Apr 10th, 2034
Richard found himself sitting in a small, peculiar vehicle, almost laughably tiny and absurdly silent. Its frame was more akin to a golf cart than a car, with a body coated entirely in solar glass. The vehicle glided along the surprisingly well-maintained 305, en route to the airstrip near Bagenkop.
Beside him, the driver—a small man who spoke only Danish—was wholly indifferent to Richard's lack of understanding. Every attempt at small talk died in the void between them. Richard didn’t speak Danish, and the driver seemed uninterested in miming out any explanation or conversation. The silence felt almost tangible, occasionally broken by the rustling of the wind or the faintest hum of the electric engine, barely noticeable even in the absence of any combustion sounds.
As they drove on, Richard gazed out the window, taking in the surprisingly normal landscape. This was one of his first ventures beyond the confines of the castle since arriving on Langeland, and what struck him most was how untouched the island seemed compared to the crumbling world beyond. Farmlands stretched out along both sides of the road, dotted with farmers going about their preparations for spring planting. In the fields, tools moved rhythmically in hands hardened by labor, the scent of freshly tilled soil mingling with the crisp coastal breeze.
It felt like a scene from another era, a world untouched by the collapse that had left so many societies fractured and decayed. There was no sign of the post-apocalyptic world Richard had come to know—no decayed cityscapes or desperate scroungers. Instead, the quiet industry of the farmers gave an impression of order and routine that was rare in these chaotic times.
The cart came to a stop about five meters from the jet. Richard had read about it; Magnus had gone on at length about purchasing the jet facility before the Collapse. Located near Aarhus, he made it self-sufficient, with its own local supply chain capable of producing several drones and two jets per year. Richard had a thick dossier on the topic, one he planned to review during the long journey ahead. In person, though, the two-seater craft was smaller than he had expected—perhaps only ten times his length from end to end.
“Good morning,” Richard replied cautiously, curiosity piqued. “Didn’t expect to hear American English around here.”
The pilot chuckled. “Name’s Carter Renshaw, but everyone calls me Blue. You’ll have plenty of time to hear the story of how I ended up here on the flight—trust me. The first leg’s nearly five hours, and the second part of the trip is about three and a half. Plenty of time for chit-chat, though the Count mentioned you'll be busy reading most of the way. Fine by me—I’m used to flying alone. By the way, were you told not to eat anything in the last 24 hours?”
“I was informed that if I needed the bathroom, it’d be in my pants. That kind of imagery motivates a man.”
“It really does, doesn’t it?” Blue grinned.
Richard opened his mouth to ask more, but Blue raised a hand with a casual gesture toward the jet. “Seriously, save your questions. We’ve got hours in the air for all that, and there are a few important things to go over before takeoff. Let’s get you settled in.”
Richard nodded, a small smile forming. It seemed this flight was going to be more interesting than he had expected.
Blue reached over to the side of the jet, flicking a hidden lever, and a small ladder unfolded smoothly to the ground. He gestured for Richard to go first.
“Up you go,” Blue said, his tone encouraging. Richard shifted his weight, grasped the sides of the ladder, and began to climb, the cold metal rungs biting slightly through his gloves. Blue followed closely behind, helping guide Richard into the back seat.
“Here, let me help you with this,” Blue said, leaning over to secure Richard’s harness. As he did, Richard's eyes landed on a gel pack tucked neatly into the cockpit. Catching the glance, Blue grinned knowingly. “That’s for, well... if nature calls during the flight. Not ideal, but it does the job.”
Richard grimaced but nodded in understanding. Without missing a beat, Blue handed him a helmet, adjusting it to fit properly before securing it snugly. With a flick of a switch on the overhead console, Blue’s voice rang through the speakers in Richard’s helmet. “Can you hear me?”
“Yup,” Richard replied, giving a thumbs-up.
“Microphone and speakers check,” Blue confirmed. “You can just speak normally from now on. But let’s hold off on conversation until we’re in the air.”
“You do your thing and then tell me when I can start asking questions?”
“Roger that,” Blue said, moving down his mental checklist. The harness clicked into place with a satisfying snap as he gave it one final tug to ensure everything was secure.
“Comfortable?” Blue asked, glancing over.
