That night, a storm of epic proportions raged on. A symphony of water, thunder, and wind lashed a remote stretch of countryside, shaking acres of trees and sprawling wheat fields that bowed, pleading for mercy.

  Lightning roared from the sky, ready to strike down anyone daring enough to cross the lone paved road for miles around. And yet, a single vehicle rose to the challenge: a dark off-road car cutting through the storm with its headlights, its sole occupant—a young woman—determined not to fall prey to the fury of the elements.

  Maybe driving under such conditions, with one hand on the wheel and the other clutching a folded paper map, was pushing her luck a little too far, though.

  The cabin light was on, and every so often, her blue eyes darted down to the map, trying to figure out where she was. Out there, everything was as dark as her T-shirt. The flashes of lightning were so blinding they only made things worse. The windshield wipers could barely keep up with the rain, and, as if she needed another inconvenience, her blond hair kept falling over her face.

  Then, a thunderclap exploded like a shattering chandelier right beside her ears. She flinched, ducking her head and furrowing her brow, staying like that for a moment, as if bracing for another bolt to rip through the car’s roof at any second.

  “Vicky? You still there?”

  A man’s voice came through, muffled over the phone that swung back and forth on the dashboard.

  Her expression relaxed. She tossed the map onto the back seat, yanked off that damn blonde wig, and tossed it aside.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

  She tucked her real black hair behind her ears—decorated with large hoop earrings—turned off the cabin light, and picked up her story. “Anyway, like I was saying—I had no problem getting past the checkpoint. None of the soldiers seemed to recognize me. Ha! And you were so sure the wig wouldn’t fool anyone!”

  “It wasn’t the wig,” the voice replied.

  “That’s what you think. But I got through, didn’t I? What I didn’t expect was Route 12 being closed. Had to take a detour. Now I’m miles from who-knows-where, and I’ve only got Seven-Frequency running on the phone… And yes, before you say it, I’ll say it myself: I probably did get through thanks to Seven-Frequency. But I don’t need to remind you what that means: ‘Congrats, you’re off the grid and untraceable—but now you’re stuck relying on your senses and whatever prehistoric tech you’ve got on hand to find your way.’”

  “Vicky, you do realize you and I are talking on that same frequency, don’t you?”

  She just rolled her eyes at the totally predictable response.

  “Oh, Mr. Mysterious Encounter…” she sighed. “And what good did it do me being in touch with you if your big help in all this was telling me to buy a paper map at a public station?”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course I did!” she exclaimed, gesturing toward the crumpled map on the back seat as if he could see it. “It’s just… they must’ve scammed me with some map that had to be from Gondwana or whatever, ‘cause I can’t find anything that’s supposed to be here.”

  “Don’t blame the map. I was expecting you at 2400 hours. It’s 0105.”

  Vicky glanced at the dash: 0105, not a minute more, not a minute less.

  “Look… What part didn’t you get?” she retorted. “Route 12 is closed and I’m lost. I can’t see a damn thing, and lightning’s playing target practice with my car. If you’re not already paying attention, now would be a good time to start.”

  “I would if you spoke clearly.”

  “Oh really? I think you need a little perspective, dear. It’s Friday night, and instead of getting ready to go out with the girls from the salon, I’m out here battling the... forces of nature. Meanwhile, you’re probably in bed, watching a movie, only worried the storm’s gonna knock out your TV.”

  “This room doesn’t have a TV, Vicky.”

  Another completely unsurprising response.

  “Don’t complain,” she teased. “You always pick the sketchiest motels.”

  “And you never go out with the girls from the salon,” he shot back.

  “Well, tonight might’ve been a good time to start. But here I am.”

  Another thunderclap made her jump in her seat. The flashing bolts revealed towering trees swaying in the wind, like dark fingers materializing out of nowhere to trap her. Could she have already passed the motel without noticing?

  The road took a sudden sharp turn. Vicky saw it just in time to avoid crashing into the wall of trees, steering sharply. The tires skidded but held to the pavement.

  There, through the storm, she spotted a flickering red sign glowing like an electric firefly by the roadside: Pearl Motel, it read.

  “I spoke too soon about the paper map,” she muttered.

