The chainlink fence stretched across the edge of the airfield, rattling lightly in the cold night wind. Beyond it, massive hangars loomed like sleeping giants, their corrugated shells catching the faint spill of distant floodlights. The warehouse squatted nearby, stacked metal containers leaning against its sides, the obvious weak point in the perimeter.
Kai crouched low, eyes scanning the shadows. Matt knelt beside him, armor catching a faint glimmer of red thread when the moon slipped between clouds. Flicker shifted restlessly in Kai's hand, humming with half-formed shapes. The blade had never tried to mimic a flashlight before, and tonight wasn't the night to experiment.
Kai lifted Flicker, shaping it into a crude set of pliers. The metal of the fence groaned as they cut through, leaving a ragged flap just wide enough for them to slip through. Matt judged the tool's efficiency in silence.
"Kind of sad he can't turn into anything advanced," Matt muttered.
"He's not even a year old. Give him a break," Kai whispered.
Flicker squealed inside Kai's head, voice sharp with joy. 'He defended me! Master defended me!'
They pressed forward, boots crunching softly on gravel. The warehouse provided cover as they moved closer. A narrow window gave them their first view of the Red Circle's operation.
Kai moved like smoke, fast and quiet. Matt tried to match his pace but couldn't without scraping gravel, each step heavier than he wanted. Jealousy gnawed at him, but he kept going.
Inside the airfield, workers in mismatched uniforms moved with tense urgency. Barrels were rolled on dollies toward a waiting plane, a hulking cargo aircraft with its bay doors yawning wide. The workers grunted under the load, maneuvering containers of a pale green sheen — nuclear waste, sealed and bolted. The sight of it was unmistakable, even from a distance.
One thug spat on the ground as he pushed a dolly. "Hell of a week. First the old headquarters gets Flowrided, then the warehouse torched. I keep telling boss we need to focus on whoever's hitting us, not this other crap."
Another laughed bitterly. "Focus? On anyone but himself? Forget it. Man's obsessed. Wants to see the world burn so bad he can't think straight. Terrorist with a hard-on, that's what he is."
Their voices dropped back to grumbling, but the word stuck in the air like ash: terrorist.
The men cursed as they wrestled the heavy barrels. Some smoked lazily between loads, blowing smoke rings into the night. Others waved slips of paper, betting on the next spectacle. Kai and Matt slipped closer, keeping low. The workers' voices carried across the tarmac.
"Heard the next Death Game's tomorrow."
"Yeah? What's the twist this time?"
"Maze full of live wires. Thirty contestants. Winner gets ten grand. I'm currency of their choosing"
"Ten grand for frying yourself alive? Better them than me."
They laughed, the sound flat and cruel. More stories followed — men drowning in oil tanks, fighting blindfolded in shark cages, clawing each other apart in arenas. Voluntary, they said. Voluntary, but desperation made the games irresistible.
Kai and Matt ignored it. No time for sideshows.
The plane dominated the tarmac, its massive fuselage gleaming under floodlights. The risk of going in through the rear bay was obvious. Guards milled about, the engines already spooling for preflight checks. Yet hesitation meant losing the chance. They slid low to the ground, shadows among shadows, slipping between barrels until the roar of the engines covered their movement.
A worker cursed loudly, dropping a dolly. The crash of metal and echo of swearing turned heads for a heartbeat. That was all Kai and Matt needed. They darted toward the open ramp and hauled themselves inside.
The belly of the aircraft was worse than expected.
Rows of barrels were strapped in place, bolted to the floor. In the center loomed a crude bomb assembly, a monstrous rig built on a rail that led directly to the open rear hatch. It was designed to drop barrels mid-flight, efficient in its horror.
The ramp clanged shut behind them. The sound was final, sealing them inside with the stink of oil, sweat, and something faintly metallic. They ducked behind a cluster of barrels, backs pressed to cold steel, hearts hammering in rhythm with the engines.
Four Red Circle members moved through the bay, working with the lazy confidence of men who thought themselves untouchable. They checked straps, tightened bolts, scribbled notes on clipboards. One lit a cigarette and laughed at something another said. The air was thick with smoke and arrogance.
Kai's hand tightened around Flicker, the blade quivering faintly with anticipation. Matt's eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, already calculating space, timing, odds. Neither spoke. They didn't need to.
The engines roared, the floor trembled, and the heavy machine began its slow crawl down the runway. Five minutes later, the shudder of liftoff pressed them into place.
The mission had truly begun.