Chapter 5: Prisoners of Warfare (1)

The jet's engines hummed softly, a constant vibration that seemed to lull my mind into a restless haze.

The lavish room I'd been locked in was quiet, save for the faint murmur of the engines and the occasional creak of the plane's frame as it soared through the skies.

I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts spiralling.

Sleep, when it finally came, wasn't a reprieve.

It pulled me back to a memory I hadn't revisited in years.

I was six years old again, sitting cross-legged on the worn carpet of our tiny apartment.

The smell of sizzling bacon wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint tang of dish soap and the earthy scent of the rain pattering against the windows.

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long streaks of golden light across the room.

In front of me, a brightly coloured cereal box sat like a beacon.

The oversized image of Superior Man dominated the front, his chiselled jaw set in determination as he soared through the clouds, a red cape billowing behind him.

His blue and gold suit gleamed like armour, and his gloved fists were clenched, ready to deliver justice with a single punch.

The cereal's name was a bold, glittery proclamation: "Superior Flakes: Breakfast of Heroes!"

The tagline underneath read, "Fuel your morning with the power of justice!"

It was cheesy, almost painfully so, but to my six-year-old self, it was everything.

I traced the image with a small finger, marvelling at the man who had become my idol.

Superior Man wasn't just a hero; he was the hero.

The 9th strongest in the world and 3rd strongest in America.

The man who could fly faster than the speed of sound, lift mountains with ease, and shoot beams of concentrated energy from his eyes.

Every kid at school had a Superior Man backpack, lunchbox, or notebook.

He was a symbol of hope, strength, and everything good in the world.

"Mom! Look!" I turned, holding the box up as if it were a trophy. "It's Superior Man! He's on my cereal!"

My mother's voice drifted from the kitchen, warm and affectionate. "I know, sweetheart. You've been talking about it all week."

She appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a towel.

Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, and there were faint shadows under her eyes—evidence of the long hours she worked at the diner downtown.

But her smile was radiant, the kind that could make any cloudy day seem bright.

She crouched beside me, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she glanced at the box. "Breakfast of heroes, huh? You think you're going to be a hero someday, Jayden?"

I nodded enthusiastically, clutching the box to my chest. "I'm going to be just like Superior Man! I'll fly, and fight bad guys, and save people!"

Her laughter was soft and melodic, like a gentle melody that made the room feel warmer.

"That's a big dream, baby. But you know what? I think you can do it. You've always had a big heart."

She ruffled my hair and stood, heading back to the kitchen. "Now, let's get you your hero's breakfast."

The anticipation was almost unbearable as I waited for her to pour the cereal.

I bounced on my heels, unable to sit still. When she finally placed the bowl in front of me, it felt like a sacred moment.

The cereal itself was a garish mix of bright red, blue, and yellow flakes, interspersed with star-shaped marshmallows.

The milk quickly turned a faint shade of gold as the sugary coating dissolved.

"Here you go," Mom said, sliding the spoon into my hand. "Eat up, Superior Man."

I grinned, digging in with gusto.

Each bite was a burst of sweetness, so sugary it made my teeth ache, but I didn't care.

In my mind, every spoonful made me stronger, faster, better—just like Superior Man.

I imagined myself flying through the sky, cape streaming behind me, stopping villains and saving the day.

"Hey, don't forget to breathe," Mom teased, watching me with an amused smile as I inhaled the cereal like it was the key to unlocking my destiny.

I looked up at her, milk dribbling down my chin. "Mom, do you think Superior Man ever gets scared?"

Her expression softened, and she crouched beside me again, wiping my face with a napkin.

"Everyone gets scared, Jayden. Even heroes. But being brave isn't about never being scared. It's about doing the right thing even when you are."

Her words hung in the air, their weight sinking into me in a way I didn't fully understand at the time.

I just nodded, shoving another spoonful of cereal into my mouth, but a part of me carried that moment forward.

***

The memory faded into darkness, the warmth of my mother's words still lingering in the corners of my mind.

But the peace it brought was fleeting.

Abruptly, I was jarred awake, my eyes snapping open to the dim, lavish confines of the jet cabin.

My stomach lurched with a sensation I'd never felt before—a sickening, weightless feeling, as if the floor had disappeared beneath me.

The hum of the engines had changed, now a frenzied whine interspersed with violent rattles that made the walls tremble.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The plane was falling.

Panic surged through me, and I shot upright on the bed, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

The ceiling lights flickered, and the luxury of the room now felt suffocating, its opulence mocking in the face of impending disaster.

Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, the door to the cabin slammed open.

Nadya stormed in, her movements precise and calculated despite the chaos.

