NOVPUB**Whrrrummmm—ch-kch-kch-kch-kch**
The rotors echoed overhead as the city shrank beneath Don and Charles, Santos reduced to a sprawl of blinking lights and clean-cut towers.
The helicopter rose steadily, pulling away from the glass-and-silver sheen of the penthouse building. From this height, even the glitz looked disposable.
Don sat near the open door, one boot resting on the lip of the floor, the other planted firm. His gear was heavy and unfamiliar.
Tactical-grade combat vest, weatherproof black-and-grey fatigues, reinforced gloves—minimalist, clean-cut. The only thing flashy about it was how unflashy it was. No emblems. No color. Just raw utility.
Charles sat across from him, similarly dressed but with his own flair. The cut of his vest was more contoured, almost tailored. His gloves had microfibers stitched into the fingers—tactical, but expensive.
Even the dark scarf wound around his neck felt too stylish for an operation, but somehow didn't look out of place.
Don had to admit—Charles's outfitting machine was a thing of beauty. It wasn't just aesthetics; the gear was stitched with intelligent fibers, automatically adjusting for movement, insulation, even temperature bleed.
Over the top? Maybe. But Charles had justified it easily enough.
"If Barclay's doing what I think he's doing, showing up in hero suits won't help," he'd said.
Still, Don wasn't sold. He hadn't been since the Casino incident.
Everything after that had been damage control with a smile. Charles liked chaos when it worked in his favor. But when it didn't? Plans got sloppy. Bodies stacked up.
So now Don sat, not saying much. Just watching the skyline fade while his mind clawed at the pieces.
Charles leaned against the inner frame of the cabin, one hand wrapped around a safety strap, eyes distant. Not calm—calculating. Whatever message he got earlier had shaken something loose.
**Bzzzt**
His phone vibrated again.
He pulled it out, pressed the side, and brought it to his ear.
"Yes?"
The voice on the other end was fast. Male. Slightly nasal.
Don couldn't see Charles's eyes beneath the low-hung night light inside the cabin, but he could hear the conversation wasn't pleasant.
"They brought who?" Charles said, voice sharp now.
There was a pause.
"Division D from the Agency, FBI investigators, and androids?"
Don's eyebrow twitched.
Charles muttered under his breath. "I didn't authorize any of that. Who did?"
The voice came back with a short answer.
Charles's jaw clenched.
"My brother did?"
Another pause. The disbelief was almost theatrical.
"Did he pay these people off? That's risky. And stupid. Even for him."
Don finally spoke, quiet and low. "What if they're disposable?"
Charles glanced at him. "Meaning?"
Don kept his gaze forward, out the window. "A small team like that won't be able to erase everything cleanly by tomorrow. Not without someone noticing. So either they were all paid off—risky, like you said—or…"
He turned toward Charles now, voice just loud enough to be heard over the rotors.
"…some, or all of them, aren't supposed to come back. Burn the whole thing. Clean slate. No one left to testify and no evidence."
Charles frowned, but didn't speak.
"I'm not saying it's guaranteed," Don added. "But it's a possibility."
Charles didn't look convinced. But he didn't argue either.
He pocketed the phone with a curt motion and shifted his grip on the safety strap.
The seconds crawled.
Despite the speed of the flight, it felt slow—agonizing, even. Every second lost could be another piece of the puzzle swept off the board. Charles tapped his fingers against the steel frame beside him, a rare tic.
He was trying to find the angle. The flaw.
Barclay was greedy, yes. But never reckless.
Which meant there was something else at play.
Something they hadn't seen yet.
**Ch-kch-kch-kch-kch—**
The helicopter began to descend.
Below, the city had vanished entirely, replaced by thick woodland. Familiar territory. The trees were scattered—too uneven to be natural, broken up by wide gaps and dark pits in the ground like infected wounds.
Searchlights and torch-lamps lined the perimeters, mounted on trees and angular stands. Wide yellow tape looped around specific areas, marking danger zones and fall points. The whole place looked like a battlefield held together with caution signs.
But they didn't land in the center of it.
The chopper veered west, peeling off toward a cleared-out zone near the forest's edge. The ground here had been artificially flattened, a makeshift helipad cut from mud and gravel. The lights weren't as bright, but the activity level was high.
Don's eyes swept the camp.
Armored trucks. Tactical personnel in gear not unlike theirs—except theirs came with rifles and heavier plating. The insignia was that of the department.
