Season 1 chapter 16
The 100-Million Credit Campfire
Night didn't fall in the jungle; it crashed down. One minute it was twilight, the next it was pitch black, darker than the inside of a coffin.
They found a small, relatively dry clearing under the roots of a massive banyan-type tree. Malesh dropped his pack with a heavy thud, wiping a mixture of sweat and dead mosquitoes off his forehead.
"Fuck this place," Malesh muttered, spitting out a bug that had flown into his mouth. "I swear to god, if I get malaria, I'm billing the Dean for my medical expenses."
"Stop whining and start the fire," Kniya grunted, sitting down and immediately checking his boots for leeches. "We need heat to dry these socks, or we'll have trench foot by morning."
Malesh pulled out a magnesium striker and some dry chemically-treated lint from his kit. Within seconds, a small, controlled fire was crackling, casting long, dancing shadows against the terrifying wall of trees surrounding them.
They cracked open their ration packs—flavorless blocks of nutrient-dense protein that tasted like wet cardboard and sadness.
Kniya chewed slowly, staring into the fire. Then, his eyes snapped to Malesh's tactical vest.
"Check the box," Kniya ordered, his voice serious.
Malesh rolled his eyes, mid-chew. "It's there, Kniya. I haven't moved in five minutes."
"Check it anyway," Kniya pressed. "That lead box is our pension, bro. If we lose that collateral, we are fucked. We go back to being broke students with a death wish. I'm not walking out of this green hell empty-handed."
Malesh sighed, visibly annoyed. He unzipped the inner pouch of his vest, pulled out the heavy lead container, and tapped it with his knuckle. Click-click.
"Happy?" Malesh asked, shoving it back in. "Who do you think is going to steal it out here? A monkey? A ghost? There isn't a single soul for fifty miles except us and the terrorists."
"You never know," Kniya muttered, taking a swig from his canteen. "Forests are tricky. Things fall out. Pockets rip."
"These are military-grade tactical zippers, you paranoid idiot," Malesh shot back. "They are rated to hold ammo during a high-altitude drop. They aren't going to just 'rip' because you're nervous. The only way this box leaves my person is if someone cuts it off my dead body."
"Don't jinx it," Kniya said, lying back against his pack and pulling his collar up. "Just... keep it zipped. Tight."
"It's zipped. Go to sleep, asshole."
The Morning Slog
They slept in shifts, but it wasn't real sleep. It was just closing their eyes and waiting for something to try and eat them.
When the sun finally broke through the canopy, it brought no relief—only heat. The humidity rose instantly, turning the jungle into a steam room. They ate a quick breakfast of dried fruit bars, kicked dirt over the fire, and began the march again.
The terrain was brutal. It wasn't flat ground. It was a chaotic mess of roots, mudslides, and steep volcanic inclines.
"My calculation was off," Malesh panted, hacking through a thick vine with his machete two hours later. "I assumed a standard marching pace. But this... this is like walking through glue."
"Less talking, more walking," Kniya wheezed behind him. "We have maybe ten kilometers left. Just think about the steel industry. Think about the petroleum mines."
"I'm thinking about air conditioning," Malesh grumbled.
They pushed on. The distance that would have taken two hours on a road took them nearly five. By the time the sun was high in the sky, they were drenched, covered in mud, and their legs were burning with lactic acid.
But then, the trees began to thin.
The Fortress in the Rock
Malesh stopped so abruptly that Kniya almost bumped into him.
"Get down," Malesh hissed, dropping to a crouch behind a fern.
Kniya dropped beside him, pulling the R52 rifle from his shoulder. "What? Did you see a patrol?"
"No," Malesh whispered, parting the leaves slowly. "Look."
They were on a ridge overlooking a massive natural depression in the island—a volcanic crater that had gone extinct millions of years ago.
In the center of the crater, built directly into the rock face, was the SUM Base.
It wasn't a campsite. It was a fortress.
Thick concrete walls, reinforced with steel beams, blocked the entrance to the old mine tunnels. Guard towers rose from the rock at strategic intervals, manned by silhouettes holding heavy machine guns. High-voltage floodlights were positioned to sweep the perimeter at night.
But the scariest part wasn't the walls; it was the infrastructure. There were steam-vents chugging exhaust from underground generators. There were trucks moving supplies.
"That's not a terrorist hideout," Kniya whispered, his grip tightening on his gun. "That's a military installation. Look at the perimeter defense. They have clear lines of sight for 500 meters."
"Mantouse wasn't kidding," Malesh murmured, pulling out his binoculars. "Breaching that from the front is suicide. We need to find the ventilation shafts he marked on the map."
They lay there in the mud, two nineteen-year-olds with rifles, staring down at an army. The banter was gone. The greed was gone. Now, it was just the cold, hard reality of the job.
"Ready to go to work?" Kniya asked, though his voice lacked its usual arrogance.
Malesh checked his zipper one last time, feeling the hard edge of the lead box against his ribs.
"Let's get paid," Malesh said.
The Patience of a Predator
They didn't rush. Rushing was for amateurs and corpses.
