The roar of the engines was deafening, like a million pots and pans clanging right in his ears nonstop.
Luke couldn't even hear his own shouts, let alone the voices crackling through his headset from the team.
He had no clue if they'd caught what he said, so he bellowed again: "I said, open the damn hatch—now!"
"Got it! Got it! I'm working on it!" Depp fumbled with the controls, yelling back over the chaos.
By then, the plane was barreling down the runway faster than ever, the engines revving up to full throttle.
"What the hell are you waiting for? It's about to take off!" Yuffie's voice cut through the comms, laced with panic.
"Almost there—gimme 20 seconds! No, screw that, 10!" Depp sounded totally freaked out.
But it was too late. The plane lurched into the sky, rocketing straight up.
As the nose tilted back at a steep 35-degree angle, Luke—who'd been perched on the landing gear hub—lost his footing in an instant.
A brutal gust of wind yanked him off the ground, his feet dangling wildly. Only his arms, clamped like a vice on the hatch, kept him from plummeting thousands of feet.
Every scrap of clothing on him whipped backward, snapping and flapping like crazy in the wind.
The ferocious blast hammered his face, his cheeks and jaw rippling with the force of it.
The camera bolted to the fuselage zoomed in tight on his hands.
His ten fingers were dug in deep, knuckles white as sheets from the strain—no blood left in his nails.
Veins bulged like ropes across the backs of his hands, screaming how hard he was fighting to hold on for dear life.
"Open the hatch—hurry!" Seeing Luke dangling there like a candle flickering in a hurricane, Yuffie shouted again, her voice breaking.
---
"Done! It's open!" Depp finally nailed the command sequence. He let out a huge sigh, wiping sweat from his brow.
Creak...
A mechanical grind echoed from the C-17 transport plane: the rear cargo ramp swung wide!
Luke lost it completely. "Goddammit—not that door!"
With the tail ramp flapping open, the plane's smooth airflow went to hell. The whole bird started bucking like a wild bronco.
Bang!
A vicious jolt ripped through his arms. His left hand went numb and slipped free.
"Ah!"
Now hanging by just his right hand, he let out a guttural roar that sounded like a dying animal.
It hurt.
God, it hurt bad!
A white-hot stab drilled through his right hand.
But Luke couldn't let go. No way in hell.
His body swung wildly in the slipstream, like a dead leaf in a fall gale, trembling on the edge of getting ripped away.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" Yuffie screamed into the mic.
"Sorry—my bad! It's fixed now—hang on!" Depp stammered, pure panic.
Click!
At the last possible second, the side hatch Luke was clinging to finally popped open.
The pressure difference sucked him inside like a vacuum.
He tumbled through the air a few times before slamming hard into the bulkhead.
Thud!
The impact sent him rolling again, straight toward the open rear ramp.
One second in, the next about to tumble right back out.
Luke's reflexes kicked in—he snagged the edge of the hatch and hauled himself steady.
Huff... huff... huff...
Gasping for air, he dragged himself back, collapsing into a seat inside the cabin.
"Cut!" Director Cohen called it immediately.
As the C-17 touched down back at the airfield, Luke staggered out of the hold.
The crew was already waiting, swarming him the second he hit the tarmac.
"Bro, you're an absolute beast! If I hadn't signed that NDA, I'd be texting my buddies right now to brag. They wouldn't believe it in a million years."
"I'm your fan for life, Yuan—die-hard, no take-backs!"
"Source God, just one safety line again? What's the difference between this and dangling off the Burj Khalifa?"
"Boss, maybe ease up next time? I was sweating bullets for my job back there!"
Luke was used to the hero worship and the jokes by now. He grinned and shot back at each one, keeping it light.
Then the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Yuffie pushed through.
Latest chapters dropping first on [redacted site]!
"Your eyes hurting?" Her voice was soft, full of that gentle concern.
"Yeah, a bit. That wind was brutal."
She carefully pried his eyelids open, popped out his contacts, then grabbed some eye drops and squeezed a couple in.
"How's the arm?" she asked next.
"Minor strain. I'll massage it out later, slap on some ointment, and it'll be good."
That bit where he had to let go with one hand—supporting his whole weight against the gale with just the other? Yeah, that pushed it.
[Warning! Host's right arm has a mild muscle strain!]
[Warning! Host's right wrist has a mild joint sprain!]
...
A barrage of system alerts pinged in his head—not just flagging the damage, but reassuring him it was nothing serious.
With his physique stat cranked to 20—way beyond normal human levels—Luke healed fast anyway. Plus, he had master-level massage skills.
A quick session later, some topical meds, and he'd be back to 100% in no time.
Seeing he was okay, Yuffie relaxed, settling into quiet company beside him.
Director Cohen stepped up. "You good? Should we push tomorrow's shoot back?"
"Nah, stick to the schedule. These scenes where we're begging for favors from the Air Force? The sooner we wrap 'em, the better I sleep."
Tomorrow was the 43,000-foot high-altitude skydive sequence. It'd need the C-17 again, plus a fleet of military drones for aerial shots.
Everything hinged on that coordination—knock it out early, and he could breathe easy.
Sure, Luke could leap from that height no problem. But good luck finding a cameraman crazy enough to follow him down, filming the whole drop.
His fix? Borrow those drones, rig 'em with cameras for chase shots.
He'd strap on a compact GoPro himself for some of the descent footage.
Handheld cams like that? Raw, immersive, real as it gets. The shakiness would pull viewers right into the adrenaline.
Mix in the drone angles during editing, and boom—you've got a heart-pounding freefall sequence that'll glue eyes to the screen.
Cohen nodded, no more questions.
Then someone shoved through the crowd.
Luke froze when he saw the guy. "Bob?"