Unyielding and unfazed by the sudden altitude gain, Messimah anchored himself to the shuttle's glass canopy, his knees locking into place. With another forceful punch, he deepened the fractures spreading across the glass.
Wasting no time, he raised his rifle, aiming precisely at the weakened spot where his first bullet had struck.
Bang!
The shot struck true, creating a web of spider-like fissures.
Bang!
Another shot followed, further weakening the structure.
The shuttle's weapons, unable to aim at a target so close, were rendered useless. Realizing this, the pilot initiated a desperate countermeasure, spinning the shuttle wildly to shake Messimah loose. However, the attempt was futile—Messimah's knees clung to the glass with unrelenting force, their pressure seemingly adding to the canopy's strain.
If not for the reinforcement of his skeletal bionic suit, Messimah would have been thrown off long ago.
It appeared to his pursuers, and perhaps even to the pilot, that Messimah had forgotten about the two additional shuttles closing in on him. To them, his audacity bordered on insanity—clinging to a spiraling shuttle mid-air was a move no sane person would attempt.
Nonetheless, the other shuttles kept their distance, waiting for the opportune moment to fire.
Bang!
Another shot struck the glass, worsening the cracks but still failing to break through.
What the hell is this glass made of?!
Messimah cursed internally, frustration creeping into his thoughts.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the two other shuttles tailing closely. Though they hadn't yet acted, Messimah was certain they would soon.
His original plan had been to shatter the canopy and neutralize the pilot directly. However, the reality of his predicament hit him—breaking through was proving nearly impossible. Quickly adapting, Messimah devised a new strategy.
If my gun can't break it, theirs should.
With that thought, he deliberately shifted his posture, exposing a vulnerable angle—an intentional bait for his pursuers. He kept his focus sharp, waiting for the familiar red glow of their weapons priming to fire.
The instant he saw it, he'd be ready.
As if he could anticipate their thoughts, Messimah noticed the glow of a charging beam from one of the shuttle's nozzles. Without hesitation, he shifted his position, narrowly maintaining his grip on the glass canopy.
Bang!
The red beam struck the canopy with a jarring impact, sending a powerful vibration through Messimah's body. He held on tightly, his eyes wide with disbelief.
What kind of glass is this?
Messimah thought in frustration.
The same beam that could melt through solid concrete hadn't even shattered the canopy.
If a weapon that destructive couldn't penetrate, then what chances did my punches and bullets ever have?
The realization hit him like a cold slap.
The pilot wasn't concerned about Messimah breaking through—not because of arrogance, but because the pilot knew the canopy was nearly impervious to Messimah's efforts.
Messimah clenched his teeth.
What was the point of holding on this long? Damn it, am I insane?
Anyone privy to his thoughts might have laughed incredulously—it was a question he should have asked the moment he jumped onto a moving shuttle mid-flight.
But there was no going back now.
He was here, and survival demanded a solution.
His gaze flicked to the spot where the red beam had struck. A grin spread across his face.
The impact hadn't completely pierced the glass, but it had weakened it significantly. For the first time, Messimah felt the odds tilt in his favor.
Without wasting a second, he raised his rifle and aimed at the compromised area.
The pilot, now sensing real danger, reacted with alarm.
Is this man out of his mind? The pilot thought.
If Messimah succeeded, who would steer the shuttle?
Unfortunately for the pilot, Messimah didn't care.
Bang!
This time, the shot broke through, piercing the canopy and striking the pilot in the shoulder.
Bang!
Messimah's rifle now had a clear path. With precision, he aimed directly at the pilot's head and pulled the trigger. The shot landed with brutal finality, ending the pilot's life.
With the pilot dead, the shuttle ceased its chaotic spinning and climbing, instead beginning a slow descent. Messimah quickly realized he had precious little time to act—without a plan, he'd be plummeting to his death in moments.
Meanwhile, the remaining two shuttles, not hampered by the need to protect their comrade, shifted their focus entirely on the pursuit.
"Gola, how many drones do you have on you?" Messimah called out urgently.
"Enough. Why?"
"I need something to break my fall—or at least give me a stable platform."
"Break your fall?!" Trumm interjected, his voice incredulous.
Since they had split up, Trumm and Gola had been preoccupied dodging the relentless beams, too focused on surviving to consider retaliation.
