"Things will never be the same again."
Gneiss Underwood never thought that he could have a shot of a normal life.
Growing up in an environment where everything defied sanity, guns and loneliness were his normal companions, if not danger and Death h...
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"It's way too complicated. Lies, half-truths, relationships, power plays, entanglements... it's like walking on thin ice, and everyone is just staring, waiting for you to fall. I don't like it here. I want to escape. But I don't know my way back home. I no longer know where is my home."
Number Six
No one noticed her entrance.
They were intent on overseeing that the V-100 jet aircraft Plasma had no faults, that its fuel tank was full and the insides comfortable enough to fit a royalty travelling at the speed of sound. Bases yawned here and there, some sipping coffee and hot chocolate to placate their empty stomachs, while others ran back and forth with grim determination.
The maintenance team wanted to leave as soon as possible. They didn't want to see or be seen by the Equation that requested the flight. Even if the tuning and tests were scheduled at exactly five am, they got up two hours earlier to get rid any possibility of meeting the said Equation.
The aviators weren't as lucky.
Most of them had dark circles under their eyes, unable to sleep during the night because they feared it to be their last. None of them wanted to pilot the plane, even if it was the finest aircraft Creed had to offer. Not when their passenger is the highest-seated Equation 00. But what choice did they have?
They were trained to fly the damn thing! But wasn't everyone? Agents of Creed were all-rounders, taught not only the basics of using their Gifts but also military know-hows and survival.
So why did 00 have to request pilots? And why were they the unfortunate ones who were scheduled to take flying courses this day?
But there was hope. Since the plane was small, 00 could only take two or three aviators at most. There were fourteen of them at the moment. Thus, each aviator decided to act like the most boring, most unreliable pilot on the face of the earth.
"Where's the wrench?" a dark-haired man mumbled as he scanned the tools beside him. He squatted and looked under the jet plane. "Did someone use mine?"
"Are you talking about this socket wrench?"
Jan turned around with a frown. A small female Base handed him the dirty tool. He grudgingly returned to his work and tightened the bolt head that held the emergency fuel packs.
"Do you need anything else?" the female Base asked in a soft, musical voice.
"No," the man replied.
"Okay."
The girl was unfamiliar with short raven hair and green eyes, probably half a decade younger than him. Even though she wore the customary gray uniform, she stood out like a painted whore in a town barn. She regarded him with amusement.
