NitroLiquigen stood in front of the Gulfstream and ran his eye along the smooth white fuselage with considerable satisfaction. He had already completed his walk-around. The weather was good, the aircraft was fueled, the flight plan was ready, and his co-pilot had already begun preparing the cockpit. Everything was precisely as it should be. Nitro had been looking forward to this flight for days; he had a deep affection for aircraft and for flying, and even if transporting a group of people halfway around the world because the purchase of Xanax was considered essential by the faction might not be the most noble thing ever conceived for a Gulfstream, at least it gave him a reason to fly it.

Ryan pointed at the whiteboard, the four faction members watching his explanation closely.

"In the coming war, we will lack energy unless we have more Xanax."

He looked over Samjohn, SaltyBread, Chandler-Bing, and FemmeReaper.

"Your task will be to get that. Today. From Japan."

He pointed at a square with the number 102 in it. "This, my friends, is the amount we need. And we rely on you. We can absolutely not win if you fail!"

The four selected faction members sat up straight as Ryan continued. "NitroLiquigen, our own pilot, will take us there."

The passengers walked on the apron, with Ryan a little ahead of the rest. Samjohn carried a backpack, SaltyBread a small suitcase, and Chandler-Bing several plastic bags full of food. Behind them followed FemmeReaper, moving slowly and dragging an enormous empty suitcase which was large enough to hold Samjohn if someone folded him correctly. Nitro waited until they reached the aircraft, then smiled. "Good morning, everyone. I'll be your tour guide for today."

Ryan stopped right away. "Tour guide?"

"Captain," Nitro corrected himself. "I'll be your captain on this flight."

"That's a very important difference," Ryan remarked, looking from Nitro to the Gulfstream. "A tour guide usually wouldn't be qualified to fly this."

"I am qualified."

"You have a license?"

"Yes, Ryan."

Ryan nodded and took out his phone. "Good."

Nitro watched him type. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing important. Just making a note that the pilot has confirmed he is qualified."

Nitro considered pointing out that airlines generally establish this sort of thing before allowing someone access to an aircraft worth several million dollars, but decided that doing so would probably result in another note being typed into Ryan's phone. Instead, he turned toward FemmeReaper and her enormous suitcase. "What's in there?"

"Nothing yet."

"You're planning to fill that entire thing with Xanax?"

FemmeReaper looked almost insulted by the suggestion. "Of course not. That would be ridiculous." She opened the suitcase, revealing a second, slightly smaller suitcase packed neatly inside it. "This one is for Xanax too."

Nitro closed his eyes for a moment and then waved everyone on board.

Ryan snapped to attention, his spine straightening as if he'd just been called to formation. "Listen up, people!" he barked, his voice cutting through the morning air with military precision. "Form a single-file line and board this aircraft immediately! You, Chandler-Bing, stash those food bags in the overhead compartment. No snacking before takeoff! Samjohn, you're in seat 3A. SaltyBread, 3B. FemmeReaper, you and your nesting doll suitcases will occupy the entire row at 4. Move, move, move!"

He turned sharply to Nitro, his eyes narrowed. "Captain, your post is in the cockpit. I want pre-flight checks completed before my seatbelt is fastened. Understood?"

Nitro stared, his mouth slightly agape as Ryan barked orders at the group. A slow shake of his head sent a ripple through his hair. After the last passenger, FemmeReaper lugging her suitcase-within-a-suitcase, had boarded, he followed, the aircraft door closing behind him.

The moment the cabin door sealed, Chandler-Bing was already on his feet, rummaging through one of the plastic bags, as if he was starving. He emerged with a stack of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

"Emergency provisions," he announced, handing them out. "In case of unexpected hunger over the Pacific."

Samjohn accepted one without question. Ryan held up two fingers, receiving his allocation with a nod that suggested this was merely proper preparation. Chandler-Bing tucked several more into the seat pocket in front of him, creating a sandwich cushion.

SaltyBread waved his away. "It's barely seven in the morning."

"A curious objection," Chandler-Bing replied, examining the rejected sandwich as if it might reveal the flaw in this logic. "Sandwiches maintain their sandwich properties regardless of time of day. It's one of their most reliable characteristics."

Nitro spotted another wedged under a seatbelt buckle. He snatched it away. "That is not a designated food storage area." He deposited the offending item on Chandler-Bing's tray table.

He made his escape to the cockpit, the sounds of Chandler-Bing explaining sandwich physics to SaltyBread fading behind the closed door.

Here things were reassuringly sensible. Nitro sat down beside his co-pilot and began working through the normal sequence, calling out each system while his co-pilot confirmed it. Battery on, external power connected, APU starting, navigation systems initialized, fuel checked. The familiar procedure immediately made him feel better; machines followed rules, switches generally did what they were supposed to do.

