SUITS FAMILIARIZATION 102.
Nyx was finally growing accustomed to the weight of the AMGs. What once felt burdensome now moved with him like a second skin. He vaulted over obstacles with ease, twisting through clean acrobatic motions and sprinting across the training ground without losing balance or control.
Marvick watched from the observation ledge, clearly impressed. Even the heavyweight, scarred veteran beside him—a man who looked carved from granite—nodded in begrudging approval.
"Looks like Charles never misses with his decisions," the scarred man admitted, his voice a low rumble. "I have to say, I'm impressed."
"Uh-huh," Marvick agreed. "Guess we've got ourselves a natural."
With a brief signal, Marvick ended the first session. Nyx bent forward, hands on his knees, catching his breath as the next phase began: familiarization with every component of the AMGs.
A soldier brought forward another suit and helped Marvick gear up. Once secured and double-checked, the captain climbed onto a ledge without hesitation.
Then he leapt.
His body plunged downward in a controlled nosedive. Mid-fall, he fired his right-hand ACS grapple—Thwip!—the hook embedding firmly into a distant structure. He swung in a smooth arc, released at the apex, twisted midair, and fired his left grapple—Thwip!—chaining the movements seamlessly with flips and spins. With a final release, he landed cleanly in front of Nyx.
"That, my boy…" Marvick declared proudly, "…is how you grace through the air like a gallant soldier."
One of his aides stepped forward to demonstrate the basics as Marvick called out each component.
"What you're wearing there, boy, is what we call the FABA," Marvick began. "It stands for Full AMGs Body Armor."
The aide gestured to each section.
"The chest tactical vest is known as an anti-G vest, or chest plate. It provides counterpressure to your torso, helping you withstand intense forces during high-speed flight and maneuvers."
Nyx absorbed every word, committing it to memory. His life would likely depend on mastering this equipment.
"If you still have a functioning brain," Marvick said, "you'll recall me mentioning the different types of AMGs."
"I remember," Nyx replied. "The one I'm wearing right now is called Grade One Special."
Marvick applauded mockingly. "Bravo! It seems your brain cells aren't completely dead." He continued, "Grade One Special units are reserved exclusively for higher-commissioned officers—whether they're Enforcers or not."
Nyx frowned. "Even a commissioned officer who isn't a Gifter or an Enforcer still gets to use one?"
"Yes, of course, boy. AMGs aren't exclusively for Enforcers. They're mandatory for all military personnel to have basic training in AMG maneuvers."
A soldier helpfully cut in, "Then why are AMGs mostly associated with Enforcers?"
"Yeah… I guess so," Nyx admitted.
"AMGs are associated mostly with us because all Enforcers are Gifters," Marvick explained. "During emergencies—especially wartime or terror attacks—AMGs help transport us Gifters faster into hot zones. That's why all three military branches require our mandatory service."
Nyx looked down at the expensive plating on his arms. "Strapping me into a complete FABA—especially a Grade One Special—won't that count as unlawful possession of military gear?"
"Not if you don't get caught," Marvick quipped. "And for this operation, you're going to need the best."
He raised three fingers. "There are three main grades: Grade One Special, which you're currently wearing; Grade Two Xtra; and Grade Three Turbo."
The scarred veteran interjected, "Grade One has a built-in ACS grappler that rotates at a 180° angle, a turbocharger, and energy rotators for an inbuilt hovering system. Grade Two has only the hovering system and turbocharger. Grade Three… you can probably guess."
"General features for its design?" Nyx ventured.
"Correct."
Marvick pointed to Nyx's forearms. "Mounted on both your forearms is the grappling device called the ACS—Adaptive Claw System. The hooks auto-adjust their grips depending on the surface."
Nyx nodded. "I'm guessing the hooks work on all surfaces?"
"Bravo, dum-dum. You're not as dumb as I thought," Marvick teased. "For bricks, blocks, and concrete, it uses spike locks. For metal, magnetic grip. For wood, claw bite. For creatures like the Téras, piercing harpoon."
"Goddamn," Nyx whistled. "The inventor must be more serious than a politician seeking reelection."
"Under both your wrists are the trigger mechanisms." Marvick pressed the buttons on the sides of his index fingers. With a sharp hiss, the triggers popped out. The aide demonstrated for Nyx.
