“They’re taking it!” Bixente’s voice crackled, raw with disbelief, trailed by a furious squawk from Pecks. The thrum of the heavy rotor blades intensified, shaking the very metal sheeting around us. Nerea’s face, usually a mask of cheerful disregard, was taut. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, fixed on an unseen point beyond the grimy ventilation shaft. Beside her, Idoia, still coated in dust and truffle fry crumbs, ground her teeth. This wasn’t part of any protocol she’d ever devised.
“Bixente, status report, *now*,” Nerea demanded, her voice a low growl that Idoia hadn’t heard before. “Are they already on the roof?”
“Aye, Boss! Four goons in tactical gear, hauling the main server racks, those big black ones, onto a reinforced pallet! The chopper’s hovering, just waiting for the last bit. Looks like the Solstice faction isn’t playing around. They’re making a break for it!”
Nerea swore, a short, sharp expletive that surprised Idoia even more than the truffle fries. “Idoia, how far is the nearest roof access from here?”
Idoia, momentarily stunned by the shift in Nerea’s demeanor, snapped back to attention. “Two floors up, maybe fifty meters laterally through the executive suites. It’s heavily reinforced, usually guarded by the highest-tier security. Impregnable.” She said the last word with a bitter finality, the implication clear: *we’re too late*.
“Impregnable, eh?” Nerea’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Bixente, you hear that? Idoia says the 99th floor is ‘impregnable.’ I think that’s a challenge for you, isn’t it?”
There was a pause, then Bixente’s laugh, deep and booming, even through the static. “You know it, Boss! Heard a rumor the maintenance crew on this floor got laid off last week for complaining about their break room coffee. They’re itching for a fight, and I’ve got just the thing to rally ‘em!”
“Rally them with what, a sermon on organic fertilizer?” Idoia muttered, but Nerea was already moving. With a grunt, she pried open a ventilation grate, revealing a narrow service corridor. The faint smell of stale air and ozone filled their immediate space.
“Bixente, create a distraction. A big one. We need a clear path to that roof hatch, and we need those marksmen on the roof scrambling.” Nerea didn’t wait for a reply, already wriggling out of the shaft. Idoia, despite herself, scrambled after her.
They emerged into a sterile white hallway, empty save for emergency lighting. The building’s power had been shunted to critical systems, leaving vast sections dark. The rhythmic thumping of the aircraft overhead grew louder, urging them onward.
Suddenly, the passage filled with a cacophony: a distant bellow from Bixente, a chorus of shouts, and the unmistakable clang of metal striking metal. “For the honor of the Valcasta spanner! For the glorious coffee machine!” Bixente’s battle cry, amplified by the building’s acoustics, echoed through the upper floors. Idoia could hear the sharp *thwick* of a pitchfork, then a startled yelp and a triumphant *cock-a-doodle-doo* from the rooster.
Nerea grinned, a wild, exhilarated expression. “Sounds like Bixente’s found his army.”
On the 99th floor, chaos reigned. Bixente, wielding a six-tine titanium pitchfork like a seasoned warrior, led a motley crew of furious maintenance technicians. One wiry mechanic brandished a heavy-duty pipe wrench like a medieval mace. Another, a stoic woman in a grease-stained jumpsuit, revved a gleaming chainsaw with practiced agility. They surged into the executive suite, fueled by months of corporate indignity and Bixente’s bizarre promises of “infinite, ethically sourced, artisanal coffee.”
“You call this a break room, you gilded gargoyles?!” Bixente roared, spearing a potted palm with his pitchfork. “This is an insult to the dignity of honest labor! Pecks, unleash the fury!”
Perched atop Bixente’s shoulder, General Pecks let out a bloodcurdling crow, then launched himself onto the CEO’s polished mahogany desk. The desk, usually pristine, became his personal roost. Two security sharpshooters, positioned near the panoramic windows, had been aiming their long-barreled rifles toward the hovering aircraft. But the sudden, feathery missile, followed by a series of vicious pecks to their expensive comms gear, sent them reeling. One sniper shrieked as Pecks took a chunk out of his earpiece, drawing blood. The other, startled by the sheer audacity of a rooster on a CEO’s desk, fumbled his rifle. Pecks, having established dominance, strutted across the desk, scattering important holographic projections and leaving tiny, indignant claw marks on the pristine surface.
“Move, Valcasta!” Nerea shouted, grabbing Idoia’s arm and pulling her past a shattered glass display case. The executive suites, once bastions of corporate power, were now a warzone of overturned furniture and flying paper. Bixente’s improvised army, wielding their tools with surprising effectiveness, clashed with the remaining security guards, who seemed completely unprepared for a revolt by the janitorial staff.
They sprinted through the ornate halls, dodging stray blasts from stun batons and the enthusiastic, if uncontrolled, swings of a sledgehammer-wielding plumber. The path to the rooftop was clearing. Nerea, her eyes scanning for threats, pulled Idoia behind a marble statue of some long-dead Valcasta patriarch just as a security drone whizzed past, its optical sensor flashing.
“The roof access is just ahead,” Idoia gasped, pointing to a heavy blast door at the end of the passage. “But… the marksmen!”
As if on cue, the two shooters, now recovered from their feathery assault, turned their rifles toward Nerea and Idoia. But before they could acquire a lock, a shower of wrenches and screwdrivers rained down on them from an overhead vent, courtesy of a particularly enthusiastic maintenance worker. One shooter dropped his weapon with a yelp as a pipe wrench bounced off his helmet. Pecks, still on the CEO’s desk, crowed again, seemingly directing the barrage.
“Good boy, Pecks!” Nerea yelled, adrenaline surging through her. She dragged Idoia towards the blast door, which, miraculously, stood ajar, the lock mechanism shattered by what looked like a series of forceful pry marks. Bixente’s handiwork.
They burst onto the rooftop helipad. The roar of the Raven-class transport was deafening, the downwash whipping Idoia’s hair into a frenzy. The massive black machine hovered just meters above the landing pad, its cargo hooks already attached to the reinforced pallet holding the Master Terminal servers. Two Solstice operatives, their faces grim under their tactical helmets, were completing the final checks.
“No!” Nerea screamed, sprinting across the helipad, Idoia struggling to keep up. The operatives glanced up, startled, but it was too late. The helicopter’s engines surged, a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the very soles of their shoes. The Solstice faction wasn't waiting. They were cutting their losses and running.
The heavy transport began its ascent, slowly at first, then gaining speed, its massive body lifting into the night sky. Beneath it, secured by thick cables, the Master Terminal, the beating digital heart of the Valcasta empire, dangled precariously over the neon-lit metropolis, a rapidly shrinking black box against the glittering expanse of Alta-Vento.