The Airborne Terror
The Sky Guardian floated high above the clouds, its engines humming like the heartbeat of a giant. The passengers, already shaken by the discovery of the strange ampule and Fujioka's sudden collapse, were in disarray. Crew members tried to restore order, but fear had already infected the air far faster than any plague.
And then, it began.
A metallic crash shook the hull. The lights flickered, dimming to a bloody hue as the emergency system kicked in. A grinding screech echoed across the observation deck — like claws tearing steel.
Then came the sound no one mistook: gunfire.
The walls buckled. From a torn maintenance hatch, figures in black tactical gear stormed in, their rifles sweeping the crowd. Gas masks obscured their faces, red insignias of the Red Smoke Bandits painted across their armor in jagged lines.
"Everyone down!" their leader yelled, his voice amplified through a cracked speaker mask. "This vessel is ours!"
Passengers screamed. Parents clutched children. Scientists dove under tables. The mercenaries moved with terrifying precision, firing warning shots into the ceiling to silence the chaos.
One mercenary shoved a trembling steward against the wall and pressed a gun to his head. "Cooperate, and you live. Resist, and you'll suffocate in your own blood."
The leader stepped forward, pulling out a silver briefcase. He snapped it open, revealing another ampoule, its glass shimmering faintly in the emergency light.
"You all know what this is," he declared. "The Crimson Sleep. One crack, one breath, and this ship becomes your coffin."
He held it high, letting the trembling passengers see the death they feared most. "Mr. Suzuki!" he roared. "Step forward. Tonight, you and your empire pay the price for poisoning the world. The Red Smoke Bandits demand retribution!"
Suzuki, pale and shaking, was dragged forward by two mercenaries. His bravado from earlier press conferences was gone, stripped away by fear.
Riki muttered under his breath, fists clenching. "Dammit... they came prepared."
Akio's eyes flickered from the ampoule to the mercenaries' movements. Something was wrong. Their guns were real, their brutality undeniable, but their bombs — strapped crudely to their vests — looked amateurish, almost theatrical.
Too theatrical.
Akio's Deductions
Amidst the chaos, Akio crouched low beside a panicked steward, pretending to calm him while discreetly observing. His pharmacist's eye, sharpened by years of precise measurement and deduction, scanned everything.
The ampoule. The bombs. The rash on Fujioka's arm.
The rash spreads too fast. The bombs are too crude. The mercenaries act like killers, but their tools... these aren't weapons of professionals. They're props.
He whispered to himself, "This isn't terrorism. It's theater. A cover."
But a cover for what?
His eyes darted to the Automated Pharmacy System — Suzuki's prized system, locked within a glass chamber at the center of the exhibition deck. That, he realized, was the real prize. The terrorists weren't here for revenge or spectacle. They wanted the future of medicine.
And yet... his nightmare still gnawed at him.
The Scarlet Helix.
The Crimson Sleep.
Could this be more than theft?
Quarantine and Fear
Meanwhile, Raka struggled to keep the crowd under control. She pulled together trembling passengers, shoving them toward one corner of the deck.
"Stay low, stay calm. Do not breathe too heavily!" she ordered, her voice cutting through panic like a blade.
But her eyes betrayed her fear. She kept glancing toward Fujioka, quarantined behind a glass wall with the steward who had first shown symptoms. He twitched, welts crawling across his skin like bugs beneath the flesh. His lips frothed. He scratched so violently his fingernails split, blood streaking the wall as he clawed for relief.
The sight made even Raka's iron stomach tighten. "Jeez..." she muttered.
Akio pressed his hand against the glass, studying the progression. He whispered, almost in awe of the cruelty:
"This isn't a pathogen. It's chemical. Look at the welts. Look at the rapid onset. This is a reaction to a compound — fast-acting, external irritant. Maybe lacquer. Maybe a synthetic polymer. But definitely not a bacteria."
Riki overheard him. "So it's fake?"
Akio's jaw clenched. "Not fake. Worse. It's engineered to look real. To terrify. To give them time."
And as if to punctuate his deduction, another mercenary announced:
"In ten minutes, we release a second vial. This time, no quarantine will save you."
Blood and Smoke
The mercenaries herded the passengers toward the grand observation deck. One person resisted, shrieking that she wanted to go home. A mercenary silenced her with a brutal strike of his rifle. She collapsed, skull cracking against the glass floor, blood blooming beneath her hair.
Children screamed. Workers begged. The mercenaries laughed.
Akio turned away, bile rising in his throat. He had seen blood before, but there was something different about blood spilled as theater — as meaningless punctuation to a threat. It was cruelty for stagecraft.
The air grew hot, filled with sweat and iron. Smoke began to creep from one of the corridors — not fire, but tear gas released to herd them tighter. Passengers coughed violently, some vomiting onto the polished floor.
Amidst the choking chaos, Akio's eyes narrowed. The smoke carried a faint chemical tang, not military-issue tear gas. He analyzed its behavior: it rose too quickly, it dissipated unnaturally fast.
Not gas. Another decoy.
The False Flag
The Phantom Analyst appeared again, slipping through the smoke, his white mask catching the emergency light.
"Interesting, isn't it?" he murmured, stepping beside Akio. "They shout bacteria. They parade bombs. But everything here screams diversion. They're not playing terrorists. They're playing magicians."
Akio glared. "And you? What part are you playing?"
The Analyst smirked. "The trickster who hates being upstaged." He leaned closer, his voice dropping: "Follow the engine room. That's where their real game is."
Before Akio could reply, the Analyst vanished into the crowd, his cloak swallowed by the smoke.
The Engine Revelation
Akio pushed through the chaos, heart racing. He ducked into the maintenance hatch, slipping past distracted mercenaries. The air here was quieter, but filled with the hum of the ship's engines.
And there, strapped against the wall, he found them: four bombs.
Primitive, yes. But one was different. While the others were placed for spectacle — near doors, near windows — this one was wired into the engine coolant system.
Akio's stomach turned cold. If it detonated, it wouldn't just tear the ship apart. It would release something into the air vents. Something invisible. Something chemical.
The Crimson Sleep.
"They're not going to blow us up," Akio realized, his voice trembling. "They're going to test it. Test it on every soul aboard this ship."
The Hijack Tightens
By the time he returned, the mercenaries had tightened control. Suzuki was on his knees, blood running from a cut across his forehead. Raka was pinned against the wall, arms bound, struggling violently as two mercenaries pressed rifles into her ribs.
Riki, too, had been beaten down. His lip was split, his hands tied behind his back. But his eyes were still fire, glaring at the men around him.
And Matahiko — the journalist — was gone.
His glass chamber stood open, the rash-scarred steward still writhing, but Matahiko had disappeared, leaving only his dropped microphone and a smear of black chemical residue where he'd once lain.
Akio's eyes widened. The realization struck like thunder:
The rash was staged. Matahiko wasn't a victim. He was their architect.
The Scarlet Helix had a new face.
🔻 End of Act 2 (Part 2) 🔻