A man in an all-black uniform moved like a shadow along the outer fence of a military outpost near Truval City.
Lance Michaels dropped behind a cargo container and waited as a patrol passed—two soldiers, lazy boots, routine timing. When they vanished around the corner, he tapped the device on his forearm.
A blue holographic blueprint unfolded above his wrist, showing corridors, keycard checkpoints, and the base's underground network.
There, he thought. Waste facility access. Sewer junction. Five entrances connect to the outpost proper.
He killed the display and slipped forward, hugging blind spots and light gaps with practiced ease.
For months the resistance had bled in the dark—waiting for one clean strike that would matter. And then, a month ago, a packet of data had appeared at Rebel HQ like a gift from a god: partial schematics, shift timing, and a single note—this outpost is worth investigating.
No sender. No explanation.
Only opportunity.
Lance had been sent to exploit it.
Infiltrate. Steal what he could. Plant charges. Cripple the base hard enough that Truval City's military grip would loosen.
He reached the marked sewer drain and froze.
Two guards stood near it, talking like they owned the night.
Lance pressed himself into the shadow of the wall and watched. A few minutes. Then a loop repeated—one guard checked his wrist display, the other yawned, both turned away for the same eight-second gap.
Good enough.
He drew a compact blaster from his hip. Stun mode.
Two quick pops—soft, almost invisible in the open air.
The guards collapsed without even reaching for their weapons.
Lance dragged them into a bush line, lowered the manhole cover with careful hands, and dropped into the sewer.
The stench hit like a fist.
For half a second his body wanted to revolt. Then training took over. He forced his breathing shallow and controlled, pulled a charge from his pack, and set it beside the entry point.
Fifteen exits. Five connect to the outpost. If they chase me through the tunnels, I want them boxed in and confused.
He moved fast but methodical, placing charges at each outpost-connected sewer access. Each device had two detonation methods: a physical trigger on his person… and a failsafe keyed to a phrase.
If he got captured, he wouldn't stay captured.
After the fifth charge, Lance reached the disposal access and raised the manhole cover a fraction.
He scanned the room above.
A camera panned left and right at the far corner—steady, automated.
Lance tapped his wrist-pad again.
His body blurred.
Cloaking shimmer swallowed him, bending the light like heat haze until he was barely a suggestion.
He slipped out, staying low, moving beneath the camera's sweep. A small device clicked onto the camera casing—an override loop.
Five minutes of footage, repeated for two hours.
It wouldn't fool a paranoid officer forever, but it would buy time.
He checked the hallway. Clear.
Then he followed the route on his holo-map toward the generator room.
Outside, a speeder dropped Captain Osborne and four soldiers at the main gate.
Osborne's eyes swept the yard automatically as they walked.
Two patrol sectors were empty.
That's odd… shift change? he thought. Or someone got lazy.
He didn't like it, but he filed it away instead of raising an alarm without proof.
"Get food. Get rest," he told his team as they entered. "I'll report to command."
They saluted and split.
Osborne headed deeper into the outpost.
Lance reached the generator corridor and spotted a lone guard by the doors—keycard access, double-lock.
The guard leaned against the wall, grinning at a call.
"Honey, my shift ends in an hour," he said, voice thick with anticipation. "When I get home, you better be wearing that red lingerie I bought you."
Lance peeked around the corner. No cameras. No extra guards.
He raised the blaster.
One stun shot.
The guard crumpled mid-sentence.
Lance took the keycard from the man's pocket, swiped it, and the doors clicked open.
Inside, the generator room thrummed with power—four massive battery banks and the main generator unit at the rear.
Perfect.
He planted charges with careful spacing: one per battery bank. One on the generator housing.
Then he dragged the stunned guard inside, out of casual sight, and sealed the doors behind him.
He moved through the outpost like a disease—quiet, spreading.
Support pillars. Supply room. Weapons locker. Vehicle garage.
