Extraction - SCP Foundation

"500 METERS"

Logan Deckard had done the drill hundreds of times before: lower the flaps, reduce the throttle, and maintain the gentle approach slope towards the runway. It was practically muscle memory at this point, so he wasn't particularly disturbed when the runway coming up ahead was little more than a dirt road in the middle of a forest clearing, barely visible under the setting sun.

In one fluid motion, his free hand extended the flaps to their fullest extent, then gradually reduced the throttle down to just above half of its lowest point. At long last, the overwhelming drone of the engine had calmed down to a point where he could finally hear the "Classic Rock Hits" playing softly in the second input of his headset.

"300 METERS"

"I know," He dismissively muttered at the automated voice of the altimeter chirping in his headset, watching the world approaching beneath him, and making an occasional glance to the flight instruments on his control panel. The small, almost miniscule movements he made to the yoke ensured he was aligned as best as possible with the narrow dirt runway.

"100 METERS, 50… 40…"

Deckard leveled out, giving the engine just enough power to keep his landing smooth and orderly.

"20… 10…"

The Cessna 208 Caravan landed with a rumble, rolling across the rough airstrip as it kicked up a small cloud of dust behind it. Deckard hit the brakes as his plane crawled to a halt, then increased power slightly to taxi it down to the end of the runway.

He pressed down on one of the rudder pedals with his foot, turning the plane around to face the other end of the runway, then applied the brakes and cut power to the engines. His eyes snapped over to a multi-purpose display adjacent to a greenish-blue screen of an external camera.

He flicked a heavy switch next to the display, taking a moment to read the red text that appeared on the CRT screen.

L&T CONTRACT 1998/2/16-02

| CONTRACT MGR: DR. WALCOTT, SITE-108

| CONTRACT SPECIFICATIONS: ITEM IS TO BE LOGGED IN MANIFEST UPON RETRIEVAL. ITEM IS NOT TO BE OPENED DURING TRANSIT.

| HAZARDOUS ITEMS PROTOCOL: LEVEL 1. FOLLOW STANDARD CBRN SAFETY PROCEDURES IN EVENT OF EMERGENCY.

| PICKUP SPECIFICATIONS: RETRIEVE FROM ANOMALOUS STORAGE UNIT MARKED '083' FROM L&T AIRSTRIP A-238. COMBINATION IS 08-11-22.

| DROP OFF SPECIFICATIONS: DELIVERED TO SITE-108 NLT 0600 HRS 17 FEBRUARY 1998

| DESCRIPTION: ITEM IS A SAFE-CLASS ANOMALY STORED AT L&T AIRSTRIP A-238 AS A PROVISIONAL FACILITY. ITEM IS SAFELY CONTAINED WITHIN ITS CASE AND IS NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM THE CASE. FUNCTIONALITY IS CURRENTLY NOT YET UNDERSTOOD.

| NOTE: FOLLOW STANDARD ROUTE. VOLATILE POLITICAL CONDITIONS IN THE COUNTRY NECESSITATES EXTRACTION BE DONE AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.

Deckard blinked, looking over to the rather out-of-place storage container sitting next to his plane.

For an organization so focused on the study and containment of potentially dangerous and world-ending anomalies, the larger Foundation was apparently getting a little sloppy with the latter, if today was any indication. He had to give them some benefit of the doubt, though; maybe they were just pressed for time, and this was just a one-time incident.

Regardless, picking up something from a shipping container in the middle of a warzone was as much of a joke as it seemed: couldn't they have gotten someone else to do this instead?

He grumbled something about "not being paid enough for this shit," then typed a message into a small keypad just above the throttle lever.

SENT:

| > PACKAGE RTVD @ 1924 HRS

| > WILL B LATE DUE 2 BEIN IN WARZONE

| > L DECKARD

RECEIVED:

| ACKNOWLEDGED, PILOT

| WE WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU

| COME QUICK

| SEE YOU SOON

| DR. WALCOTT

Just who the hell do they think I am? I'm no field agent. Why am I doing their job?

Deckard scoffed, unbuckling himself from his seatbelt as he clambered out the pilot side door. Once on terra firma, he jogged over to the storage unit, swiping a flashlight from his pants and shining some light over the container.

Even if the damn thing was so "safe," he wasn't going to be taking any chances today. He had heard the stories a dozen times before, of retrieval agents having their minds melted by looking at something funny, or getting teleported halfway into a wall for touching an item the wrong way.

