September 3, 2058 –
Outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri
The caravan stretches along old Route 66: three thousand children walking north, no adults in sight.
They call themselves the New Pilgrims. Ages six to seventeen. Handmade signs sway on sticks: "We Are Not Assets." "Let Us Grow." "Powers Are Not Property."
Drones hover high, filming. News choppers dip lower for better angles.
Elijah watches from a rusted overpass, hoodie up against the sun. The Liberty Line—still just the six of them, plus the forty core kids hidden in the treeline—waits below.
Aisha lowers binoculars. "Three thousand walked out of Texas detention after the whistleblower leak. They're heading the same way we are."
Maya's light flickers with unease. "Open road. No cover."
Jonah scrolls hacked feeds. "Trending worldwide. Half the country calls them brave. The other half calls them threats."
Kenji shades his eyes. "Flat land. If the feds roll in…"
Kayden's illusion ripples briefly—armored vehicles on the horizon—then fades. "Iron Patriot's already posting about 'escorting lost children home.'"
Amara tugs Elijah's sleeve. "They look tired."
They do. Dust-caked shoes, sunburned faces, but the line holds steady.
Elijah feels the old promise tighten in his chest.
One caravan of three thousand vulnerable kids.
One Iron Patriot with a brand to protect.
One choice.
He looks at his small, exhausted team—the only family he has left.
"We can't leave them alone," he says quietly.
Aisha nods. "Then we shadow them. Close enough to help, far enough to stay hidden."
Maya's light steadies. "I'll keep the youngest calm from a distance."
Jonah pockets the tablet. "I'll jam the drones when it counts."
Kenji and Kayden exchange a glance—family, fragile, but holding.
Elijah pulls the hood lower.
The Liberty Line slips back into the trees, ghosts pacing the march.
Three thousand children keep walking north.
For now, they are not alone.