"When you press the trigger, it fires the grappler hook. The cables can support, pull, and swing a person three times your weight."
The scarred man added, "Press the trigger a second time right after firing and the cable recoils. But AMGs are only half the story. For effective flight and swinging, you need height—and that's where the gravity boots come in."
"So the AMGs are useless without height?" Nyx asked. "No trees, buildings, or structures—you're basically done for in an open plain?"
Marvick sighed. "Did you trade your ears for breadcrumbs? Or your brain for liquor when he mentioned gravity boots?"
"Easy up, man," Nyx replied, raising his hands. "I was just asking."
Marvick's eyes sharpened. "Next lesson: flight and maneuvers. I'm going to show you the basics and a few tricks to give you an edge."
The scarred man placed a heavy hand on Nyx's shoulder, his voice cold and urgent. "Time isn't on our side, boy. Make use of every second."
The weight and balance sessions were over. Flight training was about to begin.
It's going to be a long day, Nyx thought.
VICTORIA VS. THE PANEL JOURNALISTS.
The atmosphere inside Luciana's grand city hall was electric. Princess Victoria's presence had already galvanized the crowd, but the true trial was only just beginning.
Soon, the event transitioned into a question-and-answer session. Leading journalists and panel moderators prepared themselves, ready to probe into matters concerning Luciana and its political structure. Victoria stepped forward once more, returning to the podium with calm assurance, prepared to address whatever questions came her way.
As she reclaimed the podium, a sea of cameras leaned in like predatory birds, their lenses catching the steady, unshakable light in her eyes. It was time for the Q&A—a gauntlet of high-stakes inquiry from the nation's most formidable journalists and political analysts.
Journalists and moderators prepared to fire questions from every corner.
Standing in the wings, Norris watched her, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He knew the sharks were circling; these panelists were notorious for turning a simple inquiry into a political execution. He could only offer a silent prayer for her composure as the first moderator leaned into the microphone.
Thump-thump!
The sound of a finger testing a mic echoed through the speakers as sound waves traveled through the air before the first salvo of questions was fired.
DEFENDING THE CROWN.
"Your Highness," a senior panelist began, his voice slicing through the hushed crowd. "The people of Luciana are starting to wonder why the king has retreated into the shadows of his wardrobe. He has been notably absent from all matters of governance. To put it bluntly, where is our leader?"
Victoria offered a thin, faint, yet enigmatic smile as she acknowledged the weight of the question.
"That is a fascinating question," she replied, her voice carrying clearly to the furthest corners of the crowd gathered outside City Hall. "If memory serves us correctly, the people of Luciana have long advocated for constitutional government—ever since the days of King Henry, the first Novachronos, who signed the Bill of Rights into law."
She turned her attention back to the questioner, elaborating with regal yet approachable poise.
"Over time, through successive power reforms, the people have reduced royal prerogative to a mere twenty-five percent stake in governance. The remaining seventy-five percent now rests firmly in the hands of the public."
She paused briefly, allowing the words to settle.
"You are the ones shaping Luciana's future through your votes," she continued. "We, the royals, are gradually becoming more of a symbolic authority than an active governing force. We are the tradition; you are the engine."
The panelist frowned, tapping his pen against the desk. "An eloquent history lesson, Your Highness, but you still haven't answered my question."
"On the contrary, my good sir," Victoria replied coolly, "I believe I did."
The man shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "With all due respect? No. You didn't."
"Perhaps I didn't make my answer clear enough. My apologies," Victoria conceded, her tone gracious but edged with sharpness. She had no intention of humiliating him—not yet—but she meant to educate.
"Let me simplify it for the benefit of the general public," she added, careful not to mock the questioner directly. She leaned forward slightly.
"My father, the king, appears absent from governance because the Crown operates within a system where it holds only twenty-five percent influence. He respects the boundaries you yourselves have drawn for him."
She straightened again.
"The real governing power lies with the seventy-five percent held by the people. The monarch cannot—and should not—intrude upon the political machinery. To do so would defy the very constitution you cherish."
