"First, we need to understand exactly what we're dealing with," I suggest, my gaze shifting between my companions. "We'll use the drones to scout their location. It's imperative we grasp the scale of their group, their armament, and their defences."
Joon-ho nods, his agreement unspoken yet clear, understanding the prudence of gathering intelligence before leaping into action. It is a dance we know well, a balance of caution and initiative that has kept us alive thus far.
Hye-jin, who has been attentively following our exchange, interjects, her voice tinged with a newfound determination. "I want to learn how to use the drone too," she declares. "If I can master it, I can be your eyes, extending our reach and awareness."
Her offer, borne out of a desire to contribute, to be more integral to our survival, resonates with a sense of shared responsibility. "That's a good idea, Hye-jin," I reply, acknowledging her initiative. "It's important you're involved in every aspect of our operations. Being able to operate the drone will give us a significant advantage."
Joon-ho gives her an encouraging nod, pleased by her willingness to embrace this crucial role. "We'll start your training immediately," he says, already considering the best approach to impart the necessary skills efficiently.
***
As the drone whirrs into life, slicing through the crisp morning air, Joon-ho's steady hands guide it beyond our immediate surroundings, out towards the unknown where Jae-sun's group purportedly lies. Inside the cabin, I lean forward, my eyes fixed on the screen displaying the live feed from the drone, the world unfolding beneath it in vivid detail.
The drone, an extension of our eyes and ears, ventures towards the coordinates marked on the sketches provided by our recent visitors. As it approaches the vicinity of Jae-sun's camp, I feel a surge of anticipation mixed with apprehension.
The drone's camera pans across a sprawling encampment nestled in a secluded valley, well-hidden from casual observation yet now exposed under our watchful eye. Makeshift structures and tents dot the landscape, with signs of fortification evident even from above. It is clear this is no ragtag assembly but a group with organisation and resources.
As Joon-ho expertly navigates the drone over the territory marked on our makeshift map, the grainy yet clear images on the screen provide our first real look at Jae-sun's encampment. Nestled in a naturally concealed valley, the camp's layout begins to unfold before us—a collection of tents and makeshift structures, all organised in a manner that speaks of discipline and control rather than haphazard survival.
The figures moving within the camp are numerous, but even as I scrutinise the screen, it becomes apparent that the visible armament I was half expecting to see is conspicuously absent. There are no guards patrolling with rifles, no stockpiles of weaponry in open view, and no overt signs of military training or posture among the inhabitants.
Joon-ho, sensing my focus, adjusts the drone's flight path for a closer look, maintaining a careful altitude to avoid detection. "They seem relatively unarmed from what we can see," he notes, his voice tinged with caution.
"Yes," I reply, my mind turning over this new information. "The intruders mentioned they weren't sure about the presence of guns. It seems Jae-sun and perhaps a select few might be the only ones armed, at least with pistols."
We watch the screen intently, noting the ordinary, almost peaceful bustle within the camp. Men and women go about their daily tasks, their movements devoid of the tension typically associated with armed vigilance.
This observation, however, doesn't ease my sense of unease—it compounds it. An unarmed group is unpredictable and could be desperate, relying on numbers or strategy rather than firepower. And if Jae-sun and his lieutenants do possess firearms, they hold a concentrated power that could enforce their will effectively within the group and pose a significant threat to any who oppose them.
A woman, standing amidst the organised chaos of the encampment, pauses and looks up directly at the hovering device. Her gaze is piercing, even through the digital barrier of the screen. It is a moment of frozen realisation, a connection made across the void that separates observer and observed.
My heart skips a beat as recognition dawns.
"Sue?" I murmur, disbelief colouring my voice, drawing Joon-ho's attention.
He glances at me, then back at the screen, understanding the gravity of the moment. "Do you know her?"
"She was my personal trainer at a hotel gym when I started this round of life," I say.
"Are you sure?" Joon-ho asks.
I can't answer.
"Should I pull the drone back?" he asks, his hand poised over the controls, ready to react.
I hesitate, my mind a whirlwind of emotion and confusion. How has Sue ended up here, so far from the life she once knew? And more pressingly, what does her presence in this camp, under the rule of a man like Jae-sun, imply about her circumstances?
My hesitation lingers, but as we watch, Sue's actions onscreen morph into purposeful haste. She darts between tents, her movements sharp and deliberate, a stark contrast to the otherwise languid pace of the encampment. My pulse quickens, curiosity piqued.
"What is she doing?" Joon-ho whispers, his attention riveted to the screen as Sue reaches an open space, glancing skyward towards our unseen vantage point.
With rapid, deft movements, she arranges what seem to be random objects on the ground—stones, scraps of cloth, anything at hand. But as the pattern emerges, my breath catches. It's not random at all. It's deliberate, desperate. An SOS, laid out plainly for us, the drone's silent observers.
"Sue's sending a distress signal," I breathe out, the realisation chilling and clarifying in equal measure. She knows she's being watched, hopes she's being understood.
Joon-ho's fingers pause on the controls, his eyes meeting mine. "She's asking for help."
"I can't shake this off," I begin, breaking the heavy silence. "Sue's reaching out. But what's her end game? What's driving her to take such a risk?"
Joon-ho leans forward, his analytical mind breaking down the possibilities. "She's trapped, that's clear. The question of 'what she wants' is probably straightforward—escape, safety, a way out of whatever hell Jae-sun's put her through."
Hye-jin interjects, her voice steady but concerned, "But why reach out like this? She has no idea who's piloting the drone. For all she knows, it could be another faction of Jae-sun's group or an entirely different threat."
The room falls silent, each of us considering the gravity of Sue's gamble. I rub my chin thoughtfully, weighing her potential mindset. "Desperation," I finally say. "It makes you latch onto any sliver of hope. Maybe, in her eyes, the mere presence of a drone, an eye in the sky, suggested someone outside Jae-sun's influence, someone who could possibly help."
Joon-ho nods, his gaze fixed on the frozen image of Sue on the screen. "She's playing her odds. In her situation, the status quo is untenable. Even an unknown is worth the gamble if there's a slightest chance it could lead to liberation."
Hye-jin folds her arms, pondering. "It's a cry for help to an unknown saviour. It speaks volumes about her plight. She's beyond the point of calculated risks. This is her throwing a lifeline into the abyss, hoping someone's there to catch it."
I feel a resolve settling over me, bolstered by their insights. "Then our course is clear. We acknowledge the risk and the unknowns, but we respond. We become the variable she's hoping for, the chance she's taken."