Charge after charge.
His intent wasn't just damage.
It was collapse.
By the time he moved toward command, his timer sense felt like a knife pressed to his ribs.
He slowed near the mess hall and overheard voices.
"Lieutenant," someone said, "let's meet Captain Osborne at command. He should be done with his report by now."
A squad of soldiers moved toward the command center.
Lance watched them go.
Shit. That room is going to be packed.
He followed anyway.
As they approached command, cameras multiplied—every hallway, every angle. Lance waited for the soldiers to pass, then dashed forward to slap loop devices on the cameras along his route.
One after another.
Fast.
Risky.
He caught the command doors opening as the soldiers swiped their card.
Lance activated cloak and slipped in behind them.
The command center was a tiered pit of consoles and screens, a holographic map glowing at the lowest level. Officers clustered around it like vultures around a carcass.
Captain Osborne stood at the holo table, marking points around Northor.
Lance saw an unattended side row of computers.
He moved.
A data chip slid into a port.
Copy began.
A progress indicator crawled upward.
Come on… come on…
His cloak felt warm against his skin, like it was burning through battery life.
He didn't wait idle.
He planted a charge near the main doors.
Another near the lower-level consoles.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then—alarms.
A harsh wail punched through the command center.
Osborne straightened. "Report."
A soldier typed rapidly, then turned. "Several guards are missing—outside and inside. Replacement crews never found them. Two teams missed their check-in windows."
Osborne's jaw tightened. He tapped a red control on the main console.
"Lock down internal sections. M1 team—sweep the building. Hostile is to be captured alive. I want answers."
Soldiers surged out.
Lance kept still, but his heart slammed against his ribs.
He crouched behind the main computer and set his final charge.
As he stood—
His cloak flickered.
For half a second, he existed.
Visible.
Osborne's head snapped toward the distortion. "What the—?"
"The intruder is cloaked!" someone shouted.
Osborne yanked his blaster up.
"Give up," he barked, eyes locked on the last shimmer. "This room will be flooded with troops in minutes. You have nowhere to—"
A stun shot hit him square between the shoulders.
Osborne collapsed.
Lance didn't celebrate.
He yanked the data chip free—only seventy percent completed.
Good enough.
He bolted.
The command doors burst open into chaos. Footsteps hammered the hallways like drums.
Lance sprinted for the disposal corridor. Alarms howled. Lights flashed red.
His cloak died mid-run.
He became a man again, exposed in a bright hallway.
Two soldiers rounded a corner, saw him, and fired.
Lance switched to kill mode.
He rolled, came up shooting—one soldier dropped, the other dove into cover and returned fire.
Bolts screamed past walls, leaving scorched lines.
Lance pulled a flash grenade, tossed it around the corner, and turned away.
A muffled scream.
He rushed the angle and double-tapped the disoriented soldier.
The hall fell silent except for alarms and distant boots.
Lance reached the disposal room, ripped open the manhole, dropped into the sewer, and slammed the cover back into place.
He set the detonator.
Three minutes.
Then he ran.
Above, soldiers poured into the outpost in heavy armor, weapons ready, shouting commands into comms. They didn't know where the infiltrator went—only that he had been here.
Then the first explosion hit.
A deep, heavy boom that shook the ground.
Another followed—closer.
Then three in a row.
The building screamed as its support pillars failed.
Cracks crawled along the walls like lightning. Floors sagged. Steel groaned.
Inside the command pit, the charges detonated and the room vanished in fire and collapsing concrete.
The outpost folded in on itself—ceiling crashing down, corridors sealing, men and machines buried together in a makeshift coffin of stone and twisted metal.
Outside, the soldiers staggered back as dust and debris erupted into the night.
The outpost—once a symbol of control—became a cratered tomb.
And somewhere in the sewer tunnels, Lance Michaels disappeared into darkness with a stolen chip and the echo of the boom following him like a heartbeat.