The cargo hold of the Total Jumbo Jet had undergone a cold, calculated transformation. Gone were the flamboyant curtains, the disco lights, and the tacky "World Tour" banners that had decorated the elimination area in the previous episodes. In their place stood five harsh, industrial-style chairs made of reinforced steel, bolted directly into the vibrating floorboards of the plane. Above them, a single red neon sign buzzed with a low-frequency hum, flickering fitfully to display the team's new, aggressive title: MYRMIDON.
Chris McLean sat on a high-backed metal throne, his legs crossed, looking down at the five contestants with the detachment of a Roman general observing his ranks. He wasn't wearing his usual toothy, camera-ready fake smile. Instead, his expression was professional, stern, and terrifyingly focused. For the first time in years, his blood pressure cuff was tucked away in his luggage; he didn't need the digital reassurance of a machine to tell him he was in control. The absolute authority he felt in this moment was more intoxicating than any drug the network could provide.
"Team Myrmidon," Chris began, his voice echoing against the metallic walls of the hold. "The Myrmidons of myth were legendary for their discipline, their unbreakable formation, and their absolute loyalty to Achilles. Today, in the mountains of Switzerland, you showed the discipline of a wet noodle, the formation of a shattered glass bottle, and the loyalty of a pack of starving hyenas."
Alejandro shifted in his seat, his leather boots squeaking against the floor. He felt a bead of sweat prickle at his hairline. This was not the Chris McLean he had studied in the tapes. This wasn't the ego-driven man who could be charmed with a compliment about his hair or a clever remark about the ratings. This was a man demanding results, a man who looked like he was actually enjoying the silence of the room rather than filling it with forced laughter.
"Owen," Chris said, turning his cold gaze toward the big man. Owen was currently trembling so violently that the metal legs of his chair were rattling against the floor like a drumroll. "You spent half the challenge trying to eat the structural integrity of your cheese wheel. Tyler, you managed to get your fingers stuck in a cow's bell—don't ask me how, I've seen the footage and it still defies physics. And Noah..."
"Here comes the part about my personality," Noah muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back, though his usual sarcasm felt a bit more defensive tonight.
"Your attitude makes people want to throw themselves off the Alps without a parachute, Noah," Chris countered without a hint of a smile. "You actually worked, yes, but a team that hates its smartest member is a team that's going to fail. Tonight, we are doing things differently. No singing. No stupid musical numbers to distract us from the fact that you failed. Just the vote. One of you is going home. And since we're currently soaring over the freezing Atlantic, the 'Drop of Shame' is looking particularly deep and unforgiving tonight."
The Internal Struggle
Before the voting began, Chris allowed a ten-minute "strategy window," though the air in the hold was so thick with tension it felt like oxygen was a luxury. Alejandro leaned over to Owen, his voice dropping into that smooth, dangerous whisper that had manipulated half the cast already.
"Owen, my friend, look at them," Alejandro urged, gesturing vaguely toward Noah. "You saw how Noah and Heather were looking at each other on the plane. They were whispering in the shadows near the galley. They're plotting, Owen. They know you're a threat because you're a winner. If we don't vote for Noah tonight, he will pick us off one by one until there is nothing left but his snarky comments and our empty seats."
Owen looked at Noah, his old friend, then back at Alejandro. His eyes were wide with a primal sort of fear—but as Noah had suspected, it wasn't fear of a "strategic alliance." It was the plane. The Total Jumbo Jet let out a particularly loud, metallic groan as it hit a pocket of turbulence.
"I don't know, Al... Noah's my buddy. He shared his chips with me in Season One," Owen whimpered, clutching his stomach. "But man, did you hear that? The engine sounds like a dying walrus! I think this plane is hungry, Al! It's hungry for people! I don't want to be the snack!"
Noah, meanwhile, was playing a much more surgical game. He caught Heather's eye through the small, reinforced observation window in the cargo door. She gave him a single, sharp nod—the signal that the ground had been prepared. Noah didn't bother trying to talk to Alejandro; he knew the Spaniard was too far gone in his own ego. Instead, he leaned toward Tyler.
"Tyler," Noah whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the neon sign. "Think for a second. Use the part of your brain that isn't dedicated to sports trivia. Who do the producers want to keep? They want the guy who creates the most drama, the guy who lies to your face and calls it 'friendship.' If Alejandro stays, you're just a pawn he'll sacrifice the second things get heavy. But Owen? Owen has already won a million dollars, Tyler. He's a legend. He doesn't even need to be here. Why should he take a spot from someone like you who actually wants to prove something?"
Tyler's brow furrowed in intense concentration. "I... I like Owen. He's a great guy. But... he does take up two seats in the common area. And he is really loud when I'm trying to practice my finger-strengthening exercises."
The Ceremony of the Myrmidons
"The votes are in," Chris announced, stepping back to the podium. In his hands, he held a tray of small, sharp-edged bronze medals—the Myrmidon version of the marshmallow. They looked like something a soldier would wear before a suicide mission. "When I call your name, you are safe to fly another day. When I don't... the door opens."