He was checking the hydraulic system when he noticed Ryan standing behind him. Ryan had his arms folded and was staring at the instrument panel with great concentration. "What are you doing?" Nitro asked.

"Observing."

"Why?"

"Someone should make sure the checklist is completed properly."

"There are two pilots doing that."

"I know. That's why I'm not interfering."

Nitro looked at his co-pilot, who had suddenly found something extremely interesting on the navigation display. "Ryan, please sit down."

Ryan didn't move, his arms still crossed. "Have you checked the fuel?"

"Yes, Ryan. It was verified on the pre-flight checklist."

"Both tanks?"

Nitro's fingers tightened on the yoke. "Both tanks."

"Is the amount sufficient to reach Japan?"

The co-pilot's knuckles had gone white where he gripped his side of the console. Nitro pointed toward the cabin without turning his head. "Your seat is that way, Ryan."

Ryan pulled out his phone again, his thumbs moving deliberately slowly across the screen. "Noting pilot's response to fuel capacity inquiry."

The cockpit door closed with a soft click, and Nitro let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Nitro had just finished setting the flaps when a peculiar mechanical whirring sound echoed from the cabin, followed by a muffled exclamation of surprise. With a sigh that suggested this was merely the next logical development in what was already proving to be an unusual flight, he pushed back from the instrument panel and opened the cockpit door.

The scene that greeted him was exactly the sort of chaos he'd been anticipating. Samjohn's seat moved, gliding backward. Samjohn’s eyes were wide with curiosity as he watched himself gradually recline. His legs lifted in response to the seat's changing angle, and his head descended accordingly, until the mechanism finally locked with a click.

The resulting position would have been ideal for an afternoon nap, but was seriously inadequate for a takeoff. Samjohn, now nearly horizontal, blinked up at Nitro with the expression of a man who had just discovered a new aircraft feature.

"I didn't know it could do that," Samjohn said.

"Put it upright."

"How?"

"The same button."

Samjohn pressed a button. The window shade closed.

"No, the seat."

Another button switched on a reading light. A third extended the footrest, pushing one of Chandler-Bing's sandwiches onto the floor. Samjohn looked down at the controls and frowned. "There are a lot of buttons."

Nitro eventually returned the seat to its proper position himself and told Samjohn not to touch anything until they were airborne. Samjohn agreed, then immediately asked whether that included the window shade.

"Yes, leave that open."

At last they taxied toward the runway. Nitro's irritation disappeared as soon as they were cleared for departure; this was the part he loved, when the conversations and distractions gave way to procedure, and the aircraft became his entire world.

The co-pilot was talking with ground traffic control, repeating their instructions to Nitro, who got the plane moving. They came close to another taxi lane crossing theirs.

"We need to halt here and let the 777 from the left pass," the co-pilot said.

"Nah, we have right of passage," answered Nitro.

"We do?" asked the co-pilot.

"Yes, look there."

Nitro pointed at a sticker on the windshield; it showed a fat, straight vertical line with a smaller horizontal line crossing it. "See? The sign says straight moving traffic going in this direction goes first."

Seconds later, the plane stopped abruptly as the 777 crossed in front of them.

"Unbelievable," muttered Nitro. "Did nobody teach that idiot the rules?"

The co-pilot pointed out that the “idiot” had 350 passengers.

"Then he should know better."

The engines increased in power, the Gulfstream accelerated smoothly down the runway, and his co-pilot called out the speeds. At rotation, Nitro eased back on the controls, felt the wheels leave the ground, and climbed out.

"Positive climb."

"Gear up."

"GEAR UP!" Ryan shouted from the cabin.

Nitro looked sideways at his co-pilot. His co-pilot was visibly trying not to smile.

Nitro pressed the intercom. "Ryan, I don't need you to repeat the calls."

"I was confirming them."

"My co-pilot confirms them."

A short silence followed before Ryan answered, "Confirmed!"

Nitro switched off the intercom.

Once they'd reached cruising altitude, Nitro engaged the autopilot and brought up the flight path on the in-flight display. The bright blue arc curved northward over Canada and Alaska before descending toward Japan. He was admiring the elegant curve when a shadow fell across the cockpit door. Chandler-Bing stood there, one of his emergency sandwiches half-eaten in his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Captain," he began, pointing a crumb-dusted finger at the display, "why are we flying over Alaska?"

Nitro didn't look up from adjusting the navigation settings. "That's the great circle route. It's the most efficient path between two points on a sphere."

"But it's not straight." Chandler-Bing leaned closer, his nose almost touching the display. "See? This here," he traced the curve with his finger, leaving a faint grease trail, "this is a curve. Straight lines don't have curves."

The co-pilot had suddenly become fascinated with the fuel gauges.

Nitro finally turned, his patience wearing thinner than the oxygen at their current altitude. "Chandler-Bing, look at a globe sometime. The shortest distance between two points on a sphere is not a straight line on a flat map."

