That morning, dew still clung to the leaves as a thin mist blanketed the forest surrounding the camp. The air was quiet, broken only by birdsong and the shuffle of boots getting ready to depart.
Lirael stood beside the worn-out truck they'd prepared, clutching her faded jacket. Her eyes drifted toward Taren, who was staring blankly into the trees, lost in thought.
Suddenly, Exter clapped a hand on Taren's shoulder from behind.
"Hey, snap out of it. You're driving today, remember?"
Taren blinked, then quickly forced a grin.
"Right, Boss. I got it!" he said cheerfully, hopping into the truck with a little too much energy.
Lirael gave a faint smile, relieved to see him trying to keep spirits up, even if she could feel the worry everyone carried.
Then, Riven appeared silently beside her, his gaze fixed ahead.
"Let's hope we find Peterson today," he said quietly, his voice low and heavy with restrained hope.
Lirael turned to him, her heart skipping. She gave a slow nod.
"I hope so too," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
The old engines rumbled to life, coughing out smoke as they warmed. Today, they were headed toward the unknown. But one thing was clear: their mission wasn't just about resistance—it was about finding someone who once stood with them—Peterson.
The engine hummed softly as the old trucks rolled forward, cutting through the misty morning air. The forest, thick and silent, watched as they left the hidden camp behind.
Behind them, Veyra, Elior, and Saria stood in a row, waving goodbye.
Veyra, ever composed, gave a firm nod—her eyes deep, yet filled with silent encouragement.
Elior, clutching his still-aching stomach, waved dramatically with a wide grin.
"Don't forget to bring me something cool from the enemy base!" he joked, trying to mask his worry with his usual humor.
Saria stayed quiet. Her gaze locked with Lirael's—a quiet, emotional goodbye. She raised her hand in a small, heartfelt wave.
Lirael returned it from the truck window, her eyes lingering on Saria for just a moment longer.
Up front, Riven glanced briefly at the rearview mirror, then turned back to the road ahead.
Taren, behind the wheel, took a deep breath.
"Alright... let's get this crazy mission started," he muttered with a smirk.
Exter sat beside Lirael, silent but watchful. Every now and then, he stole a glance at her expression.
Lirael stared ahead, her breath steady and focused.
Only one thought echoed in her mind:
"Peterson, wherever you are... hold on. We're coming for you."
The trucks disappeared down the dirt path, leaving the camp—and their comfort—behind, heading straight into the unknown.
Inside the vehicle, the mood shifted instantly.
The old truck wasn't as old as it looked. As Taren slammed the gas pedal, the vehicle sped down the rugged forest path, bouncing over rocks and skidding around sharp bends.
"YO, TAREN! IS THIS A MISSION OR A RACE?!" yelled Riven, gripping the handle above the window.
Lirael jolted forward slightly, quickly fastening her seatbelt.
"Slow down! We kinda need to be alive when we get to the target!"
Taren, chewing gum and grinning like it was a game, replied,
"Relax! I tweaked the suspension myself—it's golden!"
Exter, usually calm, now looked mildly alarmed.
"Let's hope you tweaked the brakes too."
As they hit a tight corner, the tires briefly lifted on one side, causing everyone to yell in panic.
"AAARGHH—!"
Nyssa shot Taren a deadly glare.
"If we die before rescuing Peterson, I swear I'll crawl out of the grave just to strangle you."
Taren gave a two-fingered salute with a smug smile.
"Yes, Commander."
Exter, rubbing his temples, muttered,
"I'm starting to understand why Peterson always gave you crap."
After a few more intense minutes, the vehicle began to steady.
The forest thinned ahead, trees growing farther apart, and in the distance—
a faint trail of smoke rising above the skyline of the occupied city.
Everyone went quiet.
Uncle Tyson stared forward, jaw clenched.
"We're getting close..."
Elsewhere, inside the enemy's base Peterson sat in the noisy cafeteria, looking drained but alert. Around him, dozens of strangers—new recruits and soldiers that looked like products of genetic engineering—laughed, spoke loudly, and ate in a chaotic hum.
Metal clanged against trays, laughter echoed, and distant muffled military commands filled the air.
Peterson clenched his spoon tightly. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar faces, trying to assess if anyone might be a weak point—someone he could use to escape. But they all looked trained, obedient, and... devoid of emotion.
Across from him, a bald young man in a fitted uniform bearing a strange flag insignia set his tray down.
"You're new? From the experiment sector?"
Peterson stared at him blankly.
"Something like that."
The guy chuckled.
"Be careful. If your results are good, they'll use you in the next project. If not... you disappear."
Peterson gripped his spoon tighter.
In his mind, fractured memories began to surface—Lirael, Taren, the explosion, the bus...
Suddenly, an overhead speaker crackled:
> "Experiment Units 14 and 17, report to the med lab for your next procedure. You have two minutes."
Peterson rose slowly and set his tray aside.
Before leaving, he stared directly at the corner camera.
In his heart, only one thought echoed:
"If they're still alive... I have to survive. Until I can escape this place."
When Peterson arrived at the briefing room, he was surrounded by uniformed personnel—stiff, expressionless. A tall man in a lab coat, clearly the lead scientist, stood in front of him with a flat voice.
"The final analysis is clear. We no longer need you, Peterson. The key lies in your brother, Taren, and the girl... Lirael."
Peterson clenched his jaw.
"You think they'll follow your orders?"
The doctor gave a faint, condescending smile.
"We don't need their obedience. We only need... to unlock what's inside them."
Peterson's eyes darkened, rage simmering beneath his calm voice.
"And what about me?"
"You'll be returned to military duty. You still have a use... for now."