Turbulence Before Takeoff

The fluorescent lights of JFK's security checkpoint buzzed overhead, painting everyone below in the same sickly, institutional glow. To most travelers, airport security represented an inconvenience to be endured—a necessary ritual of modern travel. To Happy Jack, it was theater waiting for its star performer.

Happy Jack lived for moments like these.

One could say there’s not many things more interesting to watch than Happy Jack work his way through airport security. He shuffled forward in the snaking line, shoulders hunched beneath his worn jacket, a vulture twinkle flickering behind his eyes. Even stripped of his signature face paint and “fighting” attire, something about him radiated wrongness. Perhaps it was the way he moved—too fluid, too unpredictable—or the perpetual half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. Whatever the cause, other passengers unconsciously created space around him, as if responding to some fundamental warning system hardwired into their DNA.

Look at them, Jack thought, gaze darting between the uniformed TSA agents with voyeuristic fascination. So devoted to their little system. Their precious rules. Their adorable illusion of control.

When his turn arrived, he glided toward the nearest agent—a broad-shouldered man with the weary expression of someone halfway through a twelve-hour shift. The agent's eyes narrowed slightly as Jack approached, instinctive suspicion registering on features trained to maintain neutrality.

"ID and boarding pass," the agent instructed, voice flat with rehearsed authority.

Jack complied with exaggerated precision; his movements oddly delicate as he extended the documents. Then, without warning or invitation, he reached forward, fingers finding the agent's crooked tie.

"Oh, this won't do at all," Jack murmured, voice pitched unnaturally soft as he straightened the knot with meticulous care. "Presentation is everything, isn't it?"

The TSA agent froze, professional protocols colliding with human instinct as this stranger violated his personal space. Jack's fingers continued their unwelcome journey, brushing imaginary lint from the man's shoulder before reaching toward his face.

"Your earpiece is just a little..." Jack adjusted the communication device with the intimacy of a lover, head tilted in concentration. "There we go!" His smile widened to uncomfortable dimensions. "Perfect now."

The checkpoint fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence. The mechanical whir of the conveyor belt seemed suddenly louder, punctuating the tension like a ticking clock. The agent's body tensed, muscles coiling in that evolutionary moment before deciding whether to attack or retreat. His colleagues had noticed now, hands shifting subtly toward radios, eyes tracking the situation with professional wariness.

Jack stepped back, observing the ripple effect of discomfort he'd created with the satisfaction of an artist appreciating his work. Without warning, he laughed—not the polite chuckle of social lubricant, but a full-body convulsion of manic delight. The sound ricocheted off the terminal's hard surfaces, too sharp, too loud, carrying notes that registered as wrong on a fundamental level.

Nearby passengers physically recoiled. A child clutched his mother's leg. Security personnel exchanged glances, hands hovering near equipment, the atmosphere charged with potential escalation.

This is the best part, Jack thought, savoring the collective discomfort like fine wine. The moment they realize their little system only works if everyone plays along.

"Sir," the agent began, voice tightening with forced professionalism, "I'm going to have to ask you to—"

"Oh, no need to thank me," Jack interrupted, already moving toward the body scanner with casual disregard for protocol. "Just doing my part to keep America beautiful!"

He walked through the metal detector with childlike enthusiasm, arms spread wide in theatrical innocence. No alarms sounded. No lights flashed. On the other side, his battered duffel bag—containing items best left unexamined—emerged from the X-ray machine without incident.

Jack collected his belongings with exaggerated care, then turned back to the agent who remained frozen at his station. He winked—a gesture somehow more unsettling than his previous behavior—then sauntered toward the gate, whistling tunelessly as the security checkpoint collectively exhaled behind him.