"Twenty-five percent is still a significant level of influence, Your Highness," another panelist interjected, his voice thick with skepticism. "If you'll pardon my French, his absence doesn't sound like respect. It sounds more like incompetence than limitation."
A collective gasp rippled through the audience. Norris felt his heart skip a beat. Victoria, however, didn't flinch.
"If my father is incompetent for refusing to overstep his bounds," she countered calmly, "then tell me, sir: did you vote in the last council election?"
The journalist let out a soft, dry, dismissive laugh. "Of course. It is my civic responsibility."
"And yet," Victoria continued, "you label your king—the first citizen—as incompetent, even though you participated in choosing the political structure that determines governance."
"The very result you helped engineer," she added. "You indirectly chose your Royal Minister."
The journalist let out a derisive snort.
"With respect, Your Highness," he countered, mockery now thinly veiled in his tone, "I think you've been misinformed about our own laws, Princess. It seems you're missing a key point: the people cannot vote for a Royal Minister."
He pressed on. "The monarch appoints the Royal Minister. I would expect you, of all people, to know the constitution."
BRUISED EGO.
He leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he had caught the heir to the throne in a factual error. He believed he had just schooled the princess on Luciana's system of government—unaware that he had set himself up for a thorough bashing of his ego.
Worse still, he had no idea he had just handed her the advantage.
Victoria simply waited, letting the silence stretch, her expression one of patient amusement.
"It's amazing and utterly remarkable," she continued, "how you could point out and remind us that the monarch is responsible for appointing the Royal Minister."
She stepped forward, pressing her point while remaining perfectly composed.
"Yet every four years, you proudly vote for your favorite local council member. Whose party then competes, wins the most seats and support in the House of Public, and—by the will of the people—forms the government, with its leader becoming the Royal Minister by default."
"I cannot dictate or influence the number of seats that win the vote majority," he tried to justify, framing himself as a humble citizen merely exercising his civic duty.
"Precisely," Victoria snapped back, the strike landing with surgical precision. "Just as you cannot dictate the decisions of the councilors you elect, the monarch cannot dictate the political direction of a state and system driven by the people."
Her voice remained steady and clear as she continued.
"Yes, you indirectly choose the Royal Minister through parliamentary elections. You pick the Parliament; the Parliament determines the Royal Minister. The King merely ratifies the people's choice."
She fixed him with a piercing look. "So tell me, my friend: how is the result of your own democratic process the king's fault?"
The panelist fumbled with his notes, his ego visibly bruising under the bright stage lights. "King Lucious is the Head of State," he stammered. "It should be the Crown's duty to oversee the government's conduct."
"No," Victoria corrected him firmly, without hesitation. "That is the job of the legislature. The Crown protects the system; the people run the government."
For a heartbeat, the crowd was silent. Then a lone pair of hands began to clap. Clap. Clap. Soon the sound swelled into a rolling tide of applause that filled the rafters. The citizens at the rally weren't just cheering for a princess—they were cheering for the clarity she had provided.
As the applause eventually subsided into a low hum, Victoria stood her ground, ready for the next wave, her silhouette a symbol of the very balance she had just defended.
THE ARID GAMBIT.
The mid-afternoon sun hung heavy over the Symarria arid savanna, casting long, jagged shadows across a landscape that looked less like earth and more like a bruised canvas. This was a graveyard of ambition—a scorched wasteland birthed from the grinding and prolonged stalemate between the Lucianan forces and the Imperial Army of Rey Santana. Nothing about the place suggested safety—only exposure.
Team Ember did not move with the casual stride of soldiers heading to a briefing; they moved with the calculated precision of a hunting pack. Major Adams had requested this rendezvous in confidence, but in the theater of war, "confidence" was often a synonym for "ambush."
None of them knew what the Major was planning, nor why he had chosen such a desolate location. The choice of venue alone was enough to raise suspicion.
The location, picked for its isolation, sat deep within the desolate wasteland.
Balogun, ever cautious, had already taken precautionary measures—just in case the meeting turned out to be an ambush.
He trusted no one, especially not when the Major had insisted on such a remote meeting. He stood at the designated coordinates, his expression unreadable.
