Ep 20 - The Calm Before the Storm

The sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the table. The smell of scrambled eggs and toast mingled with faint traces of gun oil—ghosts of the night before. Trella was already at the table, her hair was damp from a quick shower. She was flipping through last night’s notes on a tablet. Katya nursed a mug of black tea, bleary-eyed but alert. Aya lumbered in wearing an oversized hoodie, yawning so wide her jaw popped. “Whoever invented mornings should be shot.”

“Last time you said the same thing about cardio drills,” Anya smirked.

“Yeah, and I meant it both times.” Aya shot back.

Maya stood at the stove, stirring eggs with professional calm. Samira snuck slices of toast before they were buttered. Liza and Amelie quietly set out plates, the soft clinking filling the room. Mei-Ling drifted in last. Her face was clean, hair neatly tied, but the shadows under her eyes remained. She hesitated at the doorway until Trella looked up and offered a small, genuine smile. “Sit down before Aya eats your share.”

“Too late,” Aya said with a full mouth.

A ripple of laughter broke the heavy air. Mei-Ling slid into a chair. She managed the first real smile since Savannah. Then Talia appeared. “You all look like zombies.”

“Zombies who saved a dozen lives,” Maya replied.

Talia grinned. “Eat. Shower. Nap. Williams says he’s impressed. And a little terrified.”

Trella leaned back, stretched, and for a moment the world felt almost normal. Sunlight, the chatter of girls, the smell of buttered toast. The storm clouds were far away—for now.

***

Maps of the Southeast are tacked to the wall, covered in pins and strings. Michelle’s laptop hummed as she projected a spreadsheet onto a screen. Talia hovered beside her, Dawson sifted through intercepted shipping records and Williams leaned on the table with his arms crossed. Michelle gestured to the data. “Alright, here’s what shook out after cross-referencing the Atlanta warehouse manifests with SimCor’s logistics data. Four locations flag unusual traffic. First, SimCor Labs in Baltimore Suburbs. Publicly listed pharmaceutical research lab. Very few shipments from Atlanta.”

“If they’re cooking up serum 2.0, this could be it,” Williams says. “But raiding a public lab would be a nightmare. The blowback would be huge.”

“Second,” Michelle continued. “Tech Development & Testing. Attached to a veteran hospital in Charleston as a prosthetics R&D wing.”

“Almost no paper trail,” Dawson added. “just some specialized fiber and microchip deliveries.”

Talia exhaled slowly. “If they’re slipping combat tech through a veteran hospital, that’s cold even for them. If we could get a look at the prosthetics, it might give us a clue.”

“I think I can arrange that,” Dawson said. “They’re in an Army hospital. Let me try contacting Briggs, see if he can go on a little unofficial field trip.”

Talia continued. “Next is SimCor Prosthetics Factory in the Savannah Outskirts. Regular shipments, but it’s a legit, high-profile site.”

“We hit that wrong,” Michelle said flatly, “and we look like terrorists smashing an actual prosthetics factory.“

She switched slides again.

“Last one in an unlisted facility in the North Georgia woods. Doesn’t appear on any official SimCor roster and has received the most shipments from Atlanta.”

“This place is off the books,” Dawson said. “Likely an assembly station or something deeper.”

“That’s our hot lead,” Williams agreed. “But we can’t be sure it’s the development site. If it’s just assembly, we’re still blind on R&D.”

“If we move on the unlisted site first, we might spook them into relocating. But wait too long, and they could finish upgrading the cyborg program,” Talia said.

“And if they’ve started building 2.0s,” Michelle adds, “every day we waste makes a frontal assault suicide.”

Williams scanned the room. “Options?”

“We could split focus,” Dawson suggested. “Recon the unlisted site while we quietly probe the VA facility. Low-profile eyes, not a full raid.”

“And plant false intel in SimCor’s network, like we’re sniffing around Savannah again,” Talia added. “ Make them shift resources or panic.”

Williams nodded slowly, but his face was grim. “Alright. Priority is the off-book site. But keep Charleston on the board, we’ll need proof of the R&D pipeline if we’re gonna put a bullet in SimCor’s whole operation.”

***

A warm Southern breeze rustled the flags out front. Williams’ black SUV pulled into the visitor lot of the Charleston Veteran Hospital. Michelle, Talia, and Milena stepped out, their casual jackets barely concealing tension. Williams locked eyes with them. “Remember, Briggs doesn’t know the full picture. We keep this tight.”

They were met at the entrance by Major Clayton, a weathered man in his fifties with a clipped haircut and the calm authority of someone who’s seen combat. “Agent Williams. These are… your specialists?”

