The planning chamber deep in the heart of the rebellion bunker hummed with restrained energy. Pipes snaked along the ceiling, dripping condensation onto the cracked concrete floor in slow, rhythmic drops.
The yellow lights overhead flickered sporadically, casting ghostly shadows against the walls and illuminating patches of rugged steel panels that had long lost their shine. The air was thick with the scent of oil, sweat, and the unmistakable metallic tang of tension.
From beyond the solid walls, the clang of weapons drills rang through narrow ventilation ducts. Harsh commands from drill instructors barked down corridors, bouncing off aging metal and stone, reminding everyone within earshot that time was running thin.
Each echo—every shouted order, every sharp strike of metal on metal—was a reminder of why they gathered here. The rebellion wasn't waiting for hope anymore; it was planning its next desperate strike.
At the room's center rested a long, rectangular table made from repurposed scrap metal, its surface littered with scattered maps and diagrams. The arrangement was chaotic yet purposeful—handwritten notes layered over digital blueprints; old war maps marked in red ink intersecting with holographic terrain models.
Among the piles sat a worn paper map of old Delhi, frayed at the edges, a relic of a world before steel replaced soil. It lay pinned in place with rusted bolts and chipped mugs, at the very heart of their operation.
Shivam stood closest to it, his gaze locked on the red scrawls of coordinates, his mind tracing routes and possibilities. Seated beside him was Commander Vidhart, his weathered expression matching the concrete fortress around them. Years of battle, of planning one impossible mission after another, had carved deep lines of experience across his face.
Professor Agastya adjusted his cracked spectacles while shuffling through stacks of data tablets, his mind still sharp despite the exhaustion tugging at his body. He looked like a figure from an older era with his weathered blazer and thoughtful posture, but his brilliant mind was very much the backbone of their survival.
Across from them, Adhivita leaned forward, drumming her fingers lightly on the cold table's edge. Her sharp eyes scanned every detail with the practiced precision of someone who couldn't afford mistakes. Her royal heritage might have once granted her a place in gold-draped corridors, but down here, all it afforded her was the weight of betrayal.
Shivam's closest friends—Aanchal, Aman, Naina, and Dikshant—were gathered close, their normally relaxed manner hardened by the gravity of the moment. Though none were strangers to danger, there was something in the air tonight—a heaviness that settled into their bones.
Surrounding them stood a ring of seasoned tacticians, each bearing their own collection of scars. Prosthetic limbs hummed faintly as some shifted their positions, while others leaned over the maps with stern expressions sharpened by years of loss and resistance.
Above them, far from the underground confines of the rebellion's heart, the floating city wore its illusion of serenity. The artificial platforms gleamed softly beneath the weight of an August evening sky; clouds swollen with monsoon remnants swirling overhead. Dark rain streaked across translucent walkways that spiraled upward toward crystalline towers, each glistening under pulses of neon-blue lights.
Fat droplets of rain beat down against tower windows, running like liquid silver over the skeletal frames of the city's once-glorious architecture. The horizon was swallowed in a mist of low-hanging clouds, blotting out the moon and filling streets with an eerie gloom. It was a vision of stillness, a city asleep within a storm.
But beneath that steel sky, chaos was evolving.
Agastya straightened, tapping his dull pencil against a marked section of the map.
"It's not feasible to take a large unit through," he began, his voice roughened by exhaustion but as resolute as ever. "They've reinforced every entry point. Surveillance around Raisena has intensified beyond what we anticipated."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.
"We'll need our best—small, silent, fast. Everyone else becomes a distraction."
A heavy silence followed before Commander Vidhart leaned in, his eyes steeling over as his finger traced a line toward familiar coordinates.
"Samaypur Mine," he said, voice low but firm. "Close enough to demand an immediate response. We'll send fifty fighters to strike hard—messy enough to force their focus. While they burn the nest—" his gaze swept across the table "—we cut through their belly."
Aman gave a low whistle, resting his arms behind his head while shaking it with a smirk.
"Suicidal…" he muttered, "but… brilliant."
The others exchanged glances, tension bristling in the air like static. None needed to hear the risks spelled out—they all understood the stakes.
Naina's brow furrowed as she leaned closer to the battered map.
"And slipping into Raisena without every alarm screaming?" she asked, her doubt clear, though her determination remained unbroken. "Even if we draw them away, we know their sensors, patrols, drones—everything is wired tighter than fortress gates."
Aanchal shifted her weight, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her voice cutting through the rising uncertainty.
"The transport gates are a death sentence. There's no slipping through those checkpoints. We'll be walking into a slaughterhouse."
Professor Agastya gave a slow nod, eyes flickering with memories older than most of those present.
"Once," he began, "there were stealth vessels—Dominion developed them before warfare became a public spectacle." His fingers brushed across a dusty blueprint tucked between piles of notes. "Silent engines, cloaking systems built to vanish against radar grids. Most were decommissioned after the war… others simply disappeared."
Adhivita's lips curled into a sardonic smile, raising a skeptical brow.
"If this were still my father's war, perhaps we'd have access to such luxuries," she said, her voice biting with bitter humor. "But, considering we're all traitors now? I doubt he left any toys lying around for rebels."
Commander Vidhart's gruff chuckle sliced through the tension.
"Don't be so sure, Princess."
His cryptic response made heads turn. Shivam leaned forward; curiosity piqued.
"What do you mean?" he asked, eyeing Vidhart carefully.
The commander didn't answer with words. Instead, he rose from his chair and motioned for them to follow. The grating scrape of metal against concrete echoed across the room as chairs shifted and boots met the cold floor.
They moved through the steel corridors, narrow and lined with exposed pipes that rattled faintly under their footsteps. The deeper they went, the cooler the air grew, stale with disuse. Somewhere far overhead, the muffled hum of old generators reminded them they still stood upon something built long before them—one last relic of a lost world.
The hallway ended at a large bulkhead, sealed tightly from years of neglect. With a strained pull of a lever, the doors groaned open, flooding the narrow corridor with cold air and the sharp scent of machine oil.
Before them stretched a massive underground hangar, veiled in shadow. Silver dust motes danced lazily in the beams of light that cut across the cavernous space.
Vidhart walked toward a rusted control panel and slammed a hand onto a switch.
Light flooded the chamber.
A stunned silence followed, punctuated by sharp inhales of awe.
There—resting undisturbed beneath layers of dust and time—were two Dominion stealth aircrafts. Their dark, predatory shapes looked as though they could melt into shadow at any moment. Sleek black hulls glistened faintly under the renewed light, curved like the wings of hunting birds frozen in time. No visible engines marred their streamlined forms—silent, deadly weapons of war scavenged from the enemy's own vaults.
Alongside them stood three hover cars, hulking machines built to glide unseen across cityscape heights, their anti-gravity cores humming faintly as though they had never truly slept.
"For twenty years," Vidhart began, his voice carrying raw pride that rarely breached his stern demeanor, "we stole pieces of the future."
His gaze swept across the stunned faces before him.
"Every stolen part, every smuggled engine, every lost blueprint… our people risked everything, sometimes their lives, to bring them here. We built these—one fragment at a time—so that when the moment came…" He raised his chin slightly.
"We wouldn't need to fight our way in. We'd fly." Plans began shifting swiftly—solidifying into urgent action.