“As much as I can be, I suppose,” Richard replied, his voice echoing back through Blue's microphone. Blue gave him an approving thumbs-up before climbing into his own seat, ready to prep for takeoff.
“Oh, and keep your bag securely between your legs,” Blue added as he settled into his seat. “If I do a turn or a tilt and it slides out of your reach, you won’t have access to it again until we land.”
With that, Blue fell silent, focusing on his pre-flight routine. Richard adjusted the bag as instructed, wedging it firmly between his feet. Those were Blue’s last words for the next 20 minutes.
The jet roared to life and took off, barely using any of the runway before soaring at a steep 45° angle. Richard’s weight doubled, pressing him back into his seat, and he mumbled to himself, “I can’t see shit.”
Then, with a flicker, his visor suddenly lit up—a view of the ground behind them springing into sharp focus. Blue must have flipped a switch somewhere because now Richard could see the world shrinking rapidly below, Perfectland fading into a blur as it vanished into the background.
With the jet climbing at an angle and pulling at least two Gs, Richard couldn’t reach his briefcase even if he tried. He’d been told not to speak to Blue, and now, with nothing visible through the visor but sky, he found himself trapped in his own head—no distractions, no escape from the thoughts swirling within him.
This trip was a bit of a mystery. Mr. Musk was already on board with connecting the seats of power—after all, it was his technology forming the backbone of the entire operation. And while Richard was bringing something specifically for Elon, the pilot could have handled the delivery alone. He supposed getting himself to Seoul afterward was part of some test, though with the Count, there was always a reason. It was just that sometimes, discovering what that reason was could be unsettling.
Richard’s mind drifted to what he could remember about the jet. He didn’t have the greatest memory, but both Halldor and Magnus had gone on about it endlessly. The FX-27V-Magnus e1—'e1' standing for edition one. They were up to edition four by now. You’d think newer would mean better, and in some ways, it did, but with each new version, concessions had to be made for materials that were becoming harder to come by. Magnus had always preferred the older models, especially for long-distance travel. They might lack the extra armament of the newer versions, but that shouldn’t be necessary for this trip.
The jet was originally based on the FX-27 Valkyrie, but as Halldor had explained, having access to the world's patents had given them a unique edge. “With our modifications, that aircraft can go anywhere,” he’d said, pride swelling in his voice. “Graphene composites, solar glass coating, advanced avionics—you name it. We made sure it can reach the farthest corners of the world without a hitch. Also, it’s practically invisible to almost all forms of detection. And it can blow the tits off a goat—practically from orbit.” Halldor always had a way with words.
Richard was mulling over what Halldor had said—that for every missile, rocket launcher, and machine gun visible on the exterior, there was at least three times that firepower hidden within the jet’s chassis. The later editions even boasted some innovative sonic weapons. He’d found it hard to imagine all that destruction packed into such a sleek frame.
His thoughts were interrupted by Blue’s voice crackling through the helmet speakers. “We’ve leveled out. You can talk now.”
The cockpit was cramped but clean, with that faint, sharp smell of jet fuel and metal that clung to all aircraft. Richard caught a whiff of something slightly sweet too—probably the gel pack tucked near his feet—and it made his stomach twist in a mix of nerves and curiosity. Outside the jet, the sky was clear, an unbroken blue expanse, with just a hint of cloud cover far on the horizon, the sun blinding as it bounced off the cockpit glass. He tried to shake the stiffness from his shoulders, still feeling the slight press of the harness, as Blue's voice crackled through his helmet.
“I was in my third year at MIT when the Collapse happened, so I know an American accent,” Richard said, his words spilling out quickly as he reentered the conversation. “And I’m guessing yours is... somewhere around New Mexico? But I’m no expert by any means.”
“Close—Arizona, though practically Nevada,” Blue replied, turning slightly in his seat. “I was part of the Hoover Dam settlement.”
“Sorry, I don't know what that is,” Richard admitted. He tapped his fingers absently on the edge of his seat, still adjusting to the weight of the helmet on his head.
“You know what Hoover Dam is, right?” Blue asked with a hint of amusement.
“Vaguely,” Richard admitted. “Built in the early 20th century, right? Huge hydroelectric dam blocking off the Colorado River.”