“Consultants. Just need a peek at what SimCor’s cooking for your boys.”

“Nothing classified. Come with me.”

The corridors were bright but subdued. Inside the rehab gym were veterans, some barely out of their twenties, practicing walking on advanced prosthetic legs or flexing new bionic fingers. A double-amputee laughed with a therapist as he manipulated a robotic arm. Milena looked concerned; she masked it as professional curiosity. Talia glanced at Michelle and Michelle’s lips thinned in a grim line.

“SimCor’s been a godsend for these men and women,” Clayton explained. “They’re field-testing an advanced neural interface, which connects straight to the peripheral nerves. It lets the prosthetic respond like a real limb.”

He gestured toward a table where a sleek arm prosthetic rested on display: matte-gray alloys, microfibers braided like muscle.

Clayton continued. “Lighter than titanium. Stronger, too. You’d be surprised what these things can handle.”

Milena’s eyes traced the grain of the alloy with her gaze. Recognition flashed. Talia subtly exchanged a glance with Williams: it’s the same material they pulled from Kane’s stash.

“Beautiful piece of engineering,” Michelle said carefully.

“SimCor calls it the Ares Series,” Clayton replied proudly. “Half of these guys are walking again because of it.”

In the background a soldier flexed a new hand. Servo motors whined softly, the motion was eerily lifelike.

“Same weave pattern. Same bonding agents,” Milena murmured under her breath.

“They didn’t even bother to change the specs…” Talia whispered to Michelle.

The team walked back toward the SUV. The cheerful sounds from inside faded, replaced by the whisper of the wind.

“We can’t hit them through the VA,” Williams said. “They’re doing real good here. But now we know SimCor’s R&D is the same tech.

“They’re using veterans as cover,” Michelle added.

“And every limb they perfect here…” Milena said grimly, “Makes the next cyborg that much harder to kill.”

The hospital flag snapped against the sky. A symbol of service, now entwined with a dark secret.

***

In the orphanage the common room hummed with quiet activity. Maps, laptops, and half-eaten takeout cluttered the worktables. The girls lounged on couches or leaned against walls, still in relaxed clothes but alert. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, fighting off the chill.

The door opened, Williams, Michelle, Talia and Milena stepped in. Their expressions were sober but not panicked. Trella looked up from a sofa. “So? Any smoking gun?”

“Not exactly,” Williams said. “The VA facility’s clean. Good people. Real soldiers getting their lives back.”

“But the prosthetics there use the same metal and weave pattern. Same specs as the cyborgs,” Milena added.

Talia was already tapping her tablet. “They’re feeding their R&D into SimCor’s black projects. The hospital’s just a cover. Nothing shady happening on-site.”

Aya slumped deeper into a beanbag, exhaling relief. “So no raid? Guess that’s one less nightmare.”

“For now. They’re still cranking out parts somewhere else,” Anya said dryly.

Michelle flicked through photos on her tablet—images of the prosthetic arm at the VA. “It confirms the link, though. Whoever’s running the illegal side has access to legitimate production streams.”

“We can’t burn the VA,” Aiko said quietly. “Too many innocents.”

“And if we even sneeze wrong at Baltimore or Savannah,” Talia added, “SimCor calls Homeland and we’re the bad guys.”

“Exactly,” Williams said. “Walk through the front door with a warrant we don’t have? We’ll be shut down, and Ferguson can’t shield us from a full-scale inquiry.”

“Baltimore is squeaky clean on paper,” Michelle continued. “Every shipment logged, every audit spotless. If anything shady’s moving, they’re funneling it off-record.”

“And Savannah’s just redistribution,” Dawson said. “Hit either one openly, and SimCor cries terrorism. Public sympathy swings their way, not ours.”

Trella leaned over the table map and circled North Georgia with a marker. “Then our next move is the unlisted site—the ghost facility. If that’s where shipments are vanishing, that’s where Schmidt, or whoever’s pulling the strings, will slip up.

Maya tossed a granola bar across the table to Samira. “Eat. You’re on drones again next op.”

Samira grinned back. “Best seat in the house.”

“We can shadow their outgoing trucks in Baltimore or Savannah. Tag shipments. Maybe slip a micro-drone inside without tripping sensors,” Talia suggested.

“Cherry Bomb likes sneaky. Sneaky goes boom later.”

But Milena didn’t smile. “Remember, SimCor does save lives at those sites. Prosthetics, meds… The hospital confirmed it. We could hurt innocent people.”

Williams scanned the group. Battle-worn but resolute. “We play this smart. We hit the wrong place, and Ferguson’s leash snaps. But hit the right one and we rip the mask off whoever’s behind these things.”