That was the catch to these retrieval jobs — too many "what-if's" and high risks, and your life was almost constantly on the line. It certainly beat staying in sterile offices and deep underground facilities all day, and it paid well, but it was harrowing work. If something could go wrong, it most definitely would.

Usually, a loadmaster on the ground would've done most of the work for him, but the fact that there was a literal civil war going on in the background complicated things a little — maybe the one Foundation Site in the country had its sights focused elsewhere for today, and for good reason.

Maybe he was all wrong, though — maybe this truly was just a Safe object, and he was just overreacting. Maybe Site-108 was simply using L&T to run errands for them again without concern, as irritating as it was. Maybe not.

Regardless, he wasn't getting paid to think — Deckard was a courier, not a scientist. Wasted time was wasted money.

Unlocking the container was as uneventful as expected. It was about as mundane as shipping containers got, and as he entered the container, his light soon passed over a silvery briefcase that shimmered in the light.

This must be it.

Without wasting any more time, Deckard picked up the briefcase, then started for the door, making sure to close and lock the container behind him. The crackle of gunfire had become closer, as had the glowing trails of tracer rounds filling the dusk sky.

Luckily for him, he was going to be far, far away from all that before shit really hit the fan.

WHOOOOSH

Agent Gavin "Buck" Pierce hit the dirt as something loud howled over him, followed up by the deafening whomp of an explosion a few dozen meters behind his head. The ground shook as wood chips and dirt pelted his uniform, and a brief sensation of heat passed over his body.

Once the ringing in his ears was gone, he began low crawling for his rifle on the ground, in an attempt to get some rounds downrange at some movement in the buildings ahead. Buck froze behind an overturned tree as the rattle of automatic gunfire suddenly filled the air, then clung as low to the ground as possible as the gunfire ceased, then went off again, before finally ceasing for good.

He looked up from his prone position and saw his pursuers collapsing into the street just outside the village. A man wielding an XM8 ran up beside him, looking down right into his comrade's worried face. "You alright, Buck?"

"Spade…" Buck closed his eyes for a moment, drowning out the ambient cacophony of faraway gunfire before dramatically yelling, "I almost got hit by a FUCKING RPG. What do you think?!"

The Afrikaner rolled his eyes, holding a hand out for his partner to grab. "Oh, cut the theatrics. Get up, we're leaving."

Buck took the hand and stood up, grabbing his rifle off the ground. He was still a little jittery, but that was to be expected when one almost took a rocket to the face. "T-took you long enough, man. Being bait isn't exactly fun when half the team's… fucked off to go do something else, y’know."

"Wasn't my call," Spade retorted in his signature flavorless tone. "Metro insisted there be a distraction to mask our escape… but I'd say a civil war's a good enough distraction in my book. You honestly could've just stuck with me."

"A little late for that, though." Buck sulked indignantly, shrugging his shoulders as he checked himself (and his rifle) for any damages beyond just a few scratches. "But hey, at least I was following orders."

He took a moment to take in the world around him once his combat shakes subsided. The political instability in the country finally had burst like a Coke bottle being shaken too much, turning the place into a three-way battle royale practically overnight. Delta-6 just so happened to be caught in the middle of it all when shit went down, and their routine job to recover a potentially Veil-breaking anomaly from rebel hands had devolved into a fight just to get out alive.

"What a clusterfuck." He sighed. "Can't wait to be out of this shit."

"We aren't out of it yet," Spade said, patting his partner on the shoulder. The ex-GOC agent had already begun stepping off towards the rendezvous point, passing his partner without a second glance. "Come on, let's get out of here."

The pair retreated from the village they had just fought their way through and made their way into the woods, where a small compound was visible in a clearing just up ahead. The bodies of several rebel fighters littered the area around the building, some with strange metallic enhancements to their extremities, and others wielding weapons inscribed with various esoteric runes and sigils.

Buck dropped to a knee beside a tree, watching the way they had come in from. "Are Colt and Lynn out yet? Whatever happened to 'speed, surprise, and violence of action,' huh?"

"Standby." Spade muttered, his eyes on the compound's entrance.

Buck turned to the structure, and flinched as he heard a sudden, muffled thump from the inside, followed by two more thump-thumps.

The front door forcefully swung outwards. A muscular man with an assault rifle stepped outside, the limp body of another rebel stumbling out behind him. He was trailed by a soldierly black woman with a carbine in one hand, and a small briefcase in the other. They both wore the same camouflage uniform Buck and Spade had, with full tactical gear worn over everything.

That's our leader, Buck thought to himself, smirking as the Senior Agent left the building, smooth as ever.