  Now that she was—or almost was—safe, she found herself wondering what the meeting might entail.

  Earlier that afternoon, she’d received a message from her friend:

  Need a favor. Sending an encrypted file to your phone with the mission details and meeting location. Only use Seven-Frequency to contact me—avoiding tracking is critical today. Thanks.

  After that, there had been no further communication until now.

  Why all the urgency? Vicky didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but everything pointed to something big. Don’t bite your nails trying to solve the mystery, dear; you know his nature. If he doesn’t want to answer, he won’t. Just be patient.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Vicky veered off the main road onto a worn-down path leading to the motel. The trail was riddled with puddles concealing potholes and patches of mud.

  The single-story building was almost disheartening in its simplicity—a bleak stop for a weary traveler seeking more than a seedy place to crash. Its fa?ade was a porch with peeling doors and covered windows, dimly lit by the red sign. A row of low hedges stretched across the front, forcing guests to access the rooms from the sides.

  Turning something simple into something difficult, she thought. Was there anything that characterized her friend better than that? She wondered how many people, besides him, had dared to rent a room there in the past few weeks. The answer that came to mind was zero.

  “Cheapskate…” she muttered with a smile.

  Next to the lodging stood an open shed—perhaps the ‘private parking lot’?

  She parked her vehicle there, pulling up next to a rusted-out junker with no tires, old motorcycle frames, and a heap of dusty debris ranging from broken bed frames to forgotten furniture.

  Stepping out of the car, she adjusted her worn but comfortable jeans and slipped on her blue jacket, zipping it up slightly to keep the chill from creeping under her waistband. A shiver ran down her spine, though it had more to do with her unease about the meeting and the unsettling setting than with the cold bite of the weather.

  She took a quick look around. Overhead, a single light bulb dangled from a long cord, swinging like a pendulum in the wind, while the downpour hammered on the tin roof, sounding like a rain of needles. Behind the motel, a wall of trees stretched out until it was swallowed by the darkness and the sheets of rain.

  Her gaze landed on a poster flapping wildly, clinging to one of the shed’s columns. She caught it before it could blow away—art like this was too good to lose.

  ‘Lick boots or work the land—you decide!’ read the faded poster, and below the phrase was a cartoon of a horse—strikingly similar to the Pegasus that represented the Empire—collapsed on a shovel stuck in a field, exhausted and dripping massive beads of sweat.

  It had been years since she’d seen posters like that. What would her father say if he saw it?

  Enough. Her father and the dominance he once held over her were a thing of the past.

  Pulling up her hood and shoving her hands into her pockets, she braved the rain and left the shed, hurrying toward the porch for shelter.

  In front of room number five, she knocked on the door. “It’s me,” she announced.

  The door opened, and she stepped inside.

  Vicky unzipped her jacket, running her fingers through her hair to breathe some life back into her appearance. Meanwhile, her raised eyebrows said it all: What a dump!

  The inside was just as bad as the outside. A cramped, dingy space barely large enough for a bed and a table. It was poorly lit, looked uninviting, and smelled like damp carpet mixed with cheap vanilla air freshener. A door behind the bed probably led to the bathroom, though she had no intention of checking—she’d already decided she wouldn’t set foot in there.

  “Couldn’t you have sprung for a better place?”

  “You took your time,” he greeted her, handing over a towel. “Everything okay?”

  She sneezed, then gave the towel a quick sniff to check if it was clean.

  “Other than freezing to death and the chaos I mentioned on the way here, all good,” she said, drying off as she studied her friend.

  Juzo returned her gaze, those amber eyes filled with their usual melancholy, framed by a handsome face shadowed by a furrowed brow. His reddish-brown hair was as neatly styled as ever, and his perpetual five o’clock shadow never quite managed to grow into a full beard.

  Juzo Romita was an odd, fascinating man—fascinating in the way a genius or a psychopath might be to a psychoanalyst. His personality was as overwhelming as the storm outside, and just as turbulent at times. His life story? Riveting, to say the least. ‘Therapist’s dream,’ some might say. ‘Absorbing and occasionally insufferable,’ she’d say, if anyone cared to ask.

  Still, she understood him better than he probably understood himself, and she valued him more than anyone else in her life.

