February 2, 2059 –
Snowy back roads outside Gary, Indiana
Delphine's convoy inches forward through the night—three battered vans, headlights dimmed, chains scraping ice.
She rides shotgun in the lead, Saints cap low, shotgun across her lap. Twenty new kids sleep bundled in the back.
Elijah's team shadows from the treeline—six adults on foot, forty-one kids safe in Chicago.
They've escorted quietly for two days: clearing fallen branches, spoofing traffic cams, staying invisible.
Tonight the trap is different.
No Iron Patriot. No dramatic landing.
Just a roadblock: unmarked SUVs angled across the highway, contractors in plain gear waving glow sticks like routine checkpoint.
Aisha whispers from the brush. "Not feds. Private. Prime Guardians logo on the plates."
Jonah's tablet pings softly. "They're running facial scans. Looking for Malik's bounty—and any unregistered in the vans."
Maya's light stays banked. "They'll demand papers."
Delphine's voice crackles over the shared radio. "I ain't stoppin'."
Elijah signals.
Kayden steps forward first. Illusions bloom—three identical convoys branching off side roads that don't exist.
The contractors hesitate, radios buzzing confusion.
Malik lifts the lead SUV from a distance—gravity gentle, tilting it just enough to block their own backup.
Kenji touches the frozen ground. Ice cracks under tires, locking vehicles in place without violence.
Aisha blurs through—snipping radio antennas, slashing tires, gone before shots ring out.
Maya's subtle warmth fogs windshields, blinding scanners.
Jonah floods the contractors' earpieces with static and looped emergency codes.
The roadblock falters.
Delphine floors it. Vans rumble past the chaos, chains biting fresh path.
Contractors fire warning shots into snow—too late.
The convoy vanishes into the storm.
Elijah's team melts back into trees.
No blood tonight.
Just outsmarted pride and a message sent: we're learning your game.
Delphine's voice laughs over the radio.
"Smooth, babies. Chicago's waitin'."