“Well, close your eyes, and I’ll give you the really condensed history lesson,” Blue said, shifting into storytelling mode. “Real soon after the Collapse, Mexico, using armaments we gave them to fight off immigrants, took advantage of the self-implosion happening in the States. They moved in on Arizona, New Mexico, Texas—used them as farmland.”
Richard’s eyes widened behind his visor. “The US is gone?”
“Might as well be,” Blue said, his voice steady, but Richard could hear the edge of bitterness in his tone. “The West Coast splintered into its own country—the California Emirates. New England broke off and aligned with Canada, so it’s basically just another province now. Once the federal government stopped paying salaries, the military and National Guard either seized local control in some regions or went home to help their families. And of course, the well-armed public... well, they went after the government that they felt failed them.”
“Jesus,” Richard muttered, feeling like the air in the cockpit had thinned. “You’d think we would’ve heard about this.”
“Yeah, well, I told all of this to the Count a few years ago.”
“Fucking Magnus,” Richard growled, an annoyed heat rising in his voice. He paused, then added louder, “Fuck you, Magnus!”
Blue gave a soft laugh. “Careful what you say. Wouldn't be surprised if all his possessions had listening devices built in.”
Richard shook his head, spitting the words into the mic. “Fuck you, Magnus.”
“Anyway,” Blue continued, shifting back into the story, adding, "It was back in February 2032, barely over two years ago." “Hoover Dam was one of the few areas to keep the lights on. We had electricity, water, and sewage—a real bright gem of civilization amidst all the chaos.”
“I’m feeling a ‘but’ coming,” Richard said, trying to imagine what it must have been like to be in the middle of such chaos and yet have a semblance of order, a functioning society.
“Oh, there’s a ‘but,’ all right,” Blue said, his voice dipping with grim amusement. “The Mexican army was working its way north, slow but steady. No rush—transforming the land, building infrastructure to ship produce back home. Eventually, they got close enough that we were at war. The National Guard and military had pulled out years earlier, but they left behind massive stockpiles of munitions meant to protect the dam. And we used every bit of it.”
Richard could practically see it—the gleaming water of the Colorado River, the massive arc of the dam standing defiant against a shifting world, and somewhere, the Mexican army crawling ever closer. The image hung heavy in his mind, like a painting of a paradise on the brink of collapse.
Blue's voice grew quieter, the excitement of retelling fading into a darker, more somber tone. “We held them off as long as we could. We had the advantage of the high ground, big time... and in the end, they knew they couldn’t win. So, they did what they had to do.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked, leaning forward instinctively, the harness digging into his shoulders as he tried to get closer to Blue.
“They blew up the dam, right at the base,” Blue said flatly. “A final ‘fuck you’ from the Mexican army, just to make sure no one else could have it. Hoover, the river—washed it all away. That gem of civilization vanished in an instant. The stupid bastards flooded their own land, drowned thousands of their own troops. And with no infrastructure left to protect, our settlement just... faded away. People wandered off over time, searching for somewhere else to start over.”
Richard tried to picture it—the dam, a massive structure of concrete and steel, crumbling to rubble, the water surging through like a tidal wave, sweeping away everything in its path. A place that had been a beacon of stability reduced to a ghost town. “What did you do?” he asked quietly.
Blue glanced at Richard, his face unreadable through the tinted visor. “I took one of the planes we’d been maintaining for defense. Thought maybe, with enough luck and skill, I could make it to Midway Atoll. If I could refuel there, I might have a shot at reaching Perfectland.”
Richard furrowed his brow. “How could you have possibly heard about Perfectland?”
“Elon Musk,” Blue said, a half-smile in his voice. “He’s been blasting every ham radio across the globe, talking up this paradise he’s building. Perfectland—the last safe place in the world, with everything it needs. Power, water, food, and... opportunity. He made it clear what professions they needed—including pilots. Figured if I brought him a plane, I’d make a hell of an impression.”
Richard sat back, absorbing the story, the pieces falling into place. Blue was a survivor, just like him—finding a way to adapt, to take advantage of whatever chance the chaotic world still offered. And somehow, all those paths led to Musk and Perfectland. “Well, obviously you made it,” Richard said finally, feeling that twinge of shared defiance thread through the heaviness of Blue’s story.