From a vantage point five hundred meters away, hidden in the shimmering heat haze, Marko lay prone behind his anti-materiel rifle. At the slightest signal from Balogun, he would create chaos and be ready to provide devastating covering fire at the first sign of trouble.
Above, Marko's bald eagle soared across the sky, scouting the terrain for better reconnaissance and any hidden threat.
Back at the perimeter, Marian remained on standby. Her menos was the team's ultimate insurance policy, as she's prepared to teleport at a moment's notice. Though known for her healing and illusion-based abilities, her teleportation was equally formidable. Unlike Sasha's rapid position-swapping technique, Marian could teleport any number of objects or people across vast distances, though moving living beings required her to possess an item belonging to the target.
And once activated, her ability came with a cost: a full hour before it could be used again.
Sasha stood at Balogun's flank, her pneuma tag already vibrating with a tether to Marko, allowing her to swap their positions instantly if needed. If the major's "enforcers" proved hostile, Sasha would swap positions with Marko in a heartbeat without any hesitation.
She now walked beside Balogun, ready to accompany him into the meeting.
Balogun had also accounted for the possibility that the Major might possess a Gifter whose menos was anti-pneuma—one capable of nullifying, suppressing, or completely disabling all other abilities in the vicinity. Marko's objective was simple: disrupt the meeting if the team found themselves unable to use their abilities due to anti-pneuma interference.
Anti-pneumas were themselves menos—abilities specifically designed to interrupt other menos, preventing users from activating or wielding their powers.
Lastly, Baker remained on standby, ready to open his spatial portal and transport the entire team back to base. Baker could travel through his spatial dimension to any location he had visited before. The only drawback was that the longer the distance, the greater the pneuma consumption.
Everything was in place.
THE RENDEZVOUS: ENCOUNTER.
A few minutes later, the Major and a handful of soldiers arrived at the agreed-upon location. Six of them landed in total tight formation—fully equipped, battle-ready soldiers, all armed with AMGs, humming softly; a clear sign that every single one of them was an Enforcer.
Balogun did not flinch at the sight. He remained composed and unmoved as ever, ice-cold, like a soldier farming for aura.
Major Adams visibly faltered for a moment upon seeing only three members of Team Ember waiting for him. He knew full well that Balogun's squad consisted of five members, making Team Ember a six-man squad in total. He saw only Balogun, Sasha, and Lieutenant Owad. One of his men gave a subtle signal confirming the immediate area was secure and showed no signs of ambush from Balogun's side.
That didn't add up.
The Major, however, did react.
"Why are there only three of you?" he asked. "Where's the rest of Team Ember?"
Balogun had already outmaneuvered him. A faint flicker of satisfaction crossed Balogun's mind.
With that single question alone, Balogun knew he had outsmarted the Major. Neither the Major nor his so-called special team could detect the remaining members of Team Ember. Marko's sniper nest, Marian's hidden position, and Baker's spatial vantage had been compromised—each positioned at their specific, strategic locations.
With feigned nonchalance, Balogun turned to his two visible teammates. One at a time—he remarked confidently and asked calmly, "Do either of you have any reason to doubt the Major?"
"Not at all, Captain," they both answered uniformly.
"I advise you to change that line of thinking if you believe this is some kind of ambush," Major Adams said firmly. "I assure you, there is no foul play here. I called you because I need to discuss a delicate matter."
"I'll be honest with you, sir," Balogun countered, his eyes narrowing. "I'm just surprised at the sudden increase in your 'approved' Enforcers. You seem to be traveling heavy."
Before the Major could respond, Sasha cut in sharply. She cut in without restraint. "You lied about not exceeding the approved number of Enforcers assigned to a commissioned officer."
Sasha cut in without restraint. She's never one for military decorum.
"Sasha!" Owad barked, his voice a sharp reprimand. "Will you shut it?!"
Major Adams waved a hand dismissively, offering a mild chuckle. "She's not entirely wrong, Lieutenant. There may have been… a small omission and slight misinterpretation in my previous statement."
Balogun interjected before Sasha could double down. "I believe there is a reasonable and lawful explanation to back it up?"
"Miss Sasha," the Major said calmly, "I wasn't entirely honest during our last meeting because I needed to verify your team's reliability first. As for the additional three Enforcers, the Admiral himself gave full approval. They are essential for the upcoming mission."