Her biceps strained against the sleeves of her leather jacket, and her face was a mask of grim determination.

"Get up, kid!" she barked, her voice sharp enough to cut through my disorientation.

I barely managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed before she reached me.

Without a second thought, she grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me up as if I weighed nothing.

My feet barely touched the ground as she dragged me toward the door.

Her thoughts were loud in my head, a rapid-fire stream of urgency and frustration.

Damn rebels. How the hell did they get anti-aircraft guns? I thought we had the skies secured!

"W-what's happening?" I stammered, struggling to keep up with her long strides.

"Shut up and hold on!" she snapped, her Russian accent thickened by the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

No time to explain. The kid's too light. He won't survive this unless I do it myself.

She shoved open another door, leading us into what looked like a storage bay filled with equipment.

The plane groaned, metal creaking ominously as it tilted to one side.

My balance faltered, and I stumbled, but Nadya caught me, gripping my arm like a vice.

Her mind was a whirlwind of calculations and decisions.

Altitude's too low for a smooth jump. I'll have to compensate on the way down. Damn it, I should've seen this coming.

"Jump?" I echoed, my voice rising an octave as her words sank in. "You mean out of the plane? Are you crazy?!"

Her dark eyes locked onto mine, her gaze steady and unflinching. "You want to live or not?"

Before I could answer—or even process the question—she threw a parachute pack over her shoulder and secured it with swift, practiced motions.

Then, with one hand, she grabbed me around the waist and lifted me like a sack of flour.

"You're light. That's good," she muttered aloud, more to herself than me. Her thoughts mirrored her words.

He's scrawny enough that I can carry him without losing too much control. This is going to be tight.

My protests were cut short as she moved toward the rear hatch, her strides steady despite the turbulence shaking the plane.

Through a small window, I caught a glimpse of the world outside: a dark, endless expanse of sky broken only by streaks of light from the ground below.

It hit me like a punch to the gut.

Those weren't lights—they were explosions.

"They're shooting at us?!" I choked out, my voice cracking.

"No shit," Nadya growled, slamming her fist against a control panel near the hatch.

The door hissed and began to lower, revealing the night sky in all its chaotic glory.

The wind howled, and the air was icy, whipping at my face and stealing my breath.

"Hang on, kid," she said, tightening her grip on me. Her voice was calm, but her thoughts betrayed her worry.

This better work. The boss will kill me if I lose him. Or worse—if he dies on the way down.

Before I could muster any kind of response, she stepped onto the edge of the hatch, her boots teetering on the brink of the abyss.

The world below stretched out like a vast, unknowable void.

And then she jumped.

The wind screamed around us as we plummeted, the plane disappearing above us in seconds.

My stomach flipped, and a terrified scream ripped from my throat, lost to the roar of the descent.

Nadya's grip on me was unyielding, her muscles taut as steel as she controlled the fall with precision.

Her mind was a sharp contrast to the chaos around us—a steady stream of calculations and strategy.

Steady... wait for it... deploy at the right altitude...

The ground rushed up to meet us faster than I could process, and for a brief, horrifying moment, I was sure we were going to die.

But then, with a practiced motion, Nadya yanked the cord on the parachute.

The sudden jolt was like being yanked back to reality.

The chute deployed with a loud snap, slowing our descent drastically.

My heart was still hammering in my chest, and I clung to Nadya like a lifeline.

Her thoughts buzzed in my head.

Good. The chute held. Now just land without breaking anything. Rebels will be on us soon... have to move fast.

As the ground grew closer, I realized we were descending toward a dense forest, the dark canopy stretching as far as the eye could see.

Nadya adjusted the parachute with practiced ease, steering us toward a small clearing.

The landing was rough.

Nadya hit the ground first, cushioning my impact as she rolled with the momentum.

Even with her skill, the force knocked the wind out of me.

She didn't waste a second.

Before I could even catch my breath, she was on her feet, yanking the harness off and scanning the surroundings.

"Move, kid," she said, her voice low and urgent.

Her thoughts were a relentless drumbeat.

They'll be here soon. We've got to stay ahead of them.

"W-who's coming?" I stammered, still dazed.

She shot me a sharp look, her expression as grim as her thoughts. "You idiot! Who else would it be? The rebels, for Jesus' sake. And they won't stop until we're dead."

Her words sent a chill down my spine, and I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaking beneath me.

The clearing was deathly silent, save for the rustling of leaves in the cool night breeze.

Nadya's blue eyes darted to each shadow as her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of the knife strapped to her boot.

I took a shaky step forward, but then a sound froze me in place—a sharp click.

It wasn't the wind, nor an animal.

It was unmistakable: a gun being cocked.

From the shadows, figures emerged one by one.

