Page 23 of Flashover

“Intel split,” Dax says, voice wrapped in encryption fuzz. “Ignis hired a shooter—suppressed .338 Lapua, polymer rounds. Thermal-invisible, same as those foam rifles. Location unknown.”

“Sniper plus thermite,” I mutter. “They’re layering disasters.”

“And Liv?”

“Still breathing. I’m not letting that change.”

“Watch your six, brother. Storm’s tightening.”

The line dies. Storm—that’s polite. It’s a damn vise.

Camp settles into uneasy silence just before dawn. Pine needles whisper overhead as a breeze threads through the grove, breath held too long. Distant generators murmur low, the scent of charred resin and damp soil clinging to the stillness. I crouch low, every sense on edge—not just listening, but feeling for trouble. Magic hangs on me, thick as smoke, warning in every pore.

Liv’s trailer sits alone at the edge of the grove, one weak porch light casting a pale glow into the dark. I stay hidden in the shadow of a pine, eyes locked on that trailer. The pendant’s signal holds steady from inside—she’s moving around. Maybe packing for a drill she hasn’t even been cleared to join.

Stubborn woman.

Above, a drone hums—a high-pitched, mosquito whine that rasps along my nerves. Its black chassis glints in the pre-dawn murk, gimbal-mounted lens sweeping in slow, deliberate arcs as it scans for heat. Greer’s toy. A predatory little bastard built to find the warmest target in camp—and Liv’s heartbeat burns hotter than most, fire pulsing beneath her skin, a secret on theverge of combustion. She’s inside, pacing probably, shedding sparks without knowing it.

The drone dips lower, angling to feed, and the instinct rises in my chest—protect, defend, destroy.

I strip my shirt, letting the air sting against sweat-slick skin, every nerve waking under its bite. Gooseflesh ripples across my shoulders as I ease a Mylar sheet into place, its metallic surface crackling faintly as it settles. The drone hesitates, lens angling down. It sees a muted signature—barely human, just a flicker in the dark. That’s right. Look at me. Follow the decoy.

Transformer box twenty yards away ticks as camp power reroutes to early-shift gear. I pad over, yank the maintenance panel, and snap a jumper cable across two relays. Sparks spit, rising ozone—no, electrical tang—into the air. The drone hovers closer, sensors fixed on the sudden spike.

Time to give it something real—heat, flame, purpose. I brace, heart hammering as I summon the fire from deep within. It rises sharp and hot, a torrent roaring up through bone and breath until power blooms in my chest, aching to be unleashed. I ditch the Mylar, kicking free of boots and trousers in a single practiced motion—no fabric survives the shift. The drone’s whine circles overhead, lens adjusting. My skin tingles, the air thickening with charge, and the drone’s lens glints—a target already marked for ruin.

I drop to a crouch behind the transformer, heart pounding, and draw a breath so deep it scrapes through my lungs like steel against flint. The fire comes—not slowly, not gently—but in a flash-flood surge that claims me whole. Heat races through every nerve as skin dissolves into scale, spine lengthening, limbs thickening, and wings bursting outward with a snap that rattles the air. My senses ignite—sight sharpens, scent floods with copper and ozone, and the world shrinks to the glinting drone above.

One clean pivot and I exhale. A thread of white-hot flame, tight as a wire, lashes up through the dark and sears straight through the drone’s rotor array. The machine jerks, whines, then pops in a shower of sparks. In that same instant, the transformer blows—detonating with a thunderous crack that masks my dragon’s bellow beneath the shattering boom. Ash and heat billow around me, cloaking everything in fire’s breath

I pull the fire back, body folding inward as bone and sinew collapse to human form, bare skin stinging in the heat’s wake. I shrug on my half-melted Mylar, jam my feet into boots, and drag my shirt over my head just as the drone’s wreckage scatters in molten shards that sizzle against damp soil.

From the engine bays, shouts erupt:

“Transformer blew!”

“Grid’s down!”

Good. Exactly the cover I need.

I spend the next hour laying thermal blankets over empty cots, tucking battery hand-warmers beneath tool racks, and hiding heat pads inside trash cans—false signatures for the next drone Ignis sends. By the next day, the campground burns bright on infrared—each trailer reflecting a glow like an ember, each staged rig radiating phantom heat.

But it’s more than tech sleight of hand. There’s purpose in every placement, strategy woven into each decoy. As I crouch behind a stacked pump rig, watching false thermal signatures shimmer in the dark, grim satisfaction coils in my gut. This is a dragon’s minefield—every beacon a trap, every flicker a calculated misdirect.

Still, beneath the relief, a low thrum of foreboding hums through me, sharp and steady. The opening move has landed. Let them chase shadows.

A utility truck rolls into camp with its hazard strobes flashing but no sirens—quiet urgency. Two techs in high-visibility vestsclimb out, flashing crisp federal IDs that catch and reflect the sunlight like signal flares. Their posture screams authority, the kind that trails bureaucracy and consequences. I duck behind a nearby water tender, ears sharp, breath held and listen as their boots move over gravel toward the still-smoking transformer hub.

“Arc-flash registered point-zero-three seconds before total failure,” one tech says. “Logs flagged sabotage.”

Terrific. Now we’ll have federal watchdogs sniffing around with clipboards and questions I can’t afford to answer.

I duck away before they spot me and head for Liv’s trailer, weaving between shadows cast by the sun. The scorched air is still thick with static from the blown transformer, and my nerves haven’t quit buzzing. Liv meets me at the door, eyes fierce, helmet slung low in one hand, the other resting on the frame like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Her jaw’s tight, like she’s bracing for more bad news, but the fire in her eyes says she’s ready to fight anyway.

“What did you break now?” she asks.

“Transformer,” I admit. “Paid the drone back for spying.”

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