complimentary peanuts from now on, Captain," Mydei vowed solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.
"That's all I ask," Cyrene beamed. She turned to the Purser, who was finally pulling her head off the espresso machine. "Cerydra, you handled that beautifully. You're all doing great! Except you, Tribios, stop trying to aggressively bill the government."
"I make no promises, Captain," Tribios purred, elegantly picking up a catering manifest.
"Here you go, Captain," Hysilens popped up from behind the cart, holding out a delicate, pink raspberry macaron on a small napkin. "As promised. The spoils of war."
"Oh my gosh, thank you!" Cyrene gasped, her eyes lighting up with genuine delight. She took the pastry exactly as if it were a gold medal. "You guys are the best crew in the entire fleet, I don't care what the federal government says. Keep up the good work!"
Cyrene offered them a cheerful, highly un-military salute, spun around, and unlocked the cockpit door.
She stepped back into the flight deck, the door slamming shut and locking with a heavy CLACK, finally sealing her back inside the quiet, deeply sane world of commercial avionics.
Phainon looked over from the right seat. "Is the crisis averted, Captain?"
"The Air Marshal has been neutralized with ice water and Castorice's terrifying robotic logic," Cyrene announced proudly, buckling herself back into the left seat. She took a highly satisfying, delicate bite of the raspberry macaron. "And Mydei is no longer crying in the lavatory. I am basically a hostage negotiator."
Phainon chuckled, shaking his head. "Incredible work, Captain. Oh, by the way. Another ACARS message came through while you were negotiating."
Cyrene stopped mid-chew. The bubbly confidence instantly evaporated. "From who?"
Phainon reached down and handed her the newly printed strip of thermal paper, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Cyrene took the paper.
FROM: AMPHOREUS FLOPS - SENIOR DISPATCHER AGLAEA [LICENSE ID: 20378]
TO: FLIGHT 808 COCKPIT
MESSAGE: I HAVE REVIEWED THE AUDIO FEED OF THE GALLEY NEGOTIATION. EXCELLENT DE-ESCALATION TACTICS, CAPTAIN. THOUGH BRIBING A FEDERAL AGENT WITH UPGRADE CODES IS TECHNICALLY A GRAY AREA IN THE COMPANY MANUAL.
P.S. I EXPECT THAT SAME LEVEL OF ENTHUSIASM WHEN YOU EXPLAIN TO ME WHY YOU RAN AWAY FROM A BAG OF PRETZELS AND FEDERAL AGENT.
Cyrene stared at the paper. She slowly lowered it to her lap, her face flushing bright red all over again.
"Phainon," Cyrene said, her voice small and entirely defeated.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Tell ATC that we request a permanent hold at thirty-five thousand feet," she whined, slumping down in her massive leather seat. "I'm never landing this plane. I live in the sky now."