Their mismatched fatigues and battle-worn faces told me everything I needed to know: we were surrounded by soldiers, rebels—twenty of them.

They were armed to the teeth with rifles, shotguns, and pistols, each one pointed squarely at us.

My pulse raced as I glanced at Nadya, but her expression was unreadable.

Then, as if a crack had formed in a wall, her thoughts flooded my mind.

This kid better stay calm. Panicking will only get us killed.

One of the rebels, a tall, wiry man with a scar running down his cheek, barked out an order.

His voice was rough and commanding, but the words were meaningless to me.

"Оружие на землю! Руки вверх!" (Weapons on the ground! Hands up!)

Beside me, Nadya didn't flinch.

Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tightening as she calculated our odds.

Her voice echoed again in my mind, a cold, calculating whisper.

Twenty of them.

Close range. Too risky.

They'd cut us down before I could get to their leader. Think. Think.

The rebels moved closer, tightening the circle.

Another man, broader and older, stepped forward, his grizzled beard giving him an air of authority.

"Вы издеваетесь? Кто вы такие? Что за безумец прыгает из самолёта и выживает?" (Are you kidding me? Who are you people?)

Nadya's thoughts surged with tension, though her face remained calm.

Damn it. They're organized. Too many to take down without a plan.

Have to buy time. Play the part. Keep him guessing.

Her lips curled into a small, mocking smile, but her tone was calm and measured as she replied in fluent Russian, "Мы гражданские. У нас был аварийный выход из падающего самолета." (We're civilians. We had an emergency exit from a falling plane.)

The man's eyes narrowed. "Гражданские, говоришь?" (Civilians, you say?)

I felt my stomach twist as I picked up the undercurrent of her thoughts.

They won't believe me. No one would. But I need them off balance. Focus on me, not the kid.

The bearded man's suspicion only deepened as he studied her.

"Это ненормально. Вы думаете, мы идиоты? Никто не выживает прыжка с такого низкого уровня без парашюта. Особенно так спокойно." (That's not normal. You think we're idiots? No one survives a jump from that low altitude even with a parachute. Especially not so calmly.)

Their harsh tone and pointed gestures sent a shiver down my spine.

I glanced nervously at Nadya, her expression still icy and controlled.

The bearded man stepped even closer, his rifle lowering slightly as his sharp eyes scanned her face.

Suddenly, recognition dawned in his expression.

He stiffened, and his voice dropped to a reverent whisper.

"Надя... Министр обороны России? Это... Это невозможно." (Nadya... The Minister of Defence of Russia? This... This is impossible.)

The group broke into murmurs, the tension in the air shifting as they exchanged incredulous glances.

One of the younger rebels muttered, "Но это она. Я видел её фото. Она легенда." (But it's her. I've seen her picture. She's a legend.)

The leader's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "Тишина!" (Silence!)

His eyes locked on Nadya, now filled with equal parts fear and awe.

"Вы национальная героиня, Надя. Любимая народом, но почему вы все еще поддерживаете этого бесполезного президента России Виктора Михайловича Волкова? Объясните себя.." (You're a national hero, Nadya. Beloved by the people but why would you still support that useless Russian President Viktor Mikhailovich Volkov. Explain yourself.)

Nadya's sharp gaze swept over the group, her lips curling into a faint smirk.

Her thoughts burned with frustration. 

"Я не обязана перед вами отчитываться." (I don't owe you an explanation.)

Her tone was measured but carried a deadly edge.

Even without understanding the words, I could feel the weight of them.

The rebels stiffened, their confidence visibly shaken.

The leader's grip tightened on his rifle, and his voice grew harsh. "Вы знаете, что случается с предателями, даже если вы легенда." (You know what happens to traitors, even if you're a legend.)

Nadya's thoughts hummed with controlled fury.

Let him threaten me. He won't act yet. He's waiting for an excuse. Just a little longer. Wait for it...

Without warning, the leader barked another order. "На колени. Сейчас же." (On your knees. Now.)

Nadya's hand gripped my shoulder, and her voice cut through the storm in my head, low and firm.

"Kneel, kid. Do it now."

I hesitated, but her thoughts screamed in my mind.

This kid better kneel down. Don't fight. Not yet. All he has to do is trust me!

I dropped to my knees, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The rebels closed in further, their weapons steady and their eyes watchful.

Nadya followed suit, lowering herself slowly, deliberately.

Her thoughts coiled tightly, her focus razor-sharp.

Her posture wasn't one of defeat.

It was a crouched predator, biding her time.

The air was thick with tension, the kind that precedes a storm.

Whatever was about to happen, I could only hope Nadya's reputation—and her abilities—would be enough to save us.