The wind howled a metallic shriek, tearing at Nerea’s clothes as she launched herself from the Valcasta Spire’s lip. Her boots scraped against the concrete edge, sending a shower of sparks into the rushing darkness. For a terrifying second, she was just falling, the roaring air rushing past her ears, the bright grid of Alta-Vento blurring beneath. Then her outstretched hands connected with a jarring thud. Her palms burned as they closed around the aircraft’s landing skid, the cold, vibrating metal biting into her skin. The heavy transport lurched upwards, pulling her with it, swinging her body wildly like a forgotten flag. “Nerea!” Idoia’s scream was a faint echo, swallowed by the thrashing air. Nerea ignored it, focusing on the sheer, burning effort of hauling herself up. Her grandfather's face flashed in her mind, alongside the broadband fiber she had sworn to drag all the way to her village. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the vertigo, and pulled again, a grunt escaping her lips. Her left knee found purchase on the skid, then her right, and with a final, desperate surge, she tumbled headfirst into the cargo bay. Inside, the noise was deafening, a vibrating metal box filled with the thrum of the turbines and the humming of stacked processors. Two Solstice mercenaries, their tactical gear sleek and dark, spun toward her, stun-batons already extending. The director with the goatee snarled, “Get her off!” Nerea sprang to her feet, a wide, almost manic grin stretching her face. “Oh, goodie! A party!” she yelled, her voice barely audible over the din. She ducked under a wide, sweeping arc of a stun-baton, the sparking rod missing her ear by an inch. The suited executive lunged, his sneer twisting into fury. He was stronger than he looked in his designer suit, his movements surprisingly swift. She parried his next strike with her forearm, the impact rattling her bones but not breaking her stance. Her pasture reflexes took over. This wasn’t a cyber-cafe brawl, this was a confined space, a flying metal cage. The chassis blocks, strapped down but still shuddering, became her terrain. She vaulted over a rack of blinking lights, dodging a second operative’s wild swing, and landed lightly on the other side. Arcs snapped around her as the rods discharged harmlessly against the metal plating of the equipment units. “You really think you can stop us, little mountain goat?” the executive sneered, his voice distorted by the turbine roar. “This empire is dead. Valcasta is ours!” Nerea giggled, a bright, incongruous sound in the chaotic cargo bay. She sidestepped a clumsy lunge, her hand flashing out to grab a fistful of expensive suit fabric. With a swift twist, she used his own momentum, spinning him into the path of his partner’s stun-baton. A blue spark snapped, followed by a choked gasp as the operative’s own weapon discharged against his chest. He collapsed in a heap, twitching. The lead director glared at his fallen ally, then back at Nerea with pure venom. He discarded his useless stun-baton, pulling a sleek, compact energy pistol from a concealed holster. “Fool. You just signed your own death warrant.” Meanwhile, on the Valcasta Spire’s rooftop, Idoia stumbled, her silk gown snagging on a loose panel. Her lungs burned, and the stench of jet fuel stung her nostrils. She watched in horror as the heavy transport, a black insect against the sprawling city lights, vanished upwards, Nerea clinging to its belly like a limpet. Her carefully constructed world, her meticulous schemes, shattered around her. Her gaze swept the ravaged helipad. Broken glass, discarded tactical gear, the acrid smell of burnt ozone. And then she saw it. A sniper rifle, dropped hastily by one of the fleeing Solstice guards, lay abandoned near the edge of the landing pad. Its sleek, matte-black finish seemed to hum with silent power. Idoia's ribs ached with every frantic breath. Every fiber of her high-society upbringing screamed in protest. Guns were for hired thugs, for the desperate, for the *unrefined*. Her hands, manicured and accustomed to delicate tea cups and expensive data-pads, trembled as she reached for the cold metal. The weapon was surprisingly heavy, its scope glinting under the floodlights. She’d never fired a weapon in her life. Her battles were fought with spreadsheets and subtle slanders, with carefully placed rumors and psychological manipulation. But Nerea… Nerea was up there. And Nerea was fighting for both of them. For the absurd, impossible dream of mountain internet. Idoia planted her high heels and pressed the rifle stock against her shoulder. The scope came alive, a digital overlay shimmering into view. She zoomed in, her eyes, usually narrowed in disdain, now fixed with an uncharacteristic intensity. The twin-rotor transport, still ascending, was a distant blur against the moon. She needed to aim. She needed to hit something vital. Her hands, guided by an instinct she didn't know she possessed, adjusted the windage, compensated for the chassis's drift. She saw the tail rotor, a blur of spinning blades, small and vulnerable. Every elegant dinner, every condescending glance, every moment of self-doubt, fueled a sudden, burning rage. This wasn't about the company anymore. It was about *her* company. *Her* future. *Her* unexpected, infuriating ally. Idoia pulled the trigger. The gunshot was a sharp, concussive crack that echoed across the rooftop. The recoil slammed into her collarbone, numbing her fingers. She blinked, her vision momentarily blurred. Then, through the scope, she saw it. A spark, a tiny flicker of orange against the black. The tail rotor, previously a unified blur, now looked… wobbly. A strange, grinding noise, distinct even over the main rotors, reached her ears. Smoke began to plume from the rear of the aircraft, rapidly thickening. The gunship lurched, tilting sideways as its ascent abruptly halted. Inside the cargo bay, Nerea was just about to drive a knee into the executive's ribs when the hull dropped three feet. The energy pistol clattered across the floor as he lost his footing, slamming against a data cabinet. The airframe groaned, metal twisting under high torque. Lights flickered, then died, plunging the cargo bay into near darkness, illuminated only by the faint red glow of emergency indicators. “What in the blazes?!” the executive shrieked, scrambling to regain his balance. The chassis began to corkscrew downward, not plummeting, but descending in a wild spiral as the blades bit air unevenly. The valuable Master Terminal, still suspended precariously beneath the cargo bay, swung wildly, its cables groaning under the strain. “Looks like your joyride’s over!” Nerea yelled, grabbing a cargo strap on a frame to brace herself. The descent steepened, klaxons screaming through the cabin. “Someone’s upset!” The Spire’s rooftop rushed towards them, a rapidly expanding target. The executive screamed like a scalded cat. Nerea braced her boots against the bulkhead. The impact hit with a sickening crunch of titanium and shattering glass as the bird slammed onto the reinforced helipad, bouncing once, then gouging across the concrete in a shower of sparks. Smoke billowed from the crippled aircraft. The cargo bay was a chaos of broken panels and sparking wires. The Master Terminal, ripped from its cables by the force of the crash, lay canted at an alarming angle, its reinforced casing cracked, leaking wisps of what looked suspiciously like data smoke. The glowing progress bar of the Dead Man’s Switch, projected onto its main panel, flickered erratically. Then, with a harsh pop, the backup capacitor blew. The screen went black for a horrifying second. When it flared back to life, the numbers had changed. The countdown, previously measured in hours, now glowed a stark, blood-red: sixty seconds. [DEAD MAN'S SWITCH: ACTIVATED] [IRREVOCABLE COUNTDOWN: 00:00:60]

Boardroom Brawl in the Sky