The sun hung low over the jagged peaks of the island, casting a blood-red hue across the isolated airbase. The place felt like a graveyard, silent except for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees and the metallic groan of rusted equipment. A man stepped out of a small, dilapidated building, his movements measured, almost deliberate. He was tall and lean, with the kind of athletic frame that told stories of years spent surviving rather than thriving. His forest green overalls clung to his body, and his black combat boots crunched over the cracked concrete as he made his way toward an old plane.
The aircraft was a baron plane, once a proud vessel, now a rusted relic of forgotten battles. Its brown exterior was chipped and peeling, and the propeller creaked as the man gave it a spin. He paused for a moment, standing in the shadow of the plane, his sharp features illuminated by the last dying rays of the sun. His face was a mixture of contradictions—sharp and subtle at the same time, his fair skin weathered from long days in the sun, and his dark buzzcut giving him a no-nonsense appearance. But it was his eyes that stood out the most. Cold, unfeeling, filled with contempt, as if the world had wronged him one too many times.
He crouched down, running his hands along the undercarriage of the plane, checking for anything that might have fallen into disrepair. His hands moved like a mechanic's, but his posture suggested a man with much darker skills. He knew this plane inside and out, having worked on it for months, but there was still something nagging at him. Something that felt off.
"Still trying to fix this hunk of junk, I see," a gruff voice broke the silence.
The man didn't bother to turn around. He recognized the voice. Jovian. The old war veteran had been a fixture on the island for years, long before the younger man had arrived. Jovian was a relic himself—his veteran's coat ragged, his grey beard scruffy and unkempt. But there was a fire in the old man's eyes that belied his years. He had seen too much, lived too long, and had more stories than anyone cared to hear.
"You know that thing's never getting off the ground, don't you?" Jovian said, walking closer. "Not without some real parts. And we sure as hell ain't getting any deliveries out here."
The man still said nothing, his eyes scanning the horizon, always alert, always cautious. Jovian let out a sigh, sitting down on an old crate nearby, wincing as his old bones protested the movement.
"I know you don't talk much, but you listen. That's why I'm here," Jovian continued, his voice low and serious now. "The boys and I, we've been working on something. A plane. Not like this rust bucket. A real one. Reinforced scrap, sure, but it's sturdy. It'll get us off this rock. All we need is a plan—and someone like you."
The man's eyes flickered toward Jovian for a brief second before returning to the plane. Jovian chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"You'll come around. You always do."
The man rose to his feet, dusting his hands off on his overalls, and walked past Jovian without a word, heading toward the hangar where he kept his few belongings. Jovian watched him go, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
---
Night fell over the island like a shroud, the dense jungle that surrounded the airbase alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures. Inside the makeshift hangar, the man stood with his back to the group of rough-looking individuals that had gathered around the table in the center. There were six of them in total, all hardened by years of struggle, their faces marked by scars, their bodies tattooed with the insignia of the lives they'd left behind. Jovian was there too, leaning over the table, a rough map of the island spread out before him.
"Alright, listen up," Jovian said, his voice a low growl. "We're leaving tonight. The plane's ready, but we've got a narrow window. Anarchy's been patrolling the skies more frequently. We've gotta move fast and quiet."
The man stood in the shadows, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on the map. He knew the risks. They all did. The island wasn't just isolated—it was controlled by a faction known only as Anarchy CM, a ruthless group that enforced its will through military power. Escape was a dangerous proposition, but staying meant a slow death, either by starvation or at the hands of the merciless enforcers.
Suddenly, a distant whirring sound filled the air, faint at first but growing louder with each passing second. The man's body tensed, his instincts screaming at him. He moved toward the door, peering out into the darkness.
Jovian's face went pale. "Damn it, they're early."
Without another word, the group sprang into action. The man grabbed a rifle from a nearby crate and slung it over his shoulder, leading the way toward the exit. Outside, the sound of rotor blades cutting through the night air grew louder. Spotlights flickered on in the distance, sweeping over the jungle in search of their targets.
"Move!" Jovian barked, pushing the others toward the treeline.
The group broke into a run, darting through the dense underbrush, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The man took point, his eyes scanning the path ahead, his mind calculating every step. Behind them, the sound of the helicopters intensified, and the first bullets tore through the trees, splintering wood and sending leaves raining down like confetti.
"Split up!" Jovian shouted. "Head for the dinghy!"
The group scattered, each person sprinting in a different direction. The man, Jovian, and one other—a wiry kid named Rex—kept together, their feet pounding the earth as they raced toward the coast. The plan was simple: get to the dinghy hidden on the far side of the island and make their escape by sea. But nothing ever went according to plan.
They burst through the jungle and onto the beach, the dinghy just visible in the moonlight, its weathered hull bobbing in the surf. The man shoved Rex toward the boat, turning back to cover their retreat. He raised his rifle, firing off controlled bursts at the approaching copters, their searchlights blinding in the darkness.
"Hurry!" Rex yelled, already scrambling into the dinghy.
Jovian was right behind him, but as he reached the edge of the boat, a sharp crack echoed through the air. The man turned just in time to see Jovian stumble, a dark stain spreading across his chest. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down—the thumping of the helicopters, the crash of the waves, the panicked breaths of his companions.
Jovian collapsed into the dinghy, gasping for air as blood poured from the wound.
"Go!" Jovian wheezed, waving them off. "Get the hell out of here!"
The man hesitated, his jaw clenched. But he knew there was no time. He jumped into the dinghy, grabbing the oars and pushing off from the shore. Rex was already working on the motor, but it sputtered and choked, refusing to start.
"Come on, come on," Rex muttered under his breath, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the engine.
The copters were closing in now, their searchlights sweeping over the water, and the man could hear the rapid-fire of machine guns from the approaching troops. He gritted his teeth and threw his weight into the oars, rowing with everything he had as bullets whipped past them, splashing into the ocean.
Finally, with a sputter and a roar, the motor came to life, and the dinghy shot forward, leaving the island behind. The man glanced back, watching as the beach faded into the distance, the lights of the helicopters flickering like angry fireflies in the night.
Jovian lay at the bottom of the boat, his breathing shallow, his eyes half-closed.
"Don't... stop," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The man said nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the weight of the night's events pressing down on him like a shroud. There was no time for grief, no time for anger. Only survival.