Chandler-Bing took another bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "You're sure about that sphere thing?" he asked, swallowing. "I've seen pictures of Earth. It looks pretty flat to me."

Nitro stared at him, then pointed toward the cabin. From the back, he heard Ryan say: "That's 26 seconds of unauthorized leave from your chair, Chandler-Bing. It has been noted."

Later, Nitro went to see how everyone was doing. Samjohn had discovered the seat controls again and was now trying to determine whether the footrest could be raised while the backrest moved forward. SaltyBread had fallen asleep, Chandler-Bing was eating his ninth sandwich, and FemmeReaper was carefully measuring the overhead luggage compartment with a small tape measure.

Nitro stopped beside him. "Why are you measuring that?"

"I need to know whether the suitcase will fit on the way back."

"It fits now, so it will fit on the way back," answered Nitro.

"How can you be sure? There will be Xanax in it."

Nitro sighed. "The Xanax in it does not make the suitcase grow."

FemmeReaper wrote the dimensions on her hand anyway, mumbling that Nitro obviously did not understand how a suitcase worked.

Japan finally appeared ahead, and Nitro brought the Gulfstream down so smoothly he couldn't help but smile. Ryan was less impressed and had already unfastened his belt before they reached the stand because he was busy explaining the ground operation to everybody. They had limited time, he told them, so there would be no wandering around, no unnecessary shopping, and absolutely no delays. They would buy the Xanax, return immediately, and be back in the air according to schedule.

As Nitro opened the door, Ryan started his stopwatch and shouted, "Go! Go! Go!"

Samjohn, Chandler-Bing, SaltyBread, and FemmeReaper rushed out. Ryan turned towards NitroLiquigen, repeating loudly, "Go! Go! Go!"

"I am the pilot!" yelled Nitro at him. "I need to prepare the plane for the flight back."

"Oh," Ryan answered sullenly, then walked away to keep an eye on the others.

Thirty-five minutes later, Samjohn returned carrying Xanax, two bags of sweets, and a small electronic cat that meowed when you pressed its head. SaltyBread appeared with his Xanax and an enormous plush Pokémon. Chandler-Bing had bought several packets of Japanese sandwiches after discovering that Japan, somewhat unexpectedly, also contained food. FemmeReaper arrived dragging a third suitcase, having apparently decided that her original nested-suitcase system lacked sufficient capacity.

The return flight began much more peacefully. As soon as they reached cruising altitude, the Xanax packages appeared and, one by one, the passengers settled back into their seats. SaltyBread hugged his enormous Pokémon, Chandler-Bing put his remaining Japanese sandwiches safely beside him, Samjohn finally stopped experimenting with his seat, and FemmeReaper had barely finished explaining that she had calculated they could carry seventeen percent more Xanax next time if everybody brought softer luggage before she fell asleep halfway through the sentence.

Within half an hour, four faction members were completely unconscious.

Nitro walked through the cabin and enjoyed the silence. Nobody was pressing buttons, measuring overhead compartments or explaining sandwich logistics. Even the electronic cat had stopped meowing. It was, Nitro thought, perhaps the most peaceful moment he had experienced all day. He brought the Gulfstream onto final approach and concentrated on the runway ahead. The familiar calls came from beside him, the numbers decreased steadily, and the aircraft touched down smoothly before rolling toward the stand. Once the engines were shut down, the passengers slowly collected their possessions. Samjohn discovered that the electronic cat had been underneath him for most of the flight and was surprised it still worked. SaltyBread struggled to get his Pokémon through the aircraft door, Chandler-Bing filled his pockets with the remaining sandwiches, and FemmeReaper stared at her three suitcases as if their combined weight had somehow become someone else’s responsibility.

Ryan remained behind.

Nitro immediately knew something was wrong.

"I've prepared the flight evaluation," Ryan said, handing him several pages.

Nitro looked at the document. SaltyBread’s toilet visit on the outward flight remained listed as an unaccounted absence. Chandler-Bing had received a positive note for sustained maritime observation, though Ryan had added that it had produced no useful intelligence. FemmeReaper had accumulated eleven failures involving seat controls and one warning for misuse of cabin measurements. Samjohn had been cited for repeated distraction behaviour and improper sandwich storage.

Nitro remained in the doorway and watched the others cross the apron. SaltyBread’s Pokémon had gotten stuck between two pieces of luggage; FemmeReaper was trying to balance three suitcases on a trolley designed for two; and Chandler-Bing was offering Samjohn a sandwich that had apparently spent the entire return flight in his trouser pocket. Ryan stood several meters away, typing something into his phone.

Nitro's co-pilot appeared behind him. "Another Xanax run next week?"

"Noooo," he said slowly. "I will be a tour guide next week."