The sharp, final click of the call ending with David left a profound silence in Michael's small apartment, a void filled only by the frantic, thumping echo of his own heartbeat in his ears. He slumped into a worn chair, the initial surge of adrenaline giving way to a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Too young. Too rash.The words echoed in his mind, a self-directed admonishment. He had charged into this with the wide-eyed optimism of a kid playing spy, only to have the complex, unforgiving reality of international arms dealing slam into him like a physical blow. The neat, clandestine plan A—using a national proxy for a large-scale purchase—was now a smoking crater, its impossibility laid bare by bureaucracy and distrust .
But as his eyes drifted to a crude, hand-drawn map of the Detroit ruins pinned to his wall, the faces of Zhang Tiezhu and the others surfaced in his memory. Their resolve, their desperate, generational vigil—it was a weight that crushed his self-pity. A new, harder resolve solidified within him. No. Backing out is not an option.The mission was no longer a fantastical adventure; it was a debt, a promise that had to be honored, no matter the personal risk. If the front door was locked, he would have to find a window, or better yet, pick the lock.
With a grunt, he pushed himself up and strode to his desk, a plan—a far more dangerous, audacious Plan B—snapping into focus. He recalled the articles, the whispered legends of a place that was less a town and more a bazaar of ballistic mayhem: Adam Khel, the "Huaqiangbei of handmade firearms," nestled in the tribal regions near the Pakistan-Afghan border. This wasn't about state-sanctioned procurement; this was a journey into the belly of the beast, a place where the very concept of paperwork was a foreign joke, and the only law was the cold, hard comfort of cash .
His needs were simple, almost primitive in their brutality. Fifty AK-pattern rifles, their rugged, stamped-metal reliability a legend in every conflict zone on Earth. A few heavy-caliber sniper rifles for reach. And the great equalizer—a case or two of RPGs, the poor man's artillery. According to the stories he'd devoured online, the AKs were practically supermarket items there, stacked like firewood, going for as little as seventy dollars apiece. Ammunition? It was sold by the kilo, and test-firing your purchase right there in the street was not just allowed; it was expected. The entire transaction would be brutally simple, a capitalist dream stripped of all red tape: point, pay, and pack .
The sheer, terrifying simplicity of it was its own kind of allure. But it was also a minefield. This wasn't a corporate email chain; it was a physical journey into one of the most volatile regions on the planet. He'd be exposed, a lone Chinese man with no credible cover story, flashing a significant amount of cash. The authorities, both local and international, would not be fools. If he was careless, he'd be flagged before he even boarded the flight.
A plan for a disguise formed in his mind, cobbled together from a dozen spy movies. A keffiyehto obscure his hair and the upper part of his face. A thick, fake beard—the itchier, the more convincing, he supposed. He would be a shadow, in and out. The moment the goods were secured, he wouldn't risk any form of traditional shipping. He would find a secluded spot, open a gateway—a five-minute window back to the Wasteland that now felt more like home than this world of complacent safety—and shunt the deadly cargo through. The risk of exposure during the transfer was monumental, a heart-stopping gamble, but it was the only card he had left to play .
Time was a predator on his heels. He moved with a frantic energy. A significant portion of his capital was converted into U.S. dollars through a series of rapid, digital transactions that felt both thrilling and illicit. His passport, thankfully still valid from a company trip to Vietnam the previous year, was a small miracle. He booked a rideshare to Guangzhou, and with a deep breath that did little to calm his nerves, purchased a one-way ticket to Islamabad. He traveled light: a single messenger bag, a change of clothes, and several thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills nestled against his skin, their papery presence a constant, anxious reminder of his mission.
The long drive to Guangzhou was a tense, silent affair. His fellow passengers were elderly locals, lost in their own worlds, leaving Michael isolated with his churning thoughts. Seeking a distraction, he checked the analytics for the promotional videos he'd uploaded—the wolf-girl Lynda and the others dancing with a captivating, untamed energy. The numbers were climbing, a small, bright spot in the gathering storm. Satisfied, he switched to news feeds, a habit he'd neglected in his focus on the Wasteland.
A headline blared at him, so absurdly timely it felt like a provocation: "Tri-Service Mega-Exercise: India to Showcase Naval Might off Mumbai Coast." The article detailed a massive, upcoming naval demonstration by the Indian military, a blatant flexing of muscles featuring the pride of their fleet, three Kolkata-class destroyers. The timing, as anonymous analysts noted, was a not-so-subtle message of national assertion .
A slow, wicked smile spread across Michael's face. The fear and uncertainty that had plagued him moments before evaporated, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. The image of the dormant Demon-SlayerType-2 Combat Exoskeleton, a five-meter-tall god of war sleeping in a mountain cavern, flashed in his mind. You think that's a show of force?he thought, a giddy, reckless arrogance taking hold. You haven't seen anything yet.
The devil of a truly insane idea whispered in his ear. It was a detour, a monumental risk, but the symbolic payoff… it was irresistible. On a whim fueled by equal parts genius and madness, he opened a messaging app and typed a new message to David.
"New priority. Do you know any Indian visa officials? I need a tourist visa for India. Fast-track. I want to be on a flight to Mumbai tomorrow morning. Payment on delivery: thirty thousand U.S. dollars. Cash. Non-sequential bills."
The response was almost instantaneous. "Consider it done. But half up front."
Three hours later, in the cramped, cluttered confines of David's office, Michael counted out fifteen thousand dollars. The black market fixer took the stack, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency, holding each bill to the dim light, checking for the telltale signs of counterfeiting. Michael watched, a strange sense of calm settling over him. He knew the money was perfect. It was produced with the same technology, the same paper, the same inks and micro-printing as the genuine article fresh from the U.S. Mint. Short of two bills with identical serial numbers appearing side-by-side—a statistical near-impossibility—no one would ever question their authenticity .
The following morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep in a Guangzhou airport hotel, Michael boarded a flight to Mumbai. The cabin was filled with the distinct, spicy scent of curry, a sensory anchor to his new, audacious destination. His knowledge of India's "Maximum City" was limited to a single, beloved Bollywood film, 3 Idiots, a memory filled with chaotic energy, vibrant colors, and spontaneous, joyous dance numbers. A wild thought crossed his mind. If the opportunity presented itself… would it be so wrong to orchestrate a little cinematic chaos of his own? After all, when you're about to unleash a Gundam on an unsuspecting naval exercise, what was a little public dancing?