The man stepped forward to the duo, bounding across the clearing in just a few strides as Lynn took up a security position behind him. "Apparently, we've pissed off the Broken God types just by bein' here, and I think we've overstayed our welcome." He paused briefly, as if for dramatic effect. "Time to go."

"Finally. You'd think we'd already be on their shitlist for nabbing their skip…" Buck muttered, much to his team leader's chagrin. He then gestured to their rookie. "What even is this thing Lynn has, Colt?"

Colt snapped his head over to Buck. "It's not our job to find out what it does, only to get it back to base. I'd rather not open it myself, either."

"Fair point."

"So what's the plan for evac, bossman?" Spade inquired. "I'd like to leave too, preferably not in a coffin."

Buck then saw their normally calm and collected leader grimace. He tensed up in anticipation of Colt telling them some disappointing news.

"There is no plan," Colt began ominously, addressing the entirety of his team. "The situation's changed, people. The nearest Site is currently on lockdown, and they won't budge at all. Our next bet on getting out of this is Site-108, which is a pretty big hike away… or waiting 'till Metro finds a new 5778-A instance for us to extract from, which will also take a while."

"…'Cause the other one's in that." Buck glanced over to the wartorn city in the background, whose blown-out buildings gave the horizon a jagged, cracked appearance. "Great. Just how long is 'a pretty big hike' exactly?"

"60 klicks or more," Lynn chirped. "It'd take us maybe a day or two, with this terrain and weather, but it's doable."

"Fuuuck." Buck groaned. "So, we're hiking away from a warzone, while getting trailed by Mekhanites who want us dead? Will that even work?"

"We'll make it work."

Buck looked over to Colt, who had said this while stepping forwards a few paces. He exhaled out his nostrils, glancing at the front of the compound. Buck's gaze followed Colt's, and he soon saw what the man was referring to.

He was looking at one of the white Toyota Hilux pickup trucks that they hadn't blown up on their way in. Most of the technical's windows were shot out, and it had several gaping bullet holes in its sides, but it certainly looked drivable, at the very least.

He then turned to his team, having made his decision.

"We'll take this technical and head away from the city as far as it can take us," Colt explained. "I'll get on the horn, try and contact someone for an evac, but no promises. If need be, we'll wait this thing out, but I'm hopeful we can find someone to get us out until then."

Buck nodded in acknowledgement. Deep inside, though, a sense of worry was creeping up on him. Part of him wanted to think that they were going to make it out, but another part of him thought their escape was futile. They were in enemy territory, outnumbered ten to one, by an enemy that wasn't just going to give up in letting them drive off into the sunset.

They needed a miracle, not some 5778-A tunnel, if they were going to make it out of this one.

He gave a sigh as he joined his team in jogging over to the pickup truck. I'm hopeful we can find someone too.

The city looked apocalyptic from afar. Giant fires belched huge black plumes of smoke into the sky, blotting out parts of the violet-blue twilight sky as an early darkness encroached upon the world.

Deckard was glad he was far away from it all, cruising high above the clouds, and safe from any harm. Things were looking good; the cargo in the back was secure, and he was slated to get to Site-108 in a little over two and a half hours. Being an hour late wasn't exactly great, but, at the same time, it wasn't exactly terrible either.

Deckard had never imagined himself to end up in a country like this. Working for the Foundation was one thing, but picking up and delivering their most precious cargo from a myriad of locations was something wholly different. From private cottages and airstrips that were practically invisible on satellite maps, to airbases and airports of various countries all across the world—the Foundation had its hands everywhere. Even warzones.

People like him were needed to ensure that their cargo got to where it was supposed to be, when it was needed. For a department so important as L&T, though, the rest of the Foundation was pretty dismissive towards them. He expected better than what happened today, but he had neither the time nor energy to argue with someone four positions his senior today.

All he had to do was just get to 108 and drop off the cargo, then crash at a local hotel. Getting back to Site-122 could wait; after all, a tired pilot was a pilot in danger.

"…i …elta… ol…"

Something was coming in choppy through the other audio input of Deckard's headset, and he had just now noticed it. He snapped his head back to the briefcase in the back of the aircraft, lifting one end of the headset off to make sure that no sound was coming from the anomaly.

Seeing as how it wasn't doing anything at all, he turned back to the control panel, turning down the audio of the second input. What was contacting him? It couldn't have been Site-108's ATC tower, if they even had one. Not at this range, that is.