He picked up the first medal. "Alejandro."
Alejandro stepped forward and caught the bronze disc with a practiced, effortless grace. He didn't smile; he simply nodded to Chris, though his eyes remained fixated on Noah, waiting for the killing blow.
"Noah."
Noah walked up, took his medal with a bored shrug, and returned to his seat without a word.
"Tyler."
Tyler jumped up, fumbled the medal twice, nearly poked his own eye out with the sharp edge, but eventually managed to pin it to his tracksuit with a look of immense relief.
Only two remained: Owen and Izzy. Owen was currently whimpering into his hands, his massive frame shaking the entire row of chairs. Izzy, on the other hand, was upside down in her seat, staring at a spider crawling across the ceiling, seemingly completely unaware that she was in a life-altering elimination ceremony.
"The final medal," Chris said, his voice dropping an octave into a register of pure, cold drama, "goes to... Izzy."
"WHAT?!" Alejandro exploded, slamming his fists onto his knees as he stood up. "This is a travesty! It is impossible! Owen is the heart of this team! He is a winner! Who would vote for—"
"Owen is going home, Alejandro," Chris interrupted, standing up to match the Spaniard's height. The two locked eyes, and for the first time, Alejandro was the one to blink. "The votes were three to two. It seems your 'unstoppable' influence has hit a bit of a mountain. Maybe you should have spent less time talking about Noah and more time making sure your own house was in order."
Owen let out a sigh of relief so gargantuan that it practically equalized the pressure in the cabin. "Oh, thank goodness! Oh, thank the heavens! No more flying! No more 'Sing-or-Die'! I get to go home! I can go to a buffet that doesn't have a seatbelt! Chris, buddy, you're the best!"
The Final Descent
At the rear cargo door, the wind howled like a banshee as the lock turned. The air was freezing, a sharp contrast to the heated tension of the hold. Owen stood at the edge of the abyss, looking down at the pitch-black Atlantic Ocean.
"Owen," Chris said, walking up to the big man. For a brief, flickering second, the "Host" persona vanished entirely. Chris reached out and patted Owen's shoulder with a hand that didn't feel like it was playing for the cameras. "You've been the anchor of this show since day one, big guy. You won the first season, you dominated the ratings in the second... honestly, I don't even know why you came back for this crazy tour. You've got nothing left to prove to anyone."
"I just really like the snacks in the green room, Chris!" Owen laughed, his belly jiggling even in the face of a three-mile drop. Then he looked at Chris, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "You seem... I don't know, man. You seem better. Like you finally stopped drinking forty espressos a day. Did you get a haircut? Or a therapist?"
Chris actually chuckled—a real, genuine sound that wasn't aimed at a microphone. "Something like that, Owen. Something like that. Safe travels, big guy. Chef! Give him the oversized parachute! The one reinforced for 'heavy cargo'!"
With a giant, echoing "YEH-HE-HE-HEW!", Owen tumbled out into the night, his massive silhouette disappearing into the clouds.
The Aftermath
As the cargo door hissed shut and the pressure stabilized, the four remaining members of Team Myrmidon stood in a heavy, awkward silence. Alejandro turned to Noah, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. All the "charming prince" act was gone.
"You think you are clever," Alejandro hissed, stepping into Noah's personal space. "You think you can dismantle what I have built with a few whispers to a fool like Tyler. You have made a grave mistake, Noah."
"I didn't turn anyone, Al," Noah said calmly, not backing down an inch. He adjusted his sleeves and started walking toward the lounge. "I just reminded them that even a king can be a pawn if he's too busy looking at his own reflection. Your 'Best Before' date is coming up. I'd start looking for an exit strategy if I were you."
Back in the cockpit, Chris watched the scene play out on the high-definition monitors. He felt a strange, quiet sense of satisfaction. Kicking Owen off was a massive risk—the producers would likely have a collective stroke when they saw the footage. Owen was their safety net, their source of easy laughs. But the ratings for this ceremony were already breaking records in the East Coast time zone. "The Death of a Legend" was a headline that would sell more ad space than a hundred Owen-fart jokes ever could.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone. It was vibrating incessantly. Seventeen missed calls from the network. Three frantic emails from the CEO. He didn't open a single one of them.
Instead, he opened a private messaging app and sent a single text to Chef:
"Coordinates for the next stop: New York. If the producers want to have a sit-down, we'll do it on my home turf after the next leg. But first... let's see how they handle the Yukon. I want it cold, I want it honest, and I want the Myrmidons to actually earn their keep."
Chris leaned back in the pilot's seat, watching the stars streak past the cockpit window. He had just fired the biggest star of the franchise, defied the people who signed his checks, and humiliated his most dangerous contestant. And yet, his pulse was steady. His mind was clear.
For the first time in three years, Chris McLean wasn't just hosting the show. He was the show.