  But this time, she noticed something unusual. Juzo wasn’t just serious—he was restless, which was rare for him. His expression was heavy with shadows, and Vicky bet the reason for it all lay in what he was wearing.

  He had on the olive-green uniform of a low-ranking soldier in the Imperial Army of Markabia: a fitted, buttoned jacket with a crimson-and-white insignia pinned near the heart, a wide belt, cargo pants, fingerless tactical gloves, knee guards, a thigh holster, and boots.

  “I remember when I used to wear one of these. The fabric made me itch,” she said, touching the lapel of his jacket. “Deserting was definitely one of the best decisions of my life.”

  She glanced around, trying to figure out why they were here. Juzo’s backpack was on the bed. Maybe it held the answer.

  “So, what’s the grand plan behind the costume? Infiltrating another convoy?”

  Juzo ignored her questions and asked one of his own. “Did you find out what I asked?”

  “Yes,” Vicky replied. “And no, before those students were killed, the Empire didn’t have any record of a hidden bunker in the Canyon of the Hundred Caves.”

  Juzo didn’t seem surprised.

  “I’m telling you,” she added, “if my old comrades from the Breach Squad didn’t have anything on that place, whoever occupied that bunker deserves to teach a class at the University of Illegality on How to Stay Hidden. Oh, and here’s a bonus fact: Did you know that not too long ago, the Gamma Quadrant investigated the discovery of a child’s remains—their bones, actually—in that exact spot? They closed the case ridiculously fast, without solving a damn thing, like someone…”

  “Like someone in power deliberately ignored it to make sure no one found the bunker,” Juzo finished her sentence. “Yeah. I’ve heard that before.”

  “There you go,” she said. “So, what’s this really about? Why are you interested in this case anyway?”

  Juzo walked over to the bed and grabbed his backpack.

  “Because,” he said.

  Vicky’s face hardened. “Excuse me? I didn’t just drive through a damn storm to get such an unacceptable answer. Why did you ask me to meet you here?”

  “I didn’t want to meet at the usual place,” he said. “There’s been a leak in our group, and I wanted to keep this far off the radar.”

  Vicky gestured around the room.

  “Yeah, I think we’re covered on that front. Now talk. What the hell’s going on?”

  Juzo went silent—buying time to come up with an excuse. But she knew him too well to fall for that.

  “Juzo, I’ve been part of your band of Troublemakers for almost two years now, playing cat and mouse with the military,” she said. “It’s all I’ve done since I deserted. Two years! And in all that time, we’ve uncovered plenty of so-called revolutionaries who swore they’d die for the cause, but were really just trying to ID our leaders and sprint to the nearest Imperial outpost to sell us out for a reward. Have you already forgotten about Simon? A snitch isn’t news—they’re everywhere. Every group, every organization has at least one. There will always be cockroaches in a restaurant’s kitchen, and we’re no exception!”

  “You’re getting worked up,” he said.

  Vicky let out a long breath.

  “Look, Juzo, I know you too damn well. I know you brought me here for something bigger than just a leak. You want me to play along, to read between the lines. ‘Let’s play roulette! Is Juzo actually worried about the snitches, or is there a secret message hidden in his cryptic crap?’ How could I not be worked up? If I can’t guess what you’re really after, we’ll walk out of this filthy little room and I’ll still have no clue why I left my house in the middle of a freaking storm and froze my ass off driving here just to tell you something I could’ve passed along on Seven-Frequency. So go ahead—open your damn mouth. I want to know why you’re dressed like an Imperial soldier, and why your face looks even grimmer than usual.”

  Arms crossed, she handed him the floor.

  Outside, the storm howled.

  “Damn, you talk a lot,” he muttered, unzipping his backpack and pulling out a few folders. With the look of a dad about to tell his kid the family pet doesn’t have long to live, he handed them to his friend. “Rigel gave me these yesterday. Documents they found in that bunker down in the Canyon.”

  Vicky took them, intrigued, and began to skim through the contents, flipping through the attached photos. Her eyebrows shot up, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

  Seeing her completely absorbed and speechless, Juzo recognized the same stunned look on her face that he must have worn the night before, when he first read those files. He’d never forget it.