“Yeah,” Blue nodded, his eyes scanning the endless blue horizon. “Armed with nothing but some coordinates, a half-baked plan, and the stubbornness to see it through, I made it to Midway Atoll. Barely. Had a quarter tank of fuel left and about two weeks’ worth of food. And do you know what I found?” Blue paused, his voice taking on that dramatic storytelling tone.
Richard raised an eyebrow, leaning in. “Warlords?” he asked, a smirk on his face.
Blue let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. “I wish. Would’ve made things more interesting.” He took a breath, steadying himself as the memories seemed to pull him back. “Instead, I found a gorgeous, recently rebuilt landing strip, thirty human skeletons, and a couple billion albatross.”
Richard winced, a flash of empathy for whoever was stranded there before Blue. He pictured the place in his mind—a wide, pristine runway, but instead of bustling aircraft, it was littered with bleached bones. He could practically hear the seabirds’ cries filling the eerie silence. Blue stayed quiet for a moment, so Richard finally ventured, “What... what happened there? No survivors?”
“Nope,” Blue said, his voice flat. “No usable fuel, contaminated water—nothing worth saving. And oddly enough, there was a solar house, fully powered up, just sitting in the middle of nowhere. I holed up there for a bit, tried to piece things together.”
Richard shook his head, trying to picture it. “A solar house in the middle of an empty island? Why leave it behind?”
Blue shrugged. “Could’ve been disease, dehydration, desperation—pick your poison. But they left a clean landing strip and a dead man’s paradise. I scrounged what I could, stayed just long enough to figure out how to not die.”
Richard cleared his throat gently, trying not to pry but unable to stop himself. “So... what did you do for water?”
Blue’s grin returned, wry and self-deprecating. “The only thing in that house that could hold water? A Mr. Coffee machine. God bless the inventor of drip-brew. I’d haul water from a pond—the one with the least dead albatrosses in it—and run it through that machine three times, hoping like hell that would clean out the microbes. It didn’t taste great, but it kept me alive.”
Richard grimaced. “Sounds... delicious.”
“Best coffee I ever had,” Blue chuckled darkly. “Anyway, to make a long story short, I hooked up the ham radio to the house’s communications antenna. A good mechanic knows a bit about electronics—enough to jury-rig a plane, and enough to make contact. It took a week, but one day Musk’s satellite passed overhead. We had a 32-minute window to talk. I told him my situation.”
Richard blinked, trying to wrap his head around it. “And he just... responded?”
Blue nodded, an almost childlike awe in his eyes. “Four days later, he pinged me again. Said fuel would be dropped within a week and told me to head for Seoul, Korea.”
“Ji-Yoon Jung?” Richard asked incredulously, his voice rising with surprise.
Blue glanced over, meeting his gaze through the mirrored tint of the visors. “You know him?”
“I know of him,” Richard said, still trying to comprehend. “I'll be meeting him in a couple of years... or less. The seaweed vine I’m so damn grateful for—and equally sick of? That’s all his doing. Most of the earth that didn’t starve owes their lives to him.”
“Well, I met him for a day,” Blue said, his voice softening. “And he put me on one of Magnus’s planes—one that was ready to swap seeds for solar glass. I rode shotgun.” He let out a small laugh, one that sounded more relieved than happy. “Hell of a journey.”
Richard sat back, the full weight of Blue’s journey hitting him like an avalanche. From the Hoover Dam settlement to that haunting skeleton-lined runway, and finally to Perfectland—it was all a series of gambles, a desperate leap from one crumbling ledge to the next. They were all taking chances. They were all just hanging on, hoping whatever Magnus and Musk were promising wasn’t a mirage. And they all knew, deep down, that this story wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
“That was... pretty amazing,” Richard said finally, his voice tinged with awe. He paused, feeling the weight of everything Blue had shared sink in. “I’m gonna need to let that percolate while I read for a while.”
With some effort, he reached for the handle of his satchel, fingers brushing against the worn leather before finally pulling it onto his lap. As he unclasped it, the familiar rustle of paper and the scent of ink and old leather washed over him—something comforting and grounding amidst the high-altitude chaos.
