Noah debated with himself for hours. He wasn't ready for another mission. Not really. The prototype suit was still clunky, unpredictable. But the window was tight, and Aerodyne didn't flag things this discreet unless it was something worth hiding.
"This isn't about finishing the job," he muttered. "It's about interrupting it."
He loaded up what gear he had, ran another calibration pass on the HUD, and mapped his exit route. No confrontation. Just observe, intercept, retreat.
Easy. In theory.
Riverside Docks were mostly silent after midnight—just the hum of cranes and the metallic groan of barges shifting against rusted moorings. Noah crouched behind a container stack on the northern pier, suit powered on but dimmed. The heads-up display blinked with a faint pulse: Unmarked Aerodyne truck, pulling in slow.
Two guards stepped out, one with a tablet, the other scanning the area.
Noah jumped down hard, misjudging the stabilization. The repulsors hissed and scraped. One guard turned—"What the—!"
The fight was ugly.
Noah tackled the first man into a crate, catching an elbow to the side of the helmet. He retaliated with a short, clumsy repulsor burst that slammed the second guard into the truck. The system sputtered—too much output. He yanked a loose steel pipe from a crate and swung hard, knocking the first man out cold.
The second lunged again, this time with a stun baton. Noah took the hit on the arm plating, gritted his teeth, then knocked him flat with a brutal kick assisted by a micro-boost.
Panting, he pulled open the truck doors.
Inside, cushioned by shock-proof foam and locked in magnetic clamps, was a crate labeled M.A.C.
Noah didn't know what the Modular Adaptive Core was yet. But he knew it wasn't supposed to be on a midnight truck with armed guards and zero digital record.
He mounted it to his back, pushed off, and lifted shakily into the air.
The Modular Adaptive Core was heavier than it looked. The added weight threw Noah's center of gravity off, and his right thruster sputtered twice on the climb. He gritted his teeth, redirecting power manually while wobbling skyward.
The suit groaned, a low mechanical protest. But he didn't fall.
Just above the dock's perimeter wall, he banked hard and shot out across the skyline. Behind him, distant shouts and the blare of a triggered alarm began to rise. But it didn't matter—he was already gone.
He did it.
For the first time, it didn't feel like survival. It felt like a step forward.
The Hales estate shimmered with champagne lighting and political laughter. Men in tailored suits and women in sleek gowns milled through the courtyard, sipping from thin glasses and talking in the language of donors, contracts, and plausible deniability.
Victor Hales stood at the center of it all—polished, composed, charming.
A whisper came through his hidden earpiece: "Sir. The shipment has been intercepted. The MAC is gone."
He sipped his wine. Nodded politely at a state senator. Smiled at the mayor's wife.
Not a twitch. Not a break.
Two minutes later, he excused himself to refill his drink. Then he turned down a quiet corridor—one that led deep into the private side of the mansion.
Victor entered the velvet-paneled chamber with the same composed stride he used in front of cameras. The music and laughter from the gala faded behind a soundproofed door. The long obsidian table inside was already surrounded by Aerodyne's inner circle:
Nora Vex — Legal strategist, calm and unreadableRafi Tanaka — Tech director, already sweatingImani Greer — Government liaison, lips pressed tightElias Drax — Intelligence, still as a shadowLucien Brex — Security head, standing uneasily
Victor poured a glass of wine before turning to Lucien.
"Status," he asked evenly.
Lucien reported the breach, explaining that it was "too clean to be random." That someone internal must've leaked information.
Victor's voice was soft. "And whose responsibility was the security protocol on that route?"
Lucien faltered. "Mine. But we followed every procedure. We—"
Victor opened a hidden wall panel and pulled out a matte-black pistol.
"This isn't about failure," he said. "It's about accountability."
He walked forward and shot Lucien Brex in the head.
The body collapsed. Blood spread across the floor.
No one moved.
Victor returned to his seat, set the gun beside his wine, and said, "Let's not waste time."
One by one, the others began speaking—calm, deliberate, suppressing the fear beneath their words. Nora opened her folder. Imani spoke about oversight. Rafi made a silent vow to tighten firewalls. Elias asked for unrestricted access.
A silent guard emerged from the shadows and dragged Lucien's body away without a word.
Just another vacancy.
Another lesson.