For three hours, Malesh and Kniya lay motionless in the mud, covered in wet leaves, watching the patrol patterns of the SUM base. They memorized the shift changes. They timed the rotation of the steam-powered searchlights. They counted the seconds between the guard's cough and his next step.
"The ventilation shaft is on the south wall," Malesh whispered, his eyes glued to his binoculars. "But the spotlight sweeps that section every forty-five seconds. We have a twelve-second window to cross twenty meters of open ground."
"Twelve seconds," Kniya grunted, tightening his boot laces. "I can do it in ten."
"Go."
They broke cover. They didn't run like soldiers; they sprinted low to the ground, like hunting dogs. They reached the base of the massive concrete wall just as the spotlight beam swung back toward them.
They pressed themselves flat against the cold, wet concrete, right in the shadow of a massive exhaust pipe. The light washed over the pipe, missing them by inches.
They began to climb. The ventilation shaft was ten meters up.
The Suspense: Halfway up the rusty ladder, Kniya's boot slipped on a patch of oil. CLANG.
The sound was sharp and metallic, echoing against the wall.
Below them, a door opened. A guard stepped out, a cigarette glowing in his mouth, his rifle slung lazily over his shoulder. He looked up, squinting into the darkness directly at where they were hanging.
Malesh froze. He didn't breathe. He didn't blink. He looked at Kniya, his eyes signaling: If he raises that rifle, I drop him.
The guard stared for an agonizing five seconds. Smoke drifted up from his cigarette, curling around Kniya's dangling boot. The guard frowned, took a drag, and muttered, "Damn rats."
He flicked the butt of the cigarette onto the ground and went back inside.
Malesh let out a breath he had been holding for a minute. They scrambled up the last few meters and pried open the heavy grate of the ventilation shaft, slipping inside just as the spotlight swept over the wall again.
The Market of Souls
The inside of the base wasn't what they expected. They were expecting a military command center or a barracks.
They dropped down from the ceiling vent into a long, dimly lit corridor. The air here was cold—artificially cooled—and smelled of antiseptic and stale fear.
"This doesn't look like a terrorist base," Kniya whispered, checking the corners with his R52 raised. "It looks like a warehouse."
They reached a heavy iron door. Malesh picked the lock in six seconds. They pushed it open and stepped into a massive hall lined with cells.
But these weren't prison cells. They were display cases.
Each cell had a glass front, reinforced with steel mesh. Inside, people—mostly young women—sat on small cots. They looked terrified, exhausted, and broken.
But the most disturbing detail hung on the door of each cell. A small chalkboard slate with chalk writing.
· Cell 402:Female. Age 19. Healthy. No Defects. Price: 150,000 Credits.
· Cell 403:Female. Age 22. University Educated. Price: 200,000 Credits.
Malesh lowered his rifle slightly, staring at the slates with genuine confusion.
"What is this?" Malesh asked, his brow furrowing. "Are they... selling the cells? Is this a real estate venture? Why would someone pay 150,000 credits for a ten-by-ten concrete room? The price per square foot is illogical."
Kniya looked at him, then at the women in the cells. He grabbed Malesh's shoulder and turned him toward the glass.
"Are you malfunctioning?" Kniya hissed. "Look at the product, you idiot. They aren't selling the room. They are selling the contents."
Malesh blinked, processing the data. "Oh. Human trafficking. That... makes more economic sense."
"You are insanely absurd sometimes," Kniya shook his head, disgusted not by the crime, but by Malesh's lack of social awareness. "It's an auction house. They're livestock."
The Missing Asset and the Lust Economy
The women inside the nearest cell saw them. Their eyes went wide with panic. One of them opened her mouth to scream.
Kniya moved fast. He stepped up to the glass, put a finger to his lips, and made a sharp, cutting motion across his throat.
Silence.
The women froze, understanding the universal sign for 'Shut up or die.'
Malesh pulled the photograph of the Dean's daughter from his pocket. He walked down the line of cells, comparing the face in the photo to the terrified faces behind the glass.
Cell after cell. Price tag after price tag.
"She's not here," Malesh whispered, tucking the photo back away. "These are all... 'standard inventory.' The Dean's daughter is a high-value target. She wouldn't be in general population."
He looked at Kniya, his voice dropping to a detached whisper. "Kniya... look at the demographics. 95% female. Ages 18 to 25. This operation... it is designed for a specific market."
"You realized that just now?" Kniya scoffed, scanning the hallway for guards. "Lust is a very bad thing, brother. But it's the oldest economy in the world. Everyone wants what they can't have, and some people are willing to pay a premium to own it."
"It's inefficient," Malesh muttered, looking at the price tags again. "But profitable."
"Focus," Kniya snapped. "We aren't here to liberate the inventory. We are here for the VIP. If she's not here, she's in the secure wing. That means we have to clear the entire building floor by floor."
Malesh nodded, his grip tightening on the R52. "Let's go. If we find the 'Sales Manager,' I want to ask him about his pricing model before I shoot him."