"November 520 to unknown contact—" he spoke into the mic, clear and punctual as usual, but then paused. Was he breaking protocol by doing this? For all he knew, that voice could've been someone totally random, who had managed to find their way onto Foundation secure frequencies, and were snooping in for whatever nefarious end game they had planned.

Still, though, part of him wanted to believe that this was just some random Foundation operative or facility. Hell, it could've been another L&T pilot, too, which meant a nice passing conversation that could take the time off the journey.

Deckard decided to bite the bullet. He waited for a moment before continuing. "Uhh. I had some interference. Say your last again, please."

"…This is Senior Agent Colt," The voice had come in much clearer now. "Mobile Task Force Delta-6. I read you five by five. To whom am I speaking to, over?"

Oh shit.

A lump formed in Deckard's throat. An MTF operative, and a high-ranking one at that.

One aspect of L&T's responsibilities involved the transportation of Foundation operatives around the world, but Deckard was a cargo pilot, not a transport pilot. While other pilots in L&T had some experience flying for the military, Deckard had come from a mundane background of general aviation and commercial pilots. The task forces usually organized their own transportation into hot zones, which could've meant only one thing for today…

"I say again, to whom am I speaking to, over?" Colt repeated. He had the bearing of a seasoned, professional soldier in his tone.

Deckard snapped over to the control panel and keyed his mic. "Apologies. This is L&T aircraft November 238. Pilot Deckard speaking. How can I assist?"

There was a pause. "Copy that, pilot Deckard. Interrogative, where are you headed?"

"Site-108, sir. Got a priority dropoff that needs to be made.”

Another pause. "Acknowledged. We're headed that same way. We have an unknown number of hostiles trailing us, though. My team is in possession of a sensitive package, and we are requesting an extraction from an airstrip two klicks of our current pos according to my GPS."

He continued, "I say again, my team is in possession of a sensitive package and is in need of extraction from an airstrip two klicks of our current pos. Can you confirm the location of this airstrip, over?"

Deckard flicked a switch on the multi-purpose display, easily finding the airstrip in question marked on his own GPS. "I see it."

"Acknowledged. Is evac possible at this time? We can be at that airstrip in seven mikes, over.”

Deckard winced, flipping back to the text messenger on the display. This was going to hurt his contract for sure. “Standby, Agent.”

“We can wait.”

RECEIVED:

| REQUESTING STATUS UPDATE

| ARE YOU EN ROUTE?

| TOWER IS AWAITING YOUR ARRIVAL

| DR. WALCOTT

SENT:

| > EN ROUTE RN

| > MAY HAVE SITUATION

| > L DECKARD

RECEIVED:

| ELABORATE

| DR. WALCOTT

SENT:

| > MTF TEAM NEEDS PICKUP

| > SOUNDS IMPORTANT

| > HAVE FUEL 2 SPARE 4 EM

| > L DECKARD

RECEIVED:

| ADVISE AGAINST THIS

| YOU COULD POTENTIALLY ENDANGER PRECIOUS CARGO

| TEAM CAN BE RECOVERED LATER

| DR. WALCOTT

Yeah, they’ll be recovering dead men.

Deckard scowled at the message. The audacity of this doctor, some man he probably never was going to meet face to face, it was infuriating!

“Pilot?” Colt asked, causing Deckard to jolt a little. “Need an answer, man. We’re five mikes out from that airstrip, and we need to know if we should wait on you, or keep going.”

How was he going to explain this to Colt, though? Going against the contract for an emergency was one thing, but disobeying orders and jeopardizing cargo was a whole different beast to deal with. The only thing he was going to be getting out of this, at this rate, was a disciplinary report—even L&T wasn’t going to be happy about that.

However, there was something in Colt’s voice that was plucking a few of Deckard’s strings. He had heard the term “professionals under stress” before — it was something he had been taught by L&T to always embody, even while in the most dire of situations. Colt was a professional, just as he was, but he was also a professional in danger, and the slight tonal shift in his voice on his last message was evidence enough for him.

Deckard wasn’t an egghead. If there was even the slightest chance of getting those operatives out, he was going to take it. No one was dying today on his watch.

His eyes glanced over to a new message on his multi-function display. His fingers punched a response into the keypad just as quickly as it showed up.

RECEIVED:

| STILL EN ROUTE?

| DR. WALCOTT

SENT:

| > CHANGE OF PLANS

| > WILL BE LATE

| > L DECKARD

Deckard keyed the radio, then began to speak.

Lynn stomped on the accelerator of the pickup truck as it skimmed across the winding dirt road. The vehicle fishtailed over a small hill and landed roughly, then made a sharp turn to the right that nearly wrenched Buck from his seat.