"Then why lie at all?" Sasha pressed. "You told us these two soldiers were the only Enforcers under your command. You're supposed to lead by example, sir, not lie to your subordinates."
"SASHA!" Owad called out again. "Will you zip it?!"
"I'm not offended, Lieutenant. Let her speak her mind." The Major turned to Sasha. "If you recall vividly, there is some truth in my previous statement. I said, and I quote, 'I'm well within my quota. You've met two of them already.' The only lie was the word 'quota.' I never lied about you meeting 'two of them already.' That part I stated clearly."
He sighed, massaging his eyelids as if the weight of the war lived behind them. Balogun turned a sharp gaze toward Sasha, a silent command that finally settled her.
"Enough," Balogun said. "I'd like to proceed with the briefing."
"Yes, sir," she obeyed, composing herself at once.
"You seem suited for this," Major Adams continued, his tone shifting to business. "I heard you captured the enemy's commander." He paused, then continued, "Intel from a reliable source tells us the enemy is in possession of a weapon—biological, chemical, and mystical. It is a device capable of erasing a nation's population. The human mind can't even fathom its mechanism."
"Pardon my ignorance, sir," Balogun said carefully, his hand going to his glabella, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He asked, "But have you had the pleasure of confirming whether this is factual intel? Or are we chasing ghosts based on speculation?"
"Our intelligence division does not deal in rumors or insignificant data," the Major replied with unshakable confidence. "Their findings are highly accurate, with near-zero margin for error."
"It seems you're confident in your informants' abilities and knowledge," Owad chimed in. "So how are we supposed to know what this so-called weapon looks like when we retrieve it from the enemy's stronghold?"
The Major waved a hand dismissively. "That is classified." He said, "My team already knows what to look for. Your role is simply to facilitate the infiltration and their retrieval."
"And the captured commander?" Balogun asked. "Why do you need him?"
The Major pulled out a pack of cigarettes and took one. Before he could find his own lighter, one of his Enforcers snapped a flame into existence for him.
Click.
"Thank you," he murmured, before continuing. "The commander will serve as leverage—an insurance policy. If things go south, he becomes collateral for a quid pro quo exchange."
Balogun fell into his usual habit—rubbing his temple with his hand. He grunted, elbow resting on the palm of his other hand, as he continued massaging his glabella in frustration.
UN SOLDAT ANIMAT.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "You want us as babysitters, handlers, and disposable assets—we're expected to infiltrate while we have no clue what to expect inside their stronghold where their most valuable asset lies. Team Ember helps with infiltration, protection, and ensuring successful extrication."
"For a team of your caliber," the Major replied, hyping Balogun and his squad as he leaned into flattery, "it's just another Tuesday at the Oxford military training camp for you, Logun. Your last name isn't Flagman for nothing. That name is 'aura' and power itself."
But Balogun could not be taken for a fool, nor could anyone ride roughshod over his intelligence. He saw straight through the Major's so-called significant mission, labeled as a matter of national security concern. All he could decipher was a rogue, unauthorized operation that had nothing to do with the main objective: the Lucianan army winning the current stalemate against the imperial army of Rey Santana.
And yet, his curiosity about this classified weapon of mass destruction kept him pumped up deep inside. You may never know unless you go, he thought.
Finally, he spoke out, playing dumb as he accepted the mission. "I'm in. When do we engage?"
"I knew you could pull through," Major Adams said with evident satisfaction. "My instincts never fail me. I knew you were a man with a sound mind, someone who could be reasoned with. I knew I could count on you, buckaroo."
"Tomorrow, we head out," an Enforcer with intimidating looks chimed in. From his muscular build and commanding presence, one could tell at once he was the team's leader. "As the entire company launches a full-scale assault on the enemy frontline, we'll exploit the chaos. When the assault force splits into two prongs, that's when we infiltrate the target building."
The man pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it to Owad. "This contains all the details you need to know about the operation. Everything you require beforehand is in there."
With all said and done, Balogun and his team members saluted the Major and went their separate ways. The meeting had been a success. No one had tried to pull a fast one—a rarity in the Symarria.
GENERAL OPINIONS.