He really wanted to dive into the section on Ji-Yoon Jung, but there were fourteen pages from Magnus on Elon shoved into the folder his father had given him. Reluctantly, he dug them out, the crinkling of paper sounding loud in the otherwise quiet cockpit. He missed the days of just having a tablet—scrolling effortlessly through pages of text with a flick of a finger. But in today’s world, paper was safer. You couldn’t trust that there’d be electricity, and if the equipment failed, you couldn't just pop out and get another one.
Paper didn’t short-circuit. It didn’t go blank at a crucial moment. Cumbersome, yes, but reliable in ways that technology wasn’t anymore. His dad had given him paper for a reason—because his father always saw the angles, knew how to anticipate the worst. And while Richard sometimes resented that constant vigilance, he knew better than to question it.
Richard’s eyes scanned over the pages, pulling out key details amidst the dense text. He hadn’t realized the extent of the collaboration between Magnus and Musk, who had foreseen a global collapse by 2028 and took action years in advance. Magnus had discreetly funneled billions to build Starlink ground stations in areas powered by renewable energy, creating a network designed to keep the internet running even when the world’s infrastructure crumbled. But the real surprise was Vredenburg—chosen in 2024 for its stability—as the site of Xland, Musk’s secret compound. Musk had bribed officials to expedite construction and connect the compound directly to the Koeberg Nuclear Power Station, ensuring a steady, independent power source.
Magnus had to reach out to Elon, and Richard chuckled, imagining how much that must have irritated him. There had always been a rivalry between the two flamboyant men. Richard continued reading, picturing how begrudging that call must have been. Still laughing, he continued reading.
By late 2025, Xland was already operational as a backup control center for Starlink, and work was well underway to construct a private launch site for rapid satellite deployment. The pages detailed how the compound was built to be self-sufficient, with its own energy storage, water purification, and highly secure data centers. Richard could picture the place now: a fortress of high-tech resiliency, designed to stay functional as the rest of the world burned.
What caught his attention most, though, was how the currency collapse coming sooner than expected in March 2026 forced a pivot. Resources grew scarce, and Xland was forced to streamline construction, focusing on critical operations and adopting a barter economy to trade its hoarded resources. The compound had shifted from a construction site to a sealed-off, fortified hub, prepared to outlast the chaos.
In a move clearly orchestrated by Magnus, Elon had managed to supply or recommend ten loyal men to the nuclear power plant—men who could redirect power at a word. Since his compound was connected to a separate trunk line, he held the power to shut down the entire town if needed. The solar farms hadn’t been laid yet, but all the necessary materials were stored in the hangars, ready to be deployed.
Frustratingly, this section of the dossier seemed outdated, written shortly after the collapse with no updates since. The next page veered into Elon’s private life: his dramatic escape by private jet from the Starlink headquarters in Texas, just before the Mexican forces arrived, then rescuing Claire 'Grimes' Boucher and Exa from Vancouver—though there was no mention of what happened to their other child—and their relocation to Xland.
Time slipped by until Richard was awakened by a sudden chime through his helmet—a distinct tone. He blinked, groggy, and realized he must have drifted off at some point. The thrum of the jet engines and the monotony of the flight had done their job. Blue's voice followed, calm and steady. "Hey, wake up, we're starting our descent to Equatorial Guinea."
Through his heads-up display, Richard’s vision was filled with a blinding expanse of solid blue sky, which quickly gave way to a stark white glare. As they descended, the view transitioned to a deep green, which gradually revealed itself as a dense forest of trees far below. But all he could make out were mountains—no sign of a landing pad, no stretch of flat land, just an endless sea of trees coming into sharper detail with every passing second.
Then, as the ground raced toward them, something unexpected came into view: a nearly vertical, almost hidden landing strip, nestled tightly within the dense mountain terrain.
“This is going to be interesting,” came Blue’s voice over the helmet, and Richard could almost hear the grin in his tone.
The plane suddenly plunged into a steep dive, G-forces pinning Richard against his seat as they veered into a wide U-turn, climbing sharply between the dense treelines of two mountains. Blue cut forward propulsion and engaged the thrust reversers, jolting Richard forward sharply against his harness. The jet roared up the runway clinging precariously to the far mountain’s slope, trees blurring past in a green haze. Air brakes deployed and gravity took hold, rapidly slowing their ascent. The narrow strip leveled off onto a small ledge, no more than 25 meters across. With surgical precision, Blue brought the plane to a halt, nearly perfectly centered on the flat surface, and let out a triumphant, “Yeehaw!”