Trella nodded. “Alright, Fangs. Eyes open, claws sheathed. For now... Next breadcrumb they drop, we pounce.”

The orphanage was glowing with screens and determination. A quiet war room hidden in the small-town Maryland. The storm outside rattled the windowpanes, a subtle omen of the fight ahead.

***

The glow of multiple monitors painted Talia’s and Michelle’s faces in pale light. Empty soda cans and a half-eaten pizza littered the desk. Both looked tired and discouraged. Samira was already sleeping on her desk.

“One hundred trucks out of Savannah,” Talia yawned, scrolling through live feeds. “One hundred into Baltimore. Ninety-nine percent legit. Feels like watching grass grow.”

“And even if there’s a jackpot,” Michelle said, tapping through customs data, “it might not be on a truck. A guy with a briefcase or a family sedan could move those vials off-grid. We’re practically guessing.”

“SimCor’s smart. Big shipments are camouflage,” Talia sighed, adjusting the map. “The real stuff? Small enough to fit in a glove box.”

Michelle leaned closer. “What about traffic patterns? Anything unusual? Late-night departures, off-route stops?”

“Working on it,” Talia said, her fingers were flying. “But they’re disciplined. Savannah builds prosthetics, nothing illegal about that. Baltimore’s pharma lab barely gets anything from Atlanta, and what it does is medical grade. The paperwork is perfect.”

“Then we stop waiting,” Williams said from behind them. “If we hit the wrong place, we’re terrorists. But that unlisted site in the woods? That one’s theirs.”

Milena spread a printout on the table. “Heavily wooded, low power draw during the day, probably running underground. Small convoys slip in and out at night. Minimal outside traffic.”

“That’s the needle in the haystack,” Talia said firmly. “North Georgia or bust.”

“We start prepping,” Williams decided

The monitors dimmed. The map of North Georgia remained. A single red pin glowing deep in the forest.

***

The abandoned ranger station in the North Georgia woods smelled of damp pine and dust. Crates of ammo, spare magazines, and a small generator hummed quietly in a corner. Outside, the forest is thick and dark, with the distant whine of insects. The Fangs and Williams have set up a nest of laptops, cables, and thermal scopes on a rickety table. The monitor glow threw sharp light over tired faces.

Trella studied a thermal feed from a long-range drone. “Perimeter is active, motion sensors on the east and north fences. Cameras everywhere. If we’re seen, it’s over.”

“Looks like they’re expecting company,” Amelie muttered, cleaning her BAR. “ Or they’re just that paranoid.”

“They’re expecting someone," Talia said, scrolling through an intercepted feed. “Look at the vehicles. Unmarked SUVs with heavy escorts in the last two hours.”

“They’re moving pieces into place,” Aiko said softly.

“And here’s the kicker,” Michelle added, leaning over another screen. “Schmidt passed the security gate ten minutes ago.”

The room went silent. Even Williams stopped mid-step with a coffee in hand. “Schmidt’s here… in person?”

“And he’s not alone,” Michelle added. “Two VIP vehicles I don’t recognize entered not long ago. One of them belongs to… someone high ranked in Langley?!”

Williams cursed under his breath and rubbed his face. He realized that this went higher than he feared.

“So if we back off now, they’ll know someone’s sniffing around,” Maya said grimly. “If we let them walk out, the next gen cyborgs will be hunting us.”

Trella’s gaze met everyone’s eyes. “Then we take the whole thing out. All of it.”

“We go in heavy,” Amelie said. “No prisoners, but we need to take the data.”

Silence, except for the rain starting on the tin roof.

“If this goes bad,” Talia said hesitantly, “Dawson’s standing by with the nuclear option, right?”

“Yeah,” Williams answered. “If we disappear, he dumps everything to every journalist and watchdog he can find.”

“Then I’m going in with you,” Michelle said.

Heads snapped toward her. The girls didn’t argue. Aiko and Trella exchanged a brief glance but stayed quiet. Only Williams reacted. “Absolutely not! You’re not field-trained for this!”

“You’ll need someone to pull data on-site if their network’s isolated. You can’t risk dragging a cyborg corpse out just to read a hard drive later. I’m your fastest option.”

“She’s right,” Trella said calmly. “We can’t call for outside support once we’re underground.”

Williams stared at her, jaw tight, but the silence of the others said the decision had been made. “Fine. But you stay behind cover, you move when Trella says, and if things go south, you run. You don’t be a hero.”

“No promises, Dad.”

The generator hum grew louder as thunder rolled outside. The Fang girls started checking weapons, loading magazines, and assembling breaching charges. The storm outside mirrored the storm they were about to walk into.