December 15, 2025 — 09:23 AM
En Route to Philippines – 28,000 Feet Over East China Sea
The C-17 Globemaster III soared high above the clouds, its four engines humming with steady purpose. The ridgelines of northern Japan had long faded behind them, swallowed by a blanket of fog and ocean haze. Below, endless blue stretched in all directions. No ships. No land. Only water, horizon to horizon.
Inside the cockpit, Thomas Estaris sat in the left seat, visor half-lowered over his eyes as he reviewed the return teletry on the navigation screen. They were cruising at altitude, halfway ho.
Madel, seated beside him, sipped from a thermos of hot water. Her eyes flicked across the control panel.
"All systems nominal," she said, glancing at the digital fuel gauge. "Remaining flight ti: two hours, twelve minutes."
Thomas gave a tired nod. "Smooth ride so far."
"Too smooth," she replied under her breath.
In the cargo hold, Li, Mira, and Velez were seated in their restraints, discussing next steps once they returned to MOA Complex. The drop to Japan had gone perfectly. Relay was up. The ridge was operational. Everything had gone exactly according to plan.
That should have been the first warning sign.
Thomas leaned back and looked out the cockpit window.
The sky was crystal clear—just light streaks of cirrus drifting overhead. The sea below glittered under the late-morning sun. No turbulence. No storm.
Then the console beeped.
"Altitude pressure fluctuation," Madel said, frowning.
Thomas leaned forward. "Where?"
She pointed at the HUD. "Rear-left pressure drop—minimal, but sudden."
"Cargo bay locked tight?"
"It was."
Thomas toggled the rear cam.
The screen went static for a mont. Then—
"Wait," Madel whispered.
There was… movent.
High above, sothing passed the tail cara's edge. Just a blur at first.
And then the radar blinked.
Unidentified airborne contact. Close proximity. Altitude matched. Speed—accelerating.
"Shit," Thomas muttered, flicking the exterior sensors to thermal.
A blotch of red appeared on the upper-left quadrant. Big. Too big.
Madel stared at the screen. "That's not a plane."
"No," Thomas said grimly. "That's a damn creature."
Outside the glass, a shadow streaked past.
It was massive.
Wings like torn leather, wider than the C-17 itself. The shape of it was impossible to mistake—a Bloom-mutated bird the size of a small jet, but its feathers had fused with bony armor. Its eyes glowed amber, intelligent and burning. Its talons could rip steel.
Madel snapped her headset back on. "Everyone brace! Bird-class Bloom inbound!"
In the hold, Li barely had ti to shout before the creature made its pass.
The sound was thunder.
Not from the engines—but from the impact.
The left wing jolted violently as the monster's talons slamd into the trailing edge, shredding the flap.
"Left wing damaged!" Madel shouted. "Losing lift!"
Thomas yanked the control stick. "Countering with thrust!"
The C-17 banked hard to the right, listing unevenly as the autopilot scread and disengaged. The monster didn't give them a mont to recover—it ca back around and slashed at the cockpit with its claws, cracking the upper right panel and rocking the nose.
"We have to descend!" Madel shouted, punching ergency stabilization. "We're not staying in the air with this thing chewing on us!"
"No mayday," Thomas said sharply. "We're over dead waters. No one's listening."
Another hit.
This ti it wasn't claws—it was its mass.
The thing slamd its body onto the tail, crushing the rear fuselage.
In the hold, Mira scread as she was thrown against the wall. Velez hit the floor hard. Cargo straps snapped. A drone crate burst loose, rolling across the bay like a cannonball.
"Hydraulics failing!" Li shouted. "We're going down!"
Inside the cockpit, alarms blared. Altitude dropped fast.
"Prepare for ditching!" Thomas called over the crew comms.
Madel looked at him. "We're still too high."
"We won't be for long."
Below them, the ocean rushed upward.
Thomas gritted his teeth. "Full nose-up trim. We glide. We hit the water with the belly—not the cockpit."
Madel nodded, strapping herself in tighter.
In the back, Mira crawled to the crash harness. Velez was unconscious. Li held onto the straps, bracing.
The monster circled one last ti… and then it vanished.
Not retreating.
Just watching.
Thomas didn't care.
They were too low to stay airborne. Engines sputtered. The C-17 descended like a wounded hawk.
Then ca the impact.
CRASH
The fuselage slamd into the ocean, the nose catching the first wave like a hamr to stone. The world jerked, the wings snapped sideways, and the cockpit windshield spidered with cracks. Water surged in from ruptures. The sound of ripping tal filled the air as the hull split behind the wing root.
Darkness.
Cold.
Screaming tal.
And then—nothing.
December 15, 2025 — 11:39 AM
Sowhere in the East China Sea
Salt.
That was the first thing Thomas felt.
His throat burned with it. His skin was soaked in it. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred as he blinked against the sun.
He was floating, half-lashed to a seat cushion, adrift on a slab of aircraft fuselage. The remains of Atlas One were nowhere in sight—only pieces of her. Shattered plating. Scorched wires. A floating seat harness. A half-subrged drone casing.
And then silence.
No Velez.
No Madel.
No Li.
They were gone.
He coughed, rolled onto his back, and stared at the sky. It was the sa sky they had flown through just hours earlier. Empty. Beautiful.
And now completely indifferent.
He was alone.
Alive.
But alone.
Thomas clenched his jaw, blood trickling from his temple as he reached into the pocket of his torn vest.
The waterproof terminal still flickered.
One blinking light.
Active Uplink: 1 bar
Beacon Code: Standby
He stared at it.
Then pressed the ergency beacon.
A small red dot blinked once.
Then again.
Then again.
Then again.
Sowhere, sohow, maybe soone would see it, his Overwatch team.
But judging the distance between the MOA Complex and his position, they have no way of reaching him.
For now, Thomas Estaris was a man adrift in the sea.
No wings.
No crew.
Only a mission that still wasn't done.
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