“Tell me you’ve done that before,” Richard said, breathless.
“I haven’t done any part of that before,” Blue replied, exhilaration buzzing in his voice. “That was freaking amazing. Man, my heart’s beating like crazy.”
Below, gunmen were already surrounding the aircraft, weapons raised, eyes locked on their new arrivals.
The small ledge hosted a modest structure—four or five rooms at most—where the forest leaned heavily against its walls. The mountain loomed behind it, rising sharply into the sky.
As Blue unclips his harness, the metallic clinks echo softly in the tight space. He moves quickly but deliberately, freeing Richard from his restraints and releasing the cockpit canopy. Warm, muggy air rushed in. Blue unfolds the ladder with a careful pull. He steadies Richard onto the first rungs, ensuring his grip is secure before making his own descent, the ladder shaking slightly under their combined weight as they move down toward the unknown below.
"Don't let the militia scare you. The Count has worked this all out. I don't suppose you speak Spanish?" Blue asks, casting a steady look toward Richard.
"I keep telling people that I don't speak anything but English. Period," Richard moans playfully. "I insist that makes me a terrible ambassador, but nobody listens."
"Then stay silent," Blue smirks. "Let me do the talking."
Blue’s breath quickened as they stepped onto the plateau. The air was damp, carrying a faint, fungal odor that hinted at the moist earth beneath the tree cover. It mixed with the sharp tang of jet fuel from their landing and the unmistakable scent of old wood and decay. A small group of militia stood watch, their weapons slung casually but with the ease of those ready to draw at a moment's notice. The wind was unpredictable up here—one moment dead still, the next whipping in from nowhere, sending sharp gusts that rattled the plane’s metal and caused the tree branches to hiss and sway. Blue caught about one word in ten of their rapid-fire Spanish—something about arrival, identity, and Magnus—but it mostly blurred into noise in the tense air.
With a glance at Richard, Blue carefully reached into his jacket, feeling the eyes of the militia track every movement. Slowly, he pulled out the envelope Magnus had given him, holding it cautiously outstretched. One of the soldiers snatched it away, tearing it open with a swift, almost agitated motion. The atmosphere tightened, the scent of damp earth and sweat intensifying as the man’s eyes flicked over the contents, his brow furrowing deeper with each line. The others crowded around, peering over his shoulder, their low voices rising in heated muttering—a mix of suspicion and argument cutting through the humid air.
Blue exchanged a look with Richard, trying to stay composed but feeling the sweat bead along his spine. Stay calm, he told himself, but the uneasy glances between the militia and the letter suggested something was going wrong. The wind picked up again, buffeting them sideways before dying down just as quickly, as if the weather itself was holding its breath.
Without warning, a rifle was raised, and both Blue and Richard felt its cold barrel pressed into their backs. A stern voice barked out an order—one Blue vaguely understood to mean “move”—and they were forced at gunpoint across the plateau. The crunch of their boots over the rough, damp earth echoed in the silence, blending with the distant rustling of trees. They were marched toward the only other structure on the plateau—a small, squat house made of corrugated metal, weathered wood, and patched-up glass. The roof looked as though it had been repaired hastily, and the wooden slats of the walls were warped with rain, covered in patches of lichen and creeping moss.
Once inside, the smell was even stronger—a pungent mix of mold, stale air, and old wood, thick enough to taste. Dust motes swirled in the dim light from a single bulb, flickering from the wind leaking through the walls. The guards gestured toward a set of rough, metal bunks lined up against one wall, rusted from years of exposure to the shifting weather. A jab of the rifle made the command clear: Lie down. Blue and Richard exchanged a quick, tense glance before complying, lowering themselves onto the creaking bunks, feeling the thin mattress springs dig uncomfortably into their backs.
The door slammed shut with a metallic clang, and they heard the heavy sound of a bolt sliding into place, locking them in. The wind picked up once more, howling outside, and the unsettling smell of dampness and rot seemed to press in around them as they lay in silence, left alone in the dim light—and a sea of uneasy questions.
