Kenji's declaration hung in the cold night air, a statement of intent so reckless it seemed to suck all the sound from the world.
"Stealing it is a high-risk, low-probability outcome, Kenji," Sato said, her voice a low, analytical whisper. "Our primary mission is intelligence gathering, not asset acquisition. We don't have the manpower or the equipment for a direct confrontation."
"Our primary mission just became survival," Kenji countered, his voice hard. "In two days, Ouroboros plans to 'clean the floor.' They will eliminate us, and they will eliminate any civilian they perceive as a loose end. Waiting for them to act is not an option. We have to take the fight to them. We have to get that package before they can deliver it."
"'We'?" Sato asked, her eyebrow raised. "There are two of us, Kenji. Against a team of trained, professional couriers."
"No," Kenji said, a decision solidifying in his mind, a profound violation of every protocol he had ever learned. "I think our team is bigger than that."
He was an agent. He knew the rules. Involving civilians was the ultimate sin, a line you never, ever crossed. To do so was to knowingly and willfully place them in the direct line of fire. It was a death sentence. But Alek's threat had already signed that sentence. He wasn't dragging them into his war. He was giving them a fighting chance to survive theirs.
He found Haruto first, loading heavy sacks of oats into a truck in the pre-dawn chill. He was blunt.
"The people I'm with, the Spiders… they're not just performers. They're dangerous. And they're getting ready to clean house. We saw something we shouldn't have. And you," Kenji looked him straight in the eye, "you've been seen talking to me. In their world, that makes you a loose end. A piece of trash to be cleaned up."
Haruto stopped, a fifty-pound sack of oats resting on his shoulder. He stared at Kenji, his cynical eyes searching for a lie. He found none. He slowly lowered the sack to the ground. "The stew," he said finally. "That was them, wasn't it? Getting us out of the way."
"Yes."
"Damn it," Haruto whispered, a cloud of smoke escaping his lips as he lit a cigarette. "I knew this job was too good to be true." He looked at Kenji. "What do you need?"
Next was Ricco. Kenji found him in the rigger's workshop, meticulously inspecting a length of high-tensile steel cable. With him, an appeal to survival wouldn't work. Kenji had to appeal to the ghost of the man he used to be.
"Ricco," Kenji said quietly. "The men we're up against. They're like your old mentor. They're users. They see people as tools to be controlled and discarded when they're no longer useful. They're going to hurt people here if we don't stop them."
Ricco's hands stilled on the cable.
"They've got us trapped," Kenji said simply. "I need a way to disappear. I need a ghost. I need someone who knows every shadow in this place, every secret space in the rigging where a person can vanish. I need an expert in the art of not being seen." He was not just asking for help. He was telling Ricco that his skills, the very skills born from his trauma, were needed now more than ever.
The final piece was Miyuki. He found her in the mess tent long after breakfast, quietly sweeping the floor. He didn't speak until she had put her broom away and sat down across from him with a cup of tea.
"Miyuki-san," he began, his voice filled with a respect that was entirely genuine. "You told me that you fight the chaos. That you create a small corner of order in a messy world."
She nodded, sipping her tea.
"There is a great mess coming," he said. "A mess that threatens to sweep away the family you have found here. We are going to stop them. But they are watching all the exits. I need a path, Miyuki-san. I need you to show me the clean, quiet way through the heart of their mess."
She looked down into her teacup, her old, wise eyes clouded with thought. When she looked up, her expression was not one of fear, but of a quiet, unshakeable resolve.
"The trash," she said softly, "must be taken out."
That night, they gathered. The five of them—Kenji, Haruto, Ricco, and Miyuki, with Sato a silent, watchful presence—huddled in the back of the feed barn, the air thick with the sweet smell of hay and conspiracy. This was the headquarters of the resistance.
"The target is the old greenhouse, tomorrow night," Kenji began, laying out a rough sketch of the camp in the dirt floor. "Our objective is to acquire the package they are prepping inside. But we have to assume they'll have lookouts. We need a plan for infiltration and exfiltration. And that," he said, looking at them, "is where I need your expertise."
It was Ricco who spoke first, his rigger's mind already dissecting the problem. "The structure is a skeleton," he said, his voice a low, practical rumble. "The glass is mostly gone, but the steel frame is intact. It will be wired. Simple pressure plates on the floor, probably a magnetic sensor on the main door. They're professionals, but they're arrogant. They'll use a standard, off-the-shelf system."
"Which means it's tied into the camp's main power grid," Sato concluded, her eyes gleaming. "If we can cut the power, we can bypass the electronic security."
"The main generator," Haruto grunted. "It's a piece of junk, always on the fritz. But the only person who knows how to make it 'accidentally' fail is Pops." He looked at Kenji. "The old electrician. He hates the Spiders more than he hates his own lungs. If you want to cause some electrical chaos, he's your man."
The plan began to form, a chaotic, beautiful, and deeply improbable machine, each part supplied by a different member of their unlikely crew. Pops, summoned by Haruto, arrived in the feed barn, grumbling but intrigued. He confirmed he could rig the generator to overload, creating a temporary blackout. "It'll knock out the power to the whole west sector, including their little clubhouse," he said with a cynical grin. "But only for a minute, maybe two, before the backups kick in."
"Two minutes is a lifetime," Kenji said. "But how do we get from here to there without being seen by their lookouts?"
Miyuki, who had been a silent observer, finally spoke. "The laundry run," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "It happens at 0300. A single cart, from the main laundry to the performer's trailers. It passes within ten feet of the generator shed and ends thirty feet from the greenhouse. The night patrol is at its weakest then. They are tired. Careless. I have walked it a thousand times. No one ever sees the laundry cart."
"Perfect," Sato breathed, seeing the clean, elegant logic of it. "A ghost to hide the ghosts."
"That gets us in," Haruto said. "What about getting out? Once they know they've been hit, they'll lock this place down tighter than a drum." He kicked the tire of his own beat-up feed truck, parked just outside the barn. "This old girl ain't fast, but she's big. I can create a final, blocking diversion at the main gate. A plausible 'engine stall.' It'll hold up their whole convoy, give you time to slip out the service exit."
The plan was a beautiful, insane, and perfectly synchronized machine, built from the spare parts of their broken lives. Sato and Kenji, the professionals, took these raw, brilliant ideas and began to forge them into a weapon, assigning timings, code words, and contingencies.
Kenji looked at the faces of his strange, unlikely army. A janitor, a cleaning lady, a broken acrobat, a cynical feed hauler, and a grumpy electrician. They were the Grounders. They were the forgotten. And they were about to bring the entire, glittering world of the Spiders crashing down to earth.