Chapter 6: The Deadhead Protocol
1405 Words
The text message from the unknown number sat on my screen like a digital threat. I spent the next forty-eight hours in a state of "High-Alert," a term we usually reserve for potential hijackings or security breaches. But how do you secure a perimeter when the threat can walk through walls and text your private number?
I had tried to practice the "Grounding" exercises from Julian’s manual, but it was hard to focus on my breath when every time I closed my eyes, I saw the violet nebula of the High Realm. I felt like a Supernumerary on my own life—present, but not truly in control of the controls.
Then, the notification dinged on my tablet. My new roster was out.
“Amara, you’ve been pulled for a Deadhead sector to London Heathrow. Flight 102. Report at 22:00.”
A Deadhead flight meant I was flying as a passenger in uniform to position for a return leg. It was supposed to be the easiest shift in the industry—sit in a cabin seat, eat the crew meal, and sleep until landing. But as I saw the flight number, the silver pin on my dresser began to glow with a fierce, cold light.
Julian’s warning echoed in my mind: The next sector isn’t nearly as friendly as this one.
By the time I reached the international wing of the airport, the atmosphere felt charged. The air was thick with the scent of rain, even though the Lagos sky was bone-dry. I moved through security, my movements fluid and professional, but my eyes were scanning every face in the terminal. I wasn't looking for terrorists; I was looking for shadows.
I boarded the Boeing 787-9, a beautiful, modern bird that usually felt like a sanctuary. I took my assigned seat in the crew rest area, buckling my belt and checking my watch. 22:15. We were ahead of schedule.
"Rough night?"
I looked up. Julian was sitting directly across the aisle from me. He was dressed in the crisp, dark navy uniform of a Captain, complete with four gold bars on his shoulders. He looked terrifyingly authoritative.
"You’re the Captain tonight?" I whispered, leaning in so the other crew members wouldn't hear. "Julian, this is a commercial flight with three hundred people. You can't just... take over a cockpit."
I didn't 'take it over,' Amara. I simply filled a vacancy," he said, his eyes scanning a flight plan that looked remarkably like a star map. "The original Captain is currently enjoying a very deep, very sudden nap in the crew lounge. I needed a pilot who can navigate the Magnetic Rifts over the Atlantic. There are things waking up in the deep water tonight that a standard human radar can't detect."
"What things?"
"The Kraken of the High Realm," he said, and for the first time, I heard a sliver of genuine tension in his voice. "The Sky-Hollows were just scavengers. What’s waiting for us over the ocean is a predator. It feeds on the 'intent' of large groups of people. Three hundred sleeping passengers is a feast it won't ignore."
The plane pushed back from the gate, the low vibration of the Rolls-Royce engines hummed through the floorboards. As we taxied toward the runway, Julian stood up.
"Amara, listen to me carefully. Once we reach cruise altitude, the Sterile Cockpit rule is in effect. I won't be able to help you. The 'Predator' will try to breach the cabin through the emergency exits. It doesn't use force; it uses 'Despair.' It will make the passengers dream of their worst fears until their energy cracks the hull."
"How do I stop a nightmare?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You don't stop the nightmare. You provide the 'Alternative,'" Julian said, his hand resting on the cockpit door. "You are the Cabin Crew. Your job is to ensure the comfort and safety of the cabin. Use your 'Grounding.' Use the pin. If you see the air starting to turn grey, you start the 'Safety Ritual.'"
"The safety ritual? You mean the demo?"
"The intent behind the demo," he corrected. "The promise that everyone will get home. Now, go to your station. And Amara... don't look out the window once we cross the coast."
The takeoff was smooth, but as we climbed over the Atlantic, the cabin lights didn't just dim—they turned a sickly, bruised purple. A cold draft began to blow through the vents, smelling of salt and rot.
I stood up, my boots silent on the carpet. I looked at the passengers. They were all slumped in their seats, but they weren't sleeping peacefully. They were moaning, their eyelids fluttering in terror. A woman in 12D was weeping in her sleep, her hands clawing at the armrests.
The air began to thicken with a grey, oily mist. I felt a wave of sudden, crushing sadness wash over me. I thought of all the airlines that had rejected me. I thought of the lies I was telling my boyfriend. I felt like a failure. I felt like giving up.
“It’s a mask,” I whispered to myself, clutching the silver pin through the fabric of my uniform. “Breath is the first mooring line.”
I forced myself to stand tall. I walked to the front of the cabin and grabbed the safety demonstration kit—the oxygen mask and the life vest. I didn't use the PA system; I didn't need to.
I began the ritual.
I didn't just show how to buckle a belt; I visualized a golden cord wrapping around every passenger, anchoring them to the seats. I didn't just point to the exits; I projected a shield of white light over every door.
“In the event of a loss of hope,” I whispered, my voice echoing with the power of the High Realm, “Your 'intent' will automatically drop from the ceiling. Place the mask over your own soul first, then assist others.
As I moved through the aisle, performing the rhythmic, graceful motions of the safety demo, the grey mist began to retreat. The woman in 12D stopped weeping. The air began to clear, the sickly purple fading back into a warm, amber glow.
But then, a massive thud shook the entire aircraft. It didn't come from the engines. It came from the top of the fuselage.
Something was on the roof.
A long, translucent tentacle, made of nothing but shadow and cold, began to wrap around the window of the emergency exit. The glass began to frost over, the "Spectral Cold" trying to shatter the seal.
I ran to the door. I pulled the silver pin from my lapel, and it transformed instantly into the glowing baton.
"Not on my flight!" I screamed.
I pressed the glowing tip of the baton against the center of the exit door. The energy surged through the metal, turning the door into a branding iron of pure light. I heard a shriek—a sound that didn't belong in a physical world—and the tentacle whipped away, scorched and retreating back into the dark.
The plane leveled off. The pressure in my ears equalized.
I stayed at the door for a long time, my baton glowing softly in the dark. I watched the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign. It flickered once, twice, and then stayed steady.
Through the cockpit door, I heard Julian’s voice over the interphone, though it was meant only for me. “Good work, Amara. The Kraken has lost its scent. We are back on a standard flight path.”
I slumped into my jumpseat, the baton shrinking back into the pin. My uniform was wrinkled, and I was covered in a cold sweat, but I looked out at the cabin. Three hundred people were breathing deeply, safely tucked into their dreams.
I realized then that Julian was right. I wasn't just a flight attendant. I was at the bridge. And tonight, the bridge was held.
But as I looked at the back of Julian’s "Captain" hat through the cockpit glass, I realized something else. I was starting to trust a man who lived in the shadows. And in this world, that might be the most dangerous "turbulence" of all.
- Writer