Richard stood up as soon as the door slammed shut and the heavy lock slid into place, ignoring the expectation to lie down. He rubbed his neck and shoulders, his legs stiff from hours of sitting. The room was cramped, only offering a few paces in either direction, but it was better than being on his back.
Blue sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at the door, listening intently for any hints of the conversation outside. Richard, restless, started pacing, stretching each stride as far as the space would allow.
“What are they saying? Do you have any idea what's going on?” Richard demanded, trying to make sense of the rapid Spanish that echoed through the walls.
Blue looked up, shrugging slightly, frustration in his eyes. “I only get bits and pieces... Something about the Count, confirmation... but it’s all jumbled, like they’re not sure whether to trust us or shoot us.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “Fantastic. And they expect us to just lie here and wait it out?”
Blue shook his head. “Seems that way. If they meant to kill us, they would've done it already. Maybe they’re just waiting for orders.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Richard said, shaking his head. “Magnus doesn’t leave things to chance. This would have been well-orchestrated before we ever left. I suppose there could have been a regime change... God, I hope they’re not trying to negotiate.” He paused, considering. “I assume there's a solar drone following us?” His voice rose at the end, making it more of a question.
“Three of them,” Blue responded without hesitation.
Richard narrowed his eyes. “You say that with certainty.”
“They coordinate with the jet via a closed laser,” Blue explained, his voice steady. “Nothing they can intercept.”
“Three,” Richard muttered, running a hand through his hair, the reality settling in. “Jesus, they could flatten this whole mountain! I never thought I’d say this, but I really hope I’m an indispensable part of his plan.” He gave a nervous chuckle, then turned to Blue, meeting his eyes. “How important do you figure you are?”
Blue’s face remained calm, but his eyes held a seriousness. “Important enough to be here,” he said. “But more than that... hard to say. Magnus doesn’t make his moves lightly.”
“He also doesn’t negotiate,” Richard continued, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the unease. “One of those crests on the wall—translated from Nordic—reads ‘the deal is the deal.’” He let out a low breath. “It’s not just a saying for him; it’s a rule. I don’t know what they think they're bargaining for, but if they’re waiting for Magnus to change terms... we’re in trouble.” He glanced around the sparse room, as if searching for reassurance. “Makes me wonder what happens if they can’t make sense of that envelope.”
Blue leaned closer, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, his eyes scanning the walls as if they might have ears. “Notice I’m still wearing my flight suit,” he said, tapping the collar. “This connects to my helmet—it’s loaded with electronics. I have voice control over much of the jet, including its weaponry.”
Richard’s eyes widened in realization. “So, you could...”
“Exactly,” Blue nodded. “Just in case things go south, we’re not as defenseless as they think.”
“How do you aim?” Richard asked, glancing at the collar.
Blue tapped a small glass button on the front of his collar. “I tag someone with this infrared laser,” he explained, turning slightly to demonstrate. “Basically by facing them. Once tagged, I can launch a missile, a rocket, a burst from the machine guns, or just a plain old laser through the forehead. All fine-tuned to your preferred level of shock and awe.” Blue’s voice remained calm, but there was a sharp edge to his words, a reminder of just how dangerous he could be if needed.
Blue’s eyes darkened as he recalled the memory. “This is my second hostage situation involving Count St. Sere. Last time was a deal gone bad in the wasteland of Copenhagen. He was in radio contact with them and made my suit emit this blinking light, a loud vehicle backup sound—told them it was a self-destruct sequence. And they bought it, ran for their lives. When they were far enough away, he blew every last one of them up. He later told me he let two escape just to spread the tale."
“When I first got to Denmark, someone took a long-distance shot at me,” Richard said, staring off as if he could still see the trail of the bullet. “Less than a minute later, something exploded far away—big enough that I saw the fireball from miles off. I’ll probably never know the story, but that was my introduction to Magnus's ‘disproportionate response’ policy.” He shrugged, feeling the need to share something, even if it felt like a small piece of the bigger chaos they were both living through.