The formalities were concluded. Balogun and his operatives offered a sharp, synchronized salute to the Major before the two parties dissolved into the horizon. The meeting had gone smoothly—no hidden agendas, no last-minute surprises. One by one, the soldiers regrouped and began moving to rendezvous with their captain and the rest of the squad.
As the sun beat down on the vast, unforgiving flatlands, the squad transitioned into a high-mobility march.
Given the flat, open terrain, the terrain made conventional ACS line maneuvers impractical. Instead, they relied solely on gravity boots, launching themselves across the vast flatland in powerful arcs. Each leap carried them remarkable distances, their bodies cutting through the air with speed and precision. Even without AMGs, they moved with impressive agility, bounding forward in long, controlled strides.
At last, Team Ember fully regrouped. Now complete, the squad pressed onward, leaping and sprinting across the open savanna. Occasionally, they added flair to their movements—twisting midair or vaulting obstacles with acrobatic finesse.
As they traveled, Balogun began probing his team's thoughts on Major Adams's operation.
Once the full squad had regrouped, Balogun called out, "Owad!"
"Yes, Captain Logun," Owad replied.
"Pass the sheet around. Let everyone read it and share their thoughts. I want to know what they see between the lines."
"Sasha!" Owad signaled to Sasha.
With a focused nod, Sasha locked onto the physical intelligence sheet. Utilizing her spatial displacement abilities, she began "swapping" the document through the air. The paper flickered in and out of existence, appearing before one soldier long enough to be read before vanishing.
As each person finished reading, she passed the paper to the next until everyone had read it. Finally, she swapped it back into the captain's hand.
Balogun glanced across the group. "Well? What are your thoughts on this operation?"
"G.T.A. Luciana, baby!" Baker hollered, his voice booming across the plains. "Let the heist begin!"
The squad fell into a perplexed silence as confusion spread across their faces.
Everyone stared, puzzled and dumbfounded. Baker's penchant for "Old World" terminologies and foreign slang often left them feeling as though they were communicating with a ghost from a dead civilization.
The madman had resumed his foreign jargon, leaving them all confused and lost.
"And what made you reach that conclusion?" Owad questioned. "Why do you think it's a heist?"
"What's L.T.A., Luciana?" Marian added, curiosity piqued. "Is that some classified Luciana secret service code?"
Baker scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "First of all, it's not L.T.A.—it's G.T.A., Grand Theft Automatons." He gestured as he elaborated further, "Machines built for complex tasks, especially programmable ones with multiple moving parts, operating without human assistance."
"Aren't those just concepts from futuristic front cover magazines? Marko interjected. What does that have to do with your 'heist' theory?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Baker continued with growing excitement. "Luciana wants that futuristic tech. They want to strip it, study it, and use it to secure world domination. It's a classic grab." Baker continued his conspiracy theory.
TEAMMATES SHOWDOWN—COWBOY VS. SPATIAL MOLE.
Owad rubbed his chin, weighing the idea. "He has a point. There is a certain grim plausibility to the theory."
They continued their rapid advance, gravity boots working overtime. PSHHH—!
Compressed air burst from the boots, launching them forward and carrying them across vast stretches of land. The hiss of vented pressure stabilized their descent as they arced toward each new landing point. The sound pulsed rhythmically against the silence of the savanna.
"Marko," Balogun said, "your assessment?"
"If I'm being honest, Cap? It's a robbery," Marko replied flatly. "Baker sees a 'heist'; I see a common mugging on a grand scale."
"You're delusional," Baker snapped.
Marko fired back immediately. "No, I don't. It's not my fault you happen to be a simpleton. Besides, you're the one using the word 'heist' instead of calling it what it is—a simple robbery."
"BURGLARY?!" Baker roared. "Who said anything about committing a felony, you bushwacker?!"
"You read the brief, didn't you, you pillock?" Marko shot back, disgust plain on his face. "Where exactly was it stated that this mission is a heist, you purblind mole? You see what you want to see."
Baker snapped. Being called a simpleton and a pillock had already pushed him—but "mole" broke him. The insult struck too close, mocking his spatial and portal abilities, like some twisted reference to Whac-A-Mole.
In an instant, Baker vanished.
