July 5, 2057 – 11:47 p.m.
I-75 Northbound, just past Flint
The highway is empty except for moonlight and the convoy.
Three black vans, no markings, running dark. Red Mirage's illusion wraps them in a bubble of ordinary night: to any drone or traffic cam, it looks like three empty semis hauling nothing but Michigan air.
Inside the bubble, the truth is uglier.
Elijah stands in the breakdown lane, hoodie up, shadows pooling at his feet like spilled oil waiting for a spark. The graze on his ribs has scabbed over; pain is background noise now.
Aisha crouches beside him, legs humming softly as the fans cool down. Jonah sits cross-legged on the guardrail, eyes closed, breathing slow—listening to thoughts he never asked to hear. Kenji kneels ten feet away, both palms flat on the asphalt, feeling for the old burial ground sleeping beneath layers of concrete and time.
Maya arrives last, stepping out of Jonah's van with the frybread foil still in her pocket. Her blond braid catches the moonlight like pale fire. She doesn't speak; she just walks straight to Kenji and places a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, then relaxes a fraction.
The temperature rises ten degrees in a five-foot radius around her.
Elijah checks his burner. One new message from an anonymous relay: They're two minutes out.
He deletes it, looks at the team—five kids who met in person less than twenty-four hours ago—and nods once.
Kenji's eyes snap open. "Ground's awake. It remembers."
The asphalt ripples like water. A low groan rises from the earth, the sound of something ancient stretching after a long, angry sleep.
Headlights appear on the horizon, faint at first, then growing.
The convoy enters the burial ground stretch doing seventy.
Red Mirage is riding in the lead van, passenger seat, window down. Elijah can feel the illusion brush against his shadows like static.
Jonah whispers, voice strained, "Twenty-three kids in the back two vans. Guards are… bored. Cocky. One's thinking about his fantasy football draft."
Aisha cracks her neck. "Give me thirty seconds of chaos and I'll clear the escorts."
Maya steps forward, palms open. Golden light gathers there, soft at first, then brighter. "I'll keep the kids calm. And warm."
Elijah looks at Kenji. "Your cousin?"
Kenji stands, red dust drifting from his clenched fists. "I'll talk to him first. If he won't listen…" He doesn't finish.
The lead van is close enough now to see the driver's silhouette.
Elijah raises a hand. Shadows surge up from the ditches, forming a wall across all three lanes—black, solid, absolute.
Brakes scream. Tires smoke. The convoy fishtails but stops ten feet short.
Doors fly open. Six armed escorts pile out, rifles up, shouting conflicting orders.
Aisha blurs.
In three-second bursts she's a purple storm: rifles clatter to the pavement, zip-ties snap on wrists instead of ankles, escorts drop unconscious before they know what hit them.
Jonah's eyes glow faint blue. Every guard suddenly freezes, faces twisting as memories that aren't theirs flood in—memories of children crying in cages, of mothers screaming names into empty night.
Kenji walks straight down the center line, earth cracking open in narrow fissures that swallow weapons but leave people untouched.
Maya moves to the rear vans, palms glowing brighter. The back doors swing open on their own. Kids stumble out blinking, some crying, some silent. Her light wraps around them like a blanket, warm and steady, chasing away the cold terror.
Elijah heads for the lead van.
The passenger door opens slowly.
Kayden Tsosie steps out.
Seventeen, thin, eyes too old. His hair is longer than Kenji's, braided with red thread. The air around him shimmers like heat over desert rock.
Kenji stops twenty feet away. "Cuz."
Kayden's voice is quiet, almost gentle. "You shouldn't have come."
"You turned them in," Kenji says. Not a question.
Kayden doesn't deny it. "They were going to take them anyway. I made sure it was clean. No broken bones. No accidents."
Elijah feels the shadows tighten around his wrists, hungry.
Kenji's voice cracks. "You sold kids to the feds."
"I gave them a wake-up call," Kayden answers. "Starting tonight, every camera in America is going to show what really happens on this road. Every graveyard we paved over. Every treaty we broke. They'll feel it. All of it."
The illusion flickers. For a split second the highway vanishes—replaced by endless rows of unmarked graves, wind whispering names in languages almost forgotten.
Maya's light flares brighter, pushing the vision back.
Kayden looks at her. "You're the one from Vegas. The fire girl."
Maya steps between him and the kids. "Let them go, Kayden. This isn't teaching. It's just more graves."
Kayden smiles, sad and sharp. "That's the point."
The ground shakes harder. Kenji's doing, or the land's.
Elijah steps forward. "Last chance."
Kayden meets his eyes. "For which of us?"
Behind them, the freed children huddle near Maya's glow. Sirens begin to wail in the far distance—too late, or just in time.
Kayden raises both hands.
The illusion snaps into something new.