He held onto his helmet, grunting at Lynn’s skillful driving skills, or perhaps the rough terrain. “Lynn, can you at least try to drive this thing without going over every conceivable bump in existence?"

“Spade is holding up back there just fine,” She quipped, sticking a thumb back to the agent manning the MG in the bed of the pickup, who was constantly scanning the darkness through his night vision optics. “Why can’t you be like him?”

Buck grunted at the joke, eyeing their team leader sitting in the backseat. “You got an evac for us yet, Colt?”

Colt held up a finger, as if to tell the man to wait, as his other hand ensured his headset mic was close to his mouth. “Copy that, November 238. We are two mikes out and will see you there. Out.”

He then looked up, giving a thumbs up. “We’ve got help on the way.”

Buck practically melted into his seat, letting out a sigh of relief at the best news he had heard all day. “Fucking finally! Who is it?”

“Cargo pilot from L&T,” Colt stated, somewhat matter-of-factly. “Says he’s about five mikes out.”

Buck’s smile immediately transformed into a frown. Of all the things the Foundation could’ve thrown at Delta-6 to help get them out of there, like an attack helicopter or an armored car, why a cargo plane? That was quite possibly the worst thing they needed. On top of having paper-thin armor, the only places those things could land were airstrips. Even then, planes were quite picky about airstrips, and if there was even the slightest bump in one, that plane was toast.

Not to mention the most glaring issue: Where the fuck are we gonna find any airstrips?

“Why are you frownin’?” Colt tilted his head. “You’re the one so ornery about getting an evac. We just got one.”

Buck sighed. “Well, I was honestly expecting something with a little more… y’know… firepower?”

Colt scoffed. “Not every Site is in America, you know. Some can’t afford the luxury of instant force projection, like AS-21.”

Buck was about to say something witty in response to Colt when Spade suddenly began shooting at something in the darkness. Lynn sped up while this happened, the pickup truck taking another sharp turn onto a dirt road that was partially overgrown with foliage. Buck saw her eyes snap from Colt’s GPS on the dashboard to the rear view mirror, and then she suddenly yanked the wheel to the side, sending the truck even further off road and through a few small shrubs.

Buck rolled down his window in anticipation of helping Spade out, but immediately regretted his decision as he saw a bluish-white flash behind them. He ducked inside the vehicle as the world briefly became daytime from a magic explosion obliterating a tree beside them. The truck rattled and wobbled as if it was going to fall apart at any moment, and Buck swore out loud, muttering a silent prayer to himself. “Oh, come on!”

The headlights of the pickup illuminated a chain link fence coming up ahead, and Buck held on as Lynn floored it. At this point, he wasn’t sure whether the woman was a psycho, or if she was simply just adamant on getting to the extraction point in time.

The white pickup truck effortlessly smashed through the fence, bounding over a ditch and across what appeared to be another long dirt road, before coming to a halt into another ditch, its engine finally giving out. Spade had already dismounted at that point, and Buck saw him dive into the ditch, firing sustained bursts downrange at some lights atop vehicles that had appeared in the darkness.

The other two agents were already out of the vehicle. “Buck, cover left! Lynn, cover right! Contacts on the fence, dead ahead!” Colt barked, dropping to a knee beside Spade.

Here we fuckin’ go.

Buck flipped his night vision monocular over his left eye. He grabbed his rifle and kicked the door open, rolled out onto the grass, and then sprinted as fast as his legs could take him. The whistle of invisible bullets sliced through the air above him, forcing him into cover behind a boulder adjacent to the road.

He braced his rifle against the rock and fired downrange at some figures in the treeline. His teeth shook as parts of the rock he took cover behind were chipped away by incoming rounds, prompting him to shift over to the other side of the rock.

One of the incoming fighters had other ideas, however. He began placing a few more well-aimed shots onto the rock in an attempt to draw the agent further out.

A glowing beam of light, invisible to those not wearing night vision, suddenly appeared from a device atop Spade’s weapon. The laser then snapped upwards to the man’s chest, where a flurry of rounds slammed into the gunman, flinging him backwards and past his comrades.

Buck silently thanked Spade and rose from cover. His thumb flicked the fire select from semi to burst, and he sent a trio of bullets downrange at their pursuers, felling two more gunmen. More were already beginning to file in to take their place.

They couldn’t hold this position for long, and Buck knew it. He turned towards his leader, shouting over the gunbattle. “COLT! Where the FUCK is our evac at?!”

