The crew of Master Ebuka's Boeing 777 was gearing up to take off from London Heathrow, carrying the infamous villain, his loyal No Damage Squad, and a horde of eighty hardened criminals. Their goal was set, their mission clear—but before they could even leave the runway, trouble loomed in the form of a fuel delay.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Master, we're going to need time to refuel the plane. Otherwise, we won't make it to our destination."
Master Ebuka's brows knit together. "Excuse me?! Absolutely not! We are leaving right now!"
Prosaic, the leader of the No Damage Squad, leaned over.. "As much as I hate delays, he's right, Master. We need the fuel, especially considering the convoluted route you've chosen. Why are we flying over North America and Japan? We could just follow the quicker Qatar Airways route."
Master Ebuka shrugged, a gleam of stubborn pride in his eyes. "I like long flights, and tonight's Champions League match is too good to miss. Atlético Madrid will crush Celtic! Now get ready—takeoff in five minutes!"
Prosaic sighed, shaking his head. Dealing with Master Ebuka was like reasoning with a brick wall: unyielding, often oblivious to the details. At the very least, it was better to be for the Master, than against.
Within minutes, they were ready to taxi, bound for Doha to check in on Lucy. Abby, however, was on a separate mission, zipping across the skies on her hoverboard, en route to Lagos to investigate a daring robbery at her own base.
She sat as she drank coffee provided in her hotel room, her tired eyes flying through pictures.
"No. No. No. AHA!"
After hours of combing through suspects, she narrowed it down to a student from Gable, connected with three others: Ebuka (No relation), Tekena (aka "Glasses Girl"), and Zoe.
"Yes! I found the identity of the thief. Now it is time for her and her brand of goons to pay! Computer, call Master Ebuka right now!"
Meanwhile, in his jacuzzi, a random grunt ran up to the Master.
"Master! Master! Phone call from Abby!"
"Meh. Send all of them to voicemail. Griezman's about to come on!"
The grunt scurried away.
"I should have known that Master Ebuka would pull nonsense like that. Luckily, I was not going to let him head off till I delivered that message."
With newfound urgency, Abby contacted Master Ebuka, but the call went straight to voicemail. Growling with frustration, she abandoned subtlety, rocketing back to Heathrow at mach speeds, landing directly in front of the plane.
It seemed the ground engineers were too scared to get near her, so she kinda just stood there, delaying the flight until she was let onboard.
"So, what is it that you want, Miss Windsor?" Master Ebuka asked, clearly irritable. "Make it quick. We're nearly at the runway."
"I want to know why you're ignoring your calls!"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh no, sorry."
"No seriously, I didn't hear what you said."
"I-I found the thief," Abby replied, showing him the evidence. "Her name is Chikamara, a student from Gable School. She's part of a network of robbers connected with three others in Lagos."
Master Ebuka's face twisted with disgust. "Those imbeciles orchestrated this? Fine, they'll pay. But for now, we depart for Qatar. You've delivered your message, now go."
With a nod, Abby took a separate flight back to Sydney, while Master Ebuka's plane roared down the runway, hurtling skyward. As they settled into cruising altitude, Pack Attack, Prosaic, and Cyberman65 pored over the evidence Abby had collected, labeling Chikamara and her associates as co-conspirators. Their expressions were dark, each face twisted in suspicion and cold calculation.
"Master Ebuka will be thrilled to know we've identified all the traitors," Cyberman65 grinned.
"He's in the jacuzzi," Prosaic replied with a shrug. "Doesn't want to be disturbed, especially on Champions League night."
"At least we've made some advancements." Pack Attack shrugged.
While his team schemed, Master Ebuka lounged in luxury, savoring the thrill of seeing Atlético dismantle Celtic. Champions League action, a private jacuzzi, and a flight over New York—this was the life he was meant for.
"So, how much longer do we have till we get to our destination? I am starting to get very impatient."
The pilot, who could hear him through a speaker, spoke. "We are currently still in North America sir. We will be passing over to Asia very soon.
As the hours ticked by and the plane veered toward Asia, thing were looking bleak.
An alarm blared, jolting Master Ebuka from his relaxation. He peered at his in-flight screen in disbelief—the plane was making a rapid descent toward Tokyo Haneda.
"What's happening?!" he barked, storming into the cockpit. "Why are we landing in Japan instead of Doha?"
The pilot's face was tense. "We're low on fuel, Master. If we continue, we risk crashing into the sea. Haneda is our only option for a safe landing."
Master Ebuka grit his teeth, rage simmering beneath his gaze. "Fine, but get us back in the air as soon as we land. I refuse to spend a moment more in Japan than necessary."
The plane touched down with a harsh jolt—a tail strike that would require three days of repairs.
Now trapped in Tokyo, Master Ebuka could feel his fury rising. To him, Japan was a place far worse than any battlefield. But as he surveyed the tense expressions of his team and the defeated faces of his criminal entourage, he knew this was more than just a layover. His plans for dominance couldn't be delayed, not for a second longer. He would need to find a way out, fuel or no fuel.