One truck bore the bright white letters: FBI.
Outside it, agents in bodysuits moved in tight formation. Their gear was more specialized—form-fitted, sealed with built-in gas filtration and voice dampeners. Their helmets looked expensive.
Further down, another truck hissed open. Hydraulic arms moved with jerky precision as android units were being unloaded—two at a time. Matte black finish. Shoulder-mounted sensors.
No visible weapons, but they didn't need them. Their faces weren't faces at all—just low-light visors and coded panels.
The sound of the helicopter hadn't even fully faded before the stares started.
Agents. Operatives. Contractors in full gear. Heads turned like a flock reacting to a sudden shadow overhead. But it wasn't just the noise that caught them. It was recognition.
And standing near a cluster of FBI-marked vehicles, surrounded by men in dark suits and the steady hum of androids being deployed, was Barclay himself.
His expression twisted the second he spotted the chopper.
Don saw it—saw the familiar shift from smug calculation to something sour. Barclay's arms were crossed, suit spotless, shoes untouched by the mud and dust clinging to everyone else's.
He looked like a boardroom executive who'd taken a wrong turn into a warzone.
And standing near him—Agent Hathaway and Agent Defoe.
Don recognized them instantly. The same two federal eyes who tried probing them back at the Crown Coliseum. Same body language. Same subtle arrogance barely hidden under protocol.
The chopper touched down with a soft whump as the rotors slowed to a low churn.
Charles didn't even wait for the engines to cut.
He turned toward the cockpit. "Wait for us here."
"Yes sir," came the unified response from the pilots. Then added, "Good luck."
Don caught the edge of that and thought, 'From the looks of things, we'll need it.'
He stepped out behind Charles, boots crunching over flattened gravel. No bags. No tools. Just their attire and intent.
Barclay didn't move from the path.
He stood like a blockade in a three-piece coffin, arms drawn tighter across his chest the closer they got. Like posture could compensate for jurisdiction.
"What do you think you two are doing here?" he asked, gaze flicking from Don to Charles, clearly unimpressed by the tactical attire.
Charles scoffed as if the question was offensive on principle. "Last I checked, this is my family's land. I'll come here whenever I please."
One of the suits stepped forward—Agent Hathaway. Still had that measured FBI cadence, like every word passed through a legal filter before it left his mouth.
"It's also the site of an active federal investigation," Hathaway said. "I don't think I need to remind you of the law. Private property or not."
He looked pointedly at Charles's boots. "It looks like you have something to hide. Showing up like this. Trying to interfere."
Charles raised an eyebrow, voice level. "I'd be careful what accusations I throw around… Agent."
Hathaway opened his mouth, but Charles cut in again.
"Because—according to the agreement Mr. Barclay made with my brother to secure permission for this little camp—you're not investigating anything."
He took a step forward, eyes sharp now. "You're observing. Searching for a missing team. That's it. No warrants. No seizures. Just a leash and a bone."
His tone turned dry. "And I had our family contact your director about this 'official investigation' you're pretending to run. He was… very surprised."
Barclay's face twitched. Not much, but enough.
Smoothly, he tried to recover. "I think what Agent Hathaway means is… you're not authorized to operate as heroes right now. You're suspended, remember?"
Charles looked around theatrically, then shrugged.
"Do you see any heroes here? I don't."
He gestured toward Don. "I certainly don't see Silverwing. Do you Don?"
Barclay's eye twitched.
"All I see are two explorers," Charles said, voice rich with mock innocence, "who may or may not use their powers on private property if threatened. Which—if you're caught up on local law—is still legal."
Don thought, 'He really thought this through.'
Barclay's expression soured further, but he didn't argue. He turned away instead, muttering, "Fine. But I'll be reporting this."
Charles didn't let up. "Do it off this site."
He took a deliberate step forward.
"My brother permitted the teams to be here. But I didn't see your name on that clearance list. So either run back to him and ask permission…"
He smiled thinly. "…or leave. Before I report you for trespassing."
Don didn't even need to say anything.
He just watched.
Barclay paused mid-step, jaw tight.
He could feel the eyes. Contractors. Agents. Half-paused in motion.
He didn't say what he wanted to say. Not here. Not now.
Instead, he adjusted his tie, straightened his coat, and forced his voice calm.
"I have better things to do than argue with insolent children."
Then he walked away.
