Page 41 of Aviatrix

He doesn’t answer.

Before he can speak, the feed cuts to an alien aircraft in mid-air. We watch in horror as it fires again. Two more missiles screaming toward the burning structure.

The screen erupts in light.

If Amber was in that building, we’re already too late.

TEN

REMIND THEM WHOSE SKIES THEY’RE FLYING IN

Lark is on a satellite phone, shouting at whoever is on the other end as tears streak down my face. The news plays on an endless loop. Footage of the White House half-leveled, its iconic columns buried in smoke and debris. Flames still lick at the wreckage, casting a flickering glow that makes my stomach churn. It’s not just destruction, it’s erasure. And watching it, I feel a hollow thud behind my ribs, like my body can’t decide whether to mourn or brace for what comes next.

Despite the looming threat that the aliens might strike again, first responders are swarming the site. Fire crews douse the flames. Rescue teams dig through the wreckage. Armed guards form a tight perimeter, holding back press, civilians, and panic alike.

“Goddammit!” Lark roars, hurling the phone across the room. It hits the concrete wall with a sharp crack and splinters into fragments, a violent exhale of everything he can’t say.

I don’t speak. I don’t move. I give him space to breathe, to break, to process. He’s trying to reach Amber. If she was there—or wasn’t—he needs time to face it.

It’s been forty-three minutes since the broadcast first aired.

Forty-two since we watched the final barrage light up the Capitol like a warzone.

There are no words. Just the hot, steady stream of tears slipping down my cheeks. The kind that fall when grief doesn’t know where to land.

What if the aliens had made contact with the President? What if he kept it quiet?

The footage shifts. A new angle. A different camera.

And a different ship.

Not the black vessels that leveled Langdon days ago. This one is gray. Sleek. Angular. It cleaves straight through the smoke like a blade, more refined than the others. The silhouette almost looks… human. Too human. And for a breathless second, my insides twist, unsure whether to feel hope or dread.

Wait.

“Lark,” I say, stepping toward the screen, voice tight. “Lark, those aren’t the same ships.”

“What?” he asks, breathless.

“Those aren’t the same ships that attacked Langdon,” I repeat, eyes locked on the footage. “They’re different.” I squint, trying to decipher the sharp lines and rigid movement. “Do they have different classes of ships or...?”

“Are they human?” he finishes.

The words hang in the air like smoke. My tears go still on my cheeks as my mind reels, spinning through a hundred possibilities. The ships from Langdon moved like liquid metal—flexible, organic, and terrifying. These new ones? They’re solid. Mechanical. But still unlike any aircraft I’ve ever seen, domestic or foreign.

“They can’t be,” I whisper. “We know every model in the sky. Every fighter. Every drone. These... these aren’t human.”

Lark drags both hands down his face. “I need to get to D.C.”

I nod slowly. “I know.”

“I...” He stops, then steps toward me, his hands running up and down my arms. Goosebumps rise along my skin, not from fear, but from the weight of what’s coming. “I was going to take you to San Diego,” he says. “There’s someone there. An old acquaintance. He might know more about the Legion.”

“I’ll go,” I say. “You go to D.C.”

He groans, torn. “I can’t leave you unprotected.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “You need to check on your daughter.” A chill shoots down my spine. “And your father.”