A split second later, he reappeared directly above Marko through a spatial portal, fury blazing, ready to smash him into the ground.
But Marko was a marksman—his reflexes were faster than thought.
Before Baker's fist could fall, Marko's Desert Eagle was already drawn and pressed against Baker's jaw.
"YOU BAAAAAASTARD!" Baker yelled, fist cocked.
"BRIN' IT ON, YOU MOLE!" Marko bellowed, finger tightening on the trigger. "I'LL WHACK YOUR BRAIN AND WATCH IT SPREAD LIKE TOMATO SAUCE!"
They hung midair, locked in a deadly standoff.
Balogun turned his head slightly, watching the two lunatics with quiet, exhausted disappointment. As their gravity boots reached the peak of their arc and gravity began to drag them down, the tension only sharpened.
All of it unfolded mid-flight as they plunged toward the ground.
Baker swung.
Marko fired.
Fzzzt—!
Baker's fist drove forward. Marko's trigger gave.
In the infinitesimal instant before impact—just as the bullet materialized and the punch would have landed—Sasha moved.
She swapped their coordinates.
Baker's fist, meant for Marko's skull, slammed into the sun-baked earth with meteoric force.
CRACK!
The ground fractured in a spiderweb pattern as the shockwave surged up Baker's arm—a brutal demonstration of Newton's Third Law. Somehow, no bones broke.
Marko's shot, now misaligned, tore harmlessly into the open sky as he reappeared several yards away, crashing onto his back in the dirt.
He hit hard, the momentum of the fall knocking the air from his lungs. Both men landed far apart, separated by Sasha's intervention.
Balogun descended with a controlled twist, landing in a clean, almost theatrical motion.
Baker and Marko slowly pushed themselves up, brushing dust from their uniforms and nursing both bruises and pride.
Balogun turned to Sasha.
Their eyes met.
She understood.
In the next instant, her ability activated again.
One moment, Baker and Marko stood ten feet apart, dusting themselves off—
The next, they were yanked through space and into the captain's grasp, his hands clamped firmly onto their collars.
They barely had time to register what had happened—
Before Balogun slammed them both into the ground.
CRASH-BOOM!
The impact rattled their bodies, knocking them through different states of consciousness and back again, a testament to the captain's raw strength. He hauled them up and shook them like misbehaving recruits.
"DO YOU BOTH DESIRE TO DIE THIS BADLY?" he roared, his voice rolling like thunder. "If you're so eager for the grave, how about I gladly transfer you both to an assault squad—front lines, war trenches where you can die for something useful? Let's see how long you last there!"
"We're sorry, Captain Logun!" they apologized in unison, their voices strained as their bravado completely evaporated.
While the captain dealt with the two troublemakers, Sasha—shorter than Vice Captain Owad—rose onto her toes and leaned in to whisper in his ear.
"What's the actual difference between 'heist' and 'robbery' that made them want to kill each other?"
Owad, ever composed, answered with calm patience. "They're both fancy words for stealing. The main difference is that a heist is highly coordinated, complex, and organized. A robbery is usually more opportunistic and violent."
Sasha gave a small, feigned nod.
Noting this, Owad simplified it further.
"A heist is a smart, quiet crime," he whispered. "A robbery is a loud, stupid one."
Understanding dawned on Sasha's face, sharp and immediate—followed just as quickly by disappointment. She stared ahead, baffled that the two had nearly killed each other over words that essentially meant the same thing.
"Boys and their fistfights," Marian muttered, her voice laced with seductive boredom. "So unromantic. So very… inelegant."
With order restored, Balogun signaled the team to move out. They still had miles left to cover; the camp remained far in the distance. As they advanced, he resumed the mission assessment, polling each member for their thoughts.
Bounding across the savanna once more, Balogun asked Sasha to hand over the sheet again so they could reread and reassess. He had a fixation on details—on scrutiny. Being blindsided was something he refused to tolerate; tunnel vision was alien to him.
It was a discipline he had picked up as a part-time student of Norris, reinforced by the expectations of his prestigious lineage. Among the noble Flagmans—and most Luciana noble families—perfectionism was not optional; it was the standard.
In the world of Team Ember, tunnel vision was a death sentence.
And Balogun intended to see everything.