The rebel base buzzed with quiet urgency in the days that followed. Six days. That was how long it took to finalize the strategy, test the equipment, and—perhaps most painfully—choose the names of those who would not likely return.
Samaypur Mine would be the key.
A deadly diversion, designed to draw the Dominion's elite forces far from their core operations. It wasn't a suicide mission, not officially—but everyone knew the odds. Those who were chosen weren't just names on a list. They were warriors, engineers, students, parents. Some were barely trained. Others had lived their entire lives preparing for a moment like this. Now, they were bound by something stronger than ideology. Sacrifice.
The war room became their second home. The command table was a mess of holo-maps and digital overlays, constantly flickering with updates. Every corridor hummed with movement—boots echoing on concrete, code snippets flying across screens, drones being calibrated to respond to neural commands.
Dikshant barely left the systems bay. He worked like a man possessed, fusing old Dominion tech into rebel-built interfaces. Every hour, he brought systems online that no one thought could even coexist. Sometimes he'd crack a joke under his breath—little comments that made the engineers smirk and shake their heads—but there was no mistaking the edge in his voice. The anxiety was real. It crawled up their spines like static.
Naina, with the help of commander Vidhart and his other generals, operated like a general in miniature. The Samaypur team was her responsibility. She called names with clinical clarity, selecting volunteers based on skill and stealth, not sentiment. But every decision cost her something. No one saw her cry, but her eyes stayed red. She had accepted that she would be sending good people—friends—to a place that could consume them whole.
Aanchal and Aman had disappeared underground. Quite literally. They studied Dominion sewer grids from before the Collapse, crawling through layers of ancient concrete and steel. Every blind spot in the energy web became a possible infiltration route. The maps they sketched were riddled with red marks and side-notes, symbols only they understood.
Adhivita trained the miners, the ones who once dug stone and metal and now carried knives and grenades. Her sessions were brutal. She taught them how to fight dirty, where to aim, and when to hold their breath. There was no glory in this kind of warfare—only survival. And even that wasn't guaranteed.
Shivam watched it all from the sidelines, silent but ever-present. His gaze was sharper than most. When he did speak, it was always to ask the question no one wanted to face—the question that revealed the weak point in a plan or the hole in a defense system. He wasn't the loudest, but they had all come to listen when he spoke.
By the end of the sixth day, the names were ready. Everyone was called into the central chamber.
The lights were dimmed, not out of drama, but reverence. The air was thick with unspoken dread. Commander Vidhart stood at the center, flanked by Professor Agastya and Naina. The list trembled slightly in Vidhart's hand—not out of weakness, but out of weight.
He began to read.
Each name fell like a stone in water. Some met the announcement with quiet nods, others with clenched fists. There were those who smiled faintly at their families across the hall, exchanging silent goodbyes with brave faces. One or two cheered, trying to lift spirits—but the attempt barely echoed. Most just stood still, processing the reality that they had been chosen to step into the fire.
The Samaypur team wasn't just going to fight. They were going to distract, to draw Dominion eyes away from Shivam's team. They were the bait, the shield, the first domino. And they all knew it.
That evening, twelve hours before launch, the hangar bay stood like a temple of steel and silence.
Rows of black stealth aircraft lined the polished floor, their edges gleaming with a menace that didn't need words. Shivam stood in front of one, fingertips brushing the almost invisible seam of the hull. The craft's surface was cold and unforgiving.
He imagined the clouds parting for him. Silence. Velocity. Destiny.
Behind him, a low whistle echoed.
Dikshant.
"These things… they look like they could fly through a thunder god's rage and come out smiling."
Adhivita circled a nearby hover car, her touch reverent.
"They were never meant to be seen," she murmured. "They were meant to haunt the skies, kill quietly, vanish like ghosts."
Professor Agastya was checking the final nodes, his motions slow, precise, almost devotional.
"We built these in silence," he said softly. "Beneath centuries of noise. If we fail… these will burn with us."
Commander Vidhart stepped into the light; arms folded. His voice cut through the hangar.
"But if we succeed… they'll become legend."
Silence followed—thick, heavy, unbroken.
The kind that only comes before storms.
Later that night, the mess hall flickered with half-light. No one said it, but everyone knew—it might be their last supper. Plates were barely touched. Some nibbled on synthetic rice. Others just sat, talking in whispers or staring at their reflections in cups of imitation tea.
At one corner table, six friends gathered like always.
Shivam. Naina. Dikshant. Adhivita. Aanchal. Aman. Aman broke the silence, looking into his mug. "If we die tomorrow," he said, "I want it on record that I still owe Dikshant 300 credits." Dikshant grinned. "If we die tomorrow, I'll haunt your debt in the afterlife."
Naina scoffed. "You two are idiots."
Adhivita chuckled. "Idiots live longer. They don't think hard enough to worry."
Aanchal leaned in. "No speeches tomorrow. No drama. We get the core. We get out."
Shivam nodded; voice low. "Agreed."
