It's been three weeks. Three weeks of planning, of preparing, of waiting. But now, the night is here. The night we've been building towards, the night we'll make our first move in this new war. I can feel the tension in the air, the anticipation, the fear. It's almost... excruciating. This is the moment we find out of my plan is worth anything. If this is going to work, or if I'm leading people desperate enough to take hope from any direction into a trap.
I'm on a cycle again, with Alistair behind me. We're parked in the shadows, watching the supply line. It's a large vehicle, a transport, with a few guards around it. They don't look worried, don't look like they expect any trouble. They've never been attacked like this before, never had their supplies threatened by anything more than predators, and there's none of those in this area.
So they believe. They believe they're safe. That's their first mistake.
My hands grip the handlebars of the cycle, my knuckles white. I'm nervous, my heart racing, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But I'm ready. I have to be. For everyone counting on me. For Hestia.
"Almost time." Alistair's voice is a low murmur in my ear, his breath warm against my neck. "Stay focused, Sarah."
I nod, my eyes fixed on the transport. I can't afford to be distracted, can't afford to lose focus. Not now.
We wait, watching, timing our movements. The guards are moving in a pattern, a routine. They're predictable, complacent. It'll make this easier. We just need to wait for the right moment, the perfect opening.
And then, it's there. The guards move away, their backs turned, their attention elsewhere. It's now or never.
I gun the engine, the cycle lurching forward. Alistair's arms tighten around my waist, his body pressed against mine. We move quickly, silently, the night our cover.
We reach the transport in seconds, our weapons raised. The guards don't even have time to react before we're on them, our shots finding their marks. They go down without a sound, their bodies crumpling to the ground.
I leap off of the cycle, followed by Alistair. We're not here to collect supplies, and we need to be quick - this time it doesn't matter, but if we're sustaining these attacks, the aliens will start to respond, and we need to be in and out as quickly as possible.
But it's still worth it to give the thing a once-over before lighting it on fire. Alistair doesn't have to tell me that. I grab the strap of a bag and toss it to him, and then grab another for myself. They're heavy, weighing me down, but I don't care. Maren said specifically to grab bags like these if we see them, because they've got supplies she needs. Not food, but. She needs them.
We toss them onto the back of the cycle and then I pick up the sack of powdered fuel we brought. Just like in the factory - and I assume the depot - we pour it over the transport platform, and over the bodies. It doesn't take long.
"Get on, I'll light it." Alistair says, already straddling the cycle and holding out his hand. I don't argue, I just take it, letting him pull me onto the back of the cycle. We kick it into gear, the engine roaring to life, and speed away.
Once we're a safe distance away, Alistair pulls a small device from his pocket, a lighter that's been wired to a larger flare. He flicks it on, the flame catching, and then throws it towards the transport. The powder ignites, a bright, hot blaze erupting into the night. The transport goes up in flames, the fire consuming it, the supplies, the bodies. It's a spectacular sight.
We don't wait to watch it burn. We speed off into the night, the flames receding behind us, the sound of explosive supplies catching and erupting echoing through the otherwise silent desert.
Alistair laughs, the sound wild, triumphant. "How's that for a start, eh?"
I can't help but laugh with him, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the thrill of the moment overwhelming. It's reckless, dangerous, maybe even a little bit crazy. But it feels good. I can't deny that.
We make it back to base without incident, the cycle's engine purring beneath us. The others, sent after two other supply trains headed other places, are also arriving. I can see them in the distance. A pair of cycles each, no doubt with supplies strapped to them, and the fires burning behind them.
We did it. We hit them, we hurt them. And it felt...it felt right. Like this is what we should have been doing all along.
As we pull up to the base, the others are already there, their faces flushed with excitement, their eyes gleaming with victory. We all talk at once, our voices overlapping, our words tumbling out in a rush. We compare notes, discuss what went well, what could be improved. It's chaos, but it's a good chaos, a productive chaos.
Arden watches us, a small smile on his face. He doesn't say anything, just listens, lets us have our moment.
Finally he speaks. "Come on. Dinner's ready."
Alistair leaps off the cycle, fist pumping in the air, whooping his excitement. Jess grins and shakes her head, following him inside. I climb off the cycle, my legs a bit shaky, my body still buzzing with adrenaline. But I feel good. Better than I have in a long time. I feel...in control. And I like that feeling.
I follow the others inside, the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears. We gather around the table, the food hot and plentiful. It feels almost like a celebration, a feast.
Hestia is sitting next to me, her eyes wide, her expression awed. She couldn't come along this time. She's not well enough to risk on a mission again yet, not even a relatively low risk one. But she's clearly still excited by the results.
"You're on the next round, Mikhail." I call out to the older man as he walks by.
He gives me a grin that's all teeth, "Da! You will see! I will show you how real veteran fight."
"Oh...?" Arden looks up from his food. "He lets you call him Mikhail? He complains that I can't say it right."
"Ty govorish', kak printer, kotoryy umiraet." Mikhael cuts in, hovering at the doorway, rather than continuing to... wherever he was going, "You sound like dying printer!"
Are you also not 'old enough' for Misha...?" Isn't Arden nearly his age...? I don't know that for sure, but they look about the same. Who can say Misha, then? Santa?
"No, he said I had to 'earn it'. I think he wanted me to give up my alcohol." Arden's lips quirk up into a rather proud smirk. "And so I've called him Cal since."
"Soplyak!" Mikhail barks, and then seems to change his mind about whatever else he was going to say, because he just shakes his head and leaves.
I feel like... we should probably stop antagonizing him. But I don't want to. His exasperated reactions are just too amusing.
I'm not sure how long this feeling will last, this sense of victory. I know it won't always be this easy. There will be setbacks, failures, losses. But for now, I'm going to enjoy it. We deserve that, at least. And as long as we're careful, smart about this, maybe we'll have more of these moments.
I'm determined to make that happen.
For...
For me.