Across the terminal, Titan stood motionless, designer sunglasses concealing eyes locked on a different spectacle entirely. Cade Mercer, Summit Fighting League's reigning champion, moved through the concourse like visiting royalty. Flanked by PMG officials in pristine suits, he bypassed the chaotic security lines that ordinary travelers endured. Airline staff materialized at strategic intervals, guiding his path with deferential gestures and practiced smiles. The invisible machinery of privilege worked silently on his behalf, transforming the mundane process of commercial air travel into a seamless experience.

Titan's jaw tightened beneath his carefully maintained expression of indifference. His body remained perfectly still as he tracked Mercer's progress, only his fingers betraying tension as they tightened incrementally around the boarding pass in his hand.

Look at him, Titan thought, a knot of revulsion twisting inside him. Acting like he's earned that treatment. Like he deserves it.

He watched as Mercer disappeared down the jet bridge, vanishing into the first-class cabin without a backward glance. Only then did Titan lower his gaze to the document in his hand, the printed designation burning into his retinas like acid.

COACH.

The paper crumpled slightly in his grip before he caught himself, consciously relaxing fingers that wanted to tear it to shreds. The insult wasn't merely the seating assignment—it was what it represented. The message was crystalline in its clarity: Cade Mercer was the valuable asset, the face of the company, the priority investment. Titan was... disposable. Replaceable. Economy class.

After everything I've given this business, he seethed internally, maintaining his camera-ready smile through sheer force of will. After the blood I've spilled. The injuries I've fought through. The sacrifices I've made, the money I made this industry. This is what I get?

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring slightly as he channeled the volcanic rage into something more useful. The fury would serve him later, in the cage, where violence was sanctioned and rewarded. For now, he needed composure. Strategy. Patience.

Titan rolled his shoulders back, adjusting his jacket with practiced nonchalance as he moved toward the boarding area. His smile returned, not reaching his eyes behind tinted lenses but perfect for anyone watching—and someone was always watching in his world.

Enjoy your throne while it lasts, Cade, he thought, nodding pleasantly to the gate agent as he joined the boarding line. Because I'm coming for it. And for you.

Logan Drake claimed the window seat in row 23 with the grateful exhaustion of a man who had been running on fumes for too long. He slouched against the curved plastic wall of the aircraft, arms folded protectively across his chest, creating what little barrier he could between himself and the world. The ambient frenzy of boarding—shuffling bodies, overhead bin disputes, flight attendant announcements—washed over him like white noise, meaningless compared to the storm brewing inside his head.

The familiar vibration of his phone interrupted his moment of self-pity. With reluctance bordering on physical pain, he extracted it from his pocket, already anticipating fresh problems requiring immediate attention.

Two new emails.

The first bore the subject line "Contenders 2 Ratings" with an attachment. Logan downloaded it automatically but left it unopened. Those numbers would either ease or intensify his headache; either way, they could wait until he'd had a drink.

The second email carried a more ominous sender: Victor Blackwell.

Logan's thumb hovered over the notification, a war between obligation and self-preservation raging beneath his exhausted exterior. Victor never reached out with good news or encouragement—only demands, criticisms, or problems that had been deemed beneath his personal attention.

Not now, Logan decided, locking the screen with sudden conviction. For once, just... not now.

He returned the phone to his pocket, shifting in the uncomfortable seat as he tried to find a position that wouldn't leave his back in knots after the flight. The cabin continued filling around him, each passenger absorbed in their own small dramas and inconveniences, blissfully unaware of the larger crises threatening to consume his professional life.

Logan closed his eyes, the dull throb behind his temples keeping tempo with the aircraft's idling engines. For the next few hours, trapped in this pressurized tube hurtling through the stratosphere, perhaps he could pretend that everything was perfect. That he wasn't one poor decision away from watching all of this work collapse. That Victor's email didn't contain yet another impossible demand.

A bitter smile touched his lips as he settled deeper into the seat.

Three hours of peace, he thought without conviction. That's all I'm asking for.

But even as the thought formed, he knew better. Summit Fighting League existed in the space between chaos and catastrophe—and the plane carrying its dysfunctional family had barely left the ground.