"The drones aren't built to hold much weight. They might break—" Gola began.
"Well, I might break too if I don't find a solution," Messimah interrupted dryly.
Only a few minutes had passed since they scattered, so Trumm and Gola struggled to grasp exactly what Messimah was dealing with.
"Just have them ready for me. And listen—armor-piercing bullets are useless against these shuttles. If you want to take them down, make them shoot at each other," Messimah advised, his tone remarkably calm given his precarious situation.
The shuttle Messimah was clinging to, began to plummet, its descent accelerating. The two pursuing shuttles didn't stick around to confirm his fate, apparently assuming his actions were suicidal. Satisfied that Messimah would crash to his doom, they redirected their focus toward Trumm and Gola.
Not that Messimah had been relying on their interest—he was already contemplating an alternative: leaping onto another shuttle's canopy to hitch a new ride. But the lack of camaraderie between the pilots made that unnecessary.
"Oh, and by the way," Messimah added through their comms, his voice deceptively casual. "You've got two new friends headed your way."
"For fuck's sake!" Trumm cursed out before an explosion rang from his comms, he had just dodged a few shots that hit an old gas cylinder.
The good thing about these shuttles is their predictable nature—they practically announce when they're about to fire. Either the creators were fools, or these shuttles weren't designed for combat... probably the latter. And judging by the way those pilots left me without confirming my death, they're clearly not trained soldiers. With flaws like these, the boys should be able to handle themselves... right?
Messimah mused, momentarily forgetting his own precarious situation.
His observations weren't far off. The shuttles seemed ill-equipped for sustained combat, their weapons only capable of firing six or seven beams in rapid succession before pausing.
Meanwhile, Gola tapped at his holographic screen, sending a command to deploy two rectangular metal devices from his bike's sides. For a brief moment, the devices hung in the air before unfolding into drones, their wings extending outward.
"Simah, take control of the drones," Gola said, knowing he couldn't both evade the red beams and pilot the drones simultaneously.
At this point, they were all moving at breakneck speeds, close to 230 km/h.
Just then, the two shuttles that had abandoned Messimah reappeared, targeting Trumm and Gola from the front, forcing them into evasive maneuvers.
Swerving sharply on the muddy terrain, Gola veered off course and sped into a dense forest of dead, broken trees, taking two of the shuttles with him. He gunned the throttle, heading toward an abandoned tunnel road.
Trumm, on the other hand, left the bridge area entirely, steering his bike toward a cluster of derelict warehouses, luring two more shuttles after him.
Inside the darkened tunnel, Gola's bike lights and the ominous glow of the red beams were the only sources of illumination. His erratic maneuvers might have seemed random to an observer, but every dodge caused the beams to strike structural supports or weak points in the tunnel walls.
He had a plan: collapse the tunnel on the shuttles.
However, there was only one shuttle tailing him, and Gola couldn't help but wonder where the other had gone. His question was answered moments later. While one shuttle pursued from behind, the second had taken an alternate route, entering from the tunnel's opposite end to cut him off.
Seeing the telltale red glow of the beams ahead, Gola reacted instantly.
He leaned his bike toward the tunnel wall, driving in a spiraling motion along its curved surface.
As he passed over the front shuttle, three small metallic spheres dropped from his bike.
Boom!
The two shuttles collided, sending a shockwave rippling through the weakened tunnel.
While the collision caused only minor dents to the shuttles, the spheres that Gola were anything but ordinary—they were bombs.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A second explosion followed, far stronger than the first. The tunnel trembled violently as the powerful shockwave triggered a catastrophic collapse.
Earth and debris cascaded inward, burying the shuttles and causing a landslide that sealed the tunnel completely.
Gola barely made it out, bursting through the other side just as the collapsing earth blocked the path behind him.
Dust and smoke billowed into the air, but he didn't dare slow down.
His heart pounded furiously, each beat echoing in his chest, and his breath hitched, adrenaline surging through him as he narrowly escaped.
At this point, it became clear that these three friends, despite their differences, shared a common trait. Their bravery—or perhaps madness—shone through in varying degrees, despite their youthfulness and the odds stacked against them, they were daring.
This recklessness, whether seen as courage or folly, was deeply as a result of the childhood they had endured.