They talked through logistics, brainstorming ways to blow the door off its hinges without getting themselves killed. So far, their best plan offered only a 20% chance of survival, which did little to ease the tension. As they were still plotting, the door swung open, and they were served food: fried plantains on white rice, drizzled with some kind of sticky animal fat, and a pitcher of extremely sweet wine. The aroma of the warm, unfamiliar meal filled the room, a stark contrast to the cold steel of their predicament.
"Can you control the solar drones with that collar thing?"
Blue shrugged. "Not really, at least not directly. It’s janky at best. And I wouldn’t want to interfere with whatever Magnus is planning—we don’t know what’s happening out there anyway. Why?"
“I was thinking about what you said—laser through the forehead,” Richard replied. “We’ve seen about ten men. The drones could use infrared to isolate everyone on the plateau and... handle them. How long would it take to get the plane in the sky?”
“If we do it by the book, turn her around and hit the runway, 20 minutes. But if we go the fun route—just drive straight off the mountain and hope we hit flight velocity in time—three minutes to get in, another three to be over the edge."
“You sound way too happy about trying that,” Richard said, taking a sip of the wine and immediately regretting it. The syrupy sweetness hit the back of his throat, almost making him gag. “You, my friend, are a dangerous but useful man.” He put the cup down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Though they’re probably swarming the plane, mucking it all up.”
Blue grinned. “You didn’t hear me lock the canopy as we descended?”
“I was busy trying not to fall down the ladder,” Richard replied, staring at the wine in the cup. He pushed it away, the taste still lingering unpleasantly. “First impressions and all.”
“Well, it’s locked,” Blue said, his eyes gleaming like someone relishing a dangerous game. “And that’s graphene with a solar glass coating. Anything short of a rocket launcher won't do a damn thing to her.” He paused, looking at the untouched wine in Richard’s hand, and chuckled. “Though I guess they could always push the whole plane over the edge. But what would they gain from that?”
Richard eyed the wine again, trying to ignore the sticky coating left in his mouth from the first taste. “Not much. Just like they won’t gain much from trying to get us drunk on this stuff.” He pushed the cup further away, grimacing. “Almost like they want to kill us, just a little bit slower.”
“Does your collar have a clock on it?” Richard asked.
“Sort of,” Blue replied, pausing briefly. “Katie, what time is it here?” A moment later, he added, “She says 18:11 WAT. Why, you got plans?”
Richard smirked. “Skipping right on past the ‘Katie’ thing. You don’t have a helmet, so how are you hearing her when I can’t?”
“Bone induction speakers in the shoulder braces,” Blue explained, tapping his shoulder. “Transmits sound directly through my bones. Pretty neat trick, right?”
“So we’ve been in here about four hours—maybe five,” Richard said, glancing around the dim room. “We haven’t heard any explosions, or shouting, or... anything. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.”
“Yeah,” Blue replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Maybe there’s just bad weather between here and there. They could be keeping us locked up for our own safety.”
“Perhaps hoping we’ll sleep,” Richard muttered, eyeing the stiff bunks again with a grimace. “Not sure if that’s better or worse.”
“Hey, can you write in Spanish?” Richard asked, the idea suddenly striking him. “Wouldn’t that get around the dialect problem?”
Blue thought for a second. “Yeah, I can manage. Standard Spanish should work better than fumbling through speaking it. Good call.”
“So then, can you figure out how to ask for pen and paper? Convey it to the next person who comes in?” Richard added, looking around for anything they could use.
Blue nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can do that... We’ll just have to play it smart. Hope they take the hint without getting suspicious.”
Richard sighed, leaning back against the cold wall. “You know, I’m suddenly thinking resting up might not be the dumbest idea. Whatever happens next is either gonna come real fast, in the dead of night with a lot of explosions, or it’s not happening until morning.”
Blue nodded, settling onto the bunk, the metal creaking slightly under his weight. “Yeah, you’re probably right. If it’s quiet, better to be ready to move when things aren’t.”
“Right,” Richard said, finding a spot on the floor to sit. “Rest while we can.”
Blue, like anyone used to a life on call, could sleep in any position and at any time. He was out cold practically before Richard finished his sentence, breathing steady in seconds. Richard, however, couldn't get his thoughts to quiet down—too many unanswered questions raced through his mind. He replayed the day's events, the voices, the possibilities, over and over until exhaustion finally pulled him under, and he settled down into a restless sleep.