For a moment, they sat in silence.
Then Shivam, almost out of nowhere, smiled — not the tight, tired smile they had all worn for days, but a sudden, mischievous one that flickered like a forgotten light bulb coming alive.
"Remember eighth grade?" he said, leaning back against the cold steel wall behind him. "When Aman and I kept teasing Naina for being the self-appointed classroom commander?"
Aman nearly choked on his drink. "Oh god, yes! She'd walk in with the roll number list and start bossing everyone around — 'Roll number twelve, why haven't you submitted your assignment?'"
Naina narrowed her eyes, but the glimmer of old amusement was already rising. "I was trying to help the teacher! You two were just lazy and undisciplined."
"You were obsessed with the rules," Shivam said with mock horror. "'As per instruction, we must use blue pen and write only in cursive.' Who even says that in eighth grade?"
"And then," Aman added, stifling laughter, "when she finally got fed up with us, she turned around with those giant teary eyes and said—"
Together, he and Shivam said in unison, "'My mother says Bhagwan sab Kuch dekhte Hain!'"
The table erupted. Even Naina couldn't stop herself from laughing, covering her face with both hands.
"You guys were monsters," she said between chuckles. "I had to sit next to a plant for the rest of the week to calm down."
"That's true," Aanchal piped in, smirking. "But you have to admit, Naina was terrifying with those rulebooks. I once saw her correct a teacher's date on the whiteboard."
"I was just… helping maintain accuracy," Naina muttered, red-faced.
"Oh please," Aanchal said, grinning. "Miss Sinha almost resigned that day. Thought the kids had become smarter than her."
"Speaking of Sinha," Shivam said, "remember when Aanchal called her out during geography class for skipping tectonic plates and jumping to climate change?"
Aanchal tossed her hair dramatically. "What can I say? I was the queen bee of Section B. I couldn't let sloppy education slide."
"Queen bee? You were more like queen chaos," Dikshant chimed in, joining the teasing. "You once made half the boys in class take turns writing notes for you. Including me."
Aanchal shot him a regal look. "You all volunteered. I never forced anyone."
"No," Dikshant said, feigning seriousness. "You threatened to tell the biology teacher I cheated on the lab report." Adhivita chuckled, quietly watching them. For a moment, the hardened edges softened around each of them. They weren't rebels in that instant — just teenagers who had grown too fast, laughing over a past that now seemed too distant to be real.
"Basketball," Naina said, the word emerging like a faint memory surfacing from the depths. "Remember the inter-house tournament in tenth?"
"Barely," Aman grumbled. "Shivam elbowed me in the ribs trying to block a shot."
"It was an accident!" Shivam said. "You were in the way!"
"Shivam scored the winning point," Aanchal said with mock admiration. "Then celebrated like he'd just won the World Cup."
"It was a big deal," he replied with a grin. "I thought the cheerleaders would carry me out." "No one carried you," Naina said, rolling her eyes. "You just tripped and fell into the water bottles."
Even Adhivita laughed then, and her voice was a surprise — softer than the rest had heard it in days. "I wish I had memories like that," she said quietly.
The laughter dwindled, the warmth still lingering but now shadowed by something more tender.
No one spoke for a while. The hum of distant machinery and the low shuffle of boots in the hallway became the only sounds. Eventually, Aman leaned back and sighed. "We were just kids once. Now we're soldiers." "Not by choice," Naina added. "But by necessity," Aanchal finished. Their laughter, their memories — they lingered in the room like perfume from a past long gone. But outside, the war waited. A shadow on the doorstep. Then Aanchal turned to Adhivita. "What about your dad?" she asked softly. "Do you ever… know why he is the way he is?" Adhivita's expression dimmed. "No. It was all before I was born. He never talked much. Not to us. Just expected us to carry his name like it was armor."
She paused; her eyes distant. "Once, I wandered into his study. Big portrait of a woman on the wall—him standing next to her. I think it was my mother. But when he saw me, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me out. Told me never to go in there again." Everyone was quiet now. "What happened to her?" Naina asked.
Adhivita shook her head. "All they ever said was… she died giving birth to us. And he was never the same." Their laughs faded into silence again—this time not out of grief, but reverence. Reality returned. War was hours away.
Above them, black clouds twisted over Dominion airspace, rumbling like beasts in mourning. Inside the Dominion Palace, Commander Vyer stood before the gate. Alone. Lights pulsed across its carved surface-like blood flowing through ancient veins. He activated a console. Grainy footage appeared—a portal bursting open. A beam of light shooting skyward.
Another screen blinked on. Satellite footage. A train. Appearing where none had run for years. Inside, approx. 15 figures stumbled out. Confused. Broken. Young.
He zoomed in. Shivam. Then Aanchal. Naina. Aman. Dikshant. And Others Vyer's breath hitched. "You didn't just fall into this war," he whispered. "You were thrown into it." He stared into the swirling energy of the gate. The storm was about to begin.