The man wasted no time in replying. “Inbound!”

Buck could just barely make out the drone of an airplane’s engine encroaching upon their position. Their ride home was almost here.

"500 METERS"

Lower flaps, reduce throttle, maintain approach.

The airstrip in front of him was the site of a battle Deckard could’ve only imagined seeing in a video game; where muzzle flashes clashed with the bluish-white sparks and winks of thaumaturgic blasts.

He glanced at the greenish-blue screen of the aircraft’s external camera, which had spotted the four MTF operatives clear as day thanks to the IFF indicators each of them wore. They had been taking a defensive position in a ditch on the left hand side of the runway, which meant that the only feasible way of them getting onboard without becoming a sitting duck was a touch-and-go landing.

"300 METERS"

He keyed the radio at that point, maintaining his approach to the airstrip. “Agent Colt, this is November 238, I’m on final approach. Get to the center of the runway as fast as you can, I’m gonna try a touch and go landing on this. I’ve only got one shot.”

There was a pause, then Colt came back on the other end, his voice somewhat haggard from shouting. “Acknowledged! Lynn, move! I’ve got you covered!”

"100 METERS, 50… 40…"

Deckard’s approach was less collected as before, but he still had time to make it. He leveled out, increasing the engine power slightly as the dirt airstrip appeared below on the camera.

"20… 10…"

The briefcase in the back began to vibrate, emitting an alien humming noise that was almost too surprising to ignore.

Deckard had bigger problems at hand, though. He had to make this landing, regardless of if the anomaly was getting uppity.

The plane touched down on the dirt runway, the deafening drone of its propeller cutting out whatever Colt had just told Buck at that very moment.

He was already sprinting, though, chasing after the small cargo plane just like the others as it came down. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he ran, adamant on catching up with the aircraft. Buck’s legs propelled him across the dirt as if they were totally ignorant of the 100 pounds worth of gear he had on his back, or the bullets zipping by his face.

As he approached the side cargo door of the plane and watched Lynn hop inside, Buck snapped his head over to the right, spotting yet another glow coming from the right hand side of the airfield. A bluish shimmer had appeared in one of the gunmen’s free hands, which, on a second viewing, was actually an entire arm made of metal machinery.

Buck swore, turning to the plane as he shouted into his headset. “Oh shit— DUST OFF! DUST OFF, NOW!”

Buck stopped sprinting and turned to the man, then dropped to a knee. He emptied what remained of his magazine in seconds, uncaring about accuracy — he just needed to suppress that mother fucker before he blew up his team and their ride home.

He fired at the same moment the man did, but his rifle’s bullets were much faster than the magic attack. The mage was dead before the magic blast had even left his hand, his muscle reflex causing his arm to swing upwards… sending the bolt high above its target.

Buck clenched his eyes and tightened every single muscle in his body as the bright orb passed over the plane, shaking the ground as it roared downrange and detonated in the woods behind them.

“BUCK! GET A MOVE ON!” He heard Spade shouting from the aircraft. Buck practically threw himself towards the plane in a dead sprint, reaching a hand out for his comrade from the loading door.

Spade had a vice grip, pulling the man into the plane just as the ground escaped from beneath him. With a grunt, he shut the loading doors, and held on as the plane ascended, then turned away from the airfield, escaping into the dark sky.

Buck flopped onto his back, nestled between some miscellaneous crates and containers in the back of the aircraft. His chest rose and fell rapidly as the aircraft leveled out, and he looked at his teammates

“Hooly fuck. Did…” He paused to regain his breath. “Did we get the skip out, or not?”

Lynn raised the briefcase up — Buck saw that it had attached itself to the other briefcase, like a powerful magnet attracting another metal to itself. His eyes rolled — Colt was right, after all. It wasn’t their job to find out what an anomaly did, only to secure it or get it back to base.

Spade snickered and sat against a crate, nudging his partner with his foot. “Hey, Buck. You know, for someone that was so adamant on getting out of that place first, you sure did want to be the last one out.”

Buck grumbled something unintelligible as he laid on the floor of the plane. “Fuck you, Spade.”

Their pilot leaned back to the others from his seat. “Is, uh, everyone inside? We didn’t leave anyone behind, right?”

Colt gave a thumbs up. “We’re all up. Thanks for the save, Deckard. Armed Site-21 sends its regards.”

The pilot nodded. “Don’t mention it. We’re, uh, about an hour and a half out from Site-108, so, uh…”

Deckard paused, smirking as he assumed his best airline pilot impression. “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”