Outskirts of Lagos, 2079 – 5:47 A.M.
The maglev railways were dead. Federal drones patrolled every express route. So Tunde, Alero, and Octave rode in silence aboard an old sand-hopper truck, its solar shell patched with scavenged armor plates. The driver, a silent man named K-man, wore a face mask made of metal
mesh and chewed bio-stimulant like it was gum.
They had left Lagos under cover of darkness, riding through burnt-out satellite towns and abandoned agricultural domes. Floodgate had spread. Screens were blank, traffic AI offline. Cities were bleeding into anarchy.
"This isn't just a shutdown," Alero muttered, watching the horizon through a cracked viewport. "This is a purge."
Octave, seated on the floor, adjusted the stolen NDLEC signal amplifier in her lap. "They're resetting the board. Eliminating variables. Every witness, every link. But they won't get everything."
Tunde was quiet.
He stared at the crude map in his hand — coordinates etched by a dead man named Emeka, one of Major Arewa's former informants. If his intel was right, Arewa had gone deep underground after the Ilorin Uprising, setting up a resistance node in Benin City's derelict port zone.
The sun bled red across the eastern sky as they approached the Edo border.
Then came the first warning.
K-man tapped the brakes, slowing the truck to a crawl.
Ahead, a makeshift checkpoint — too clean, too organized. The "guards" wore civilian clothes, but Tunde spotted the telltale signs: stiff posture, clean boots, neural implants humming.
NDLEC Black Division.
"Play it cool," he said, sliding a silencer onto his pistol. "If they scan the truck, we're done."
Alero slipped her knife up her sleeve. "Cool isn't exactly my thing."
Octave activated a pulse-scrambler under her coat.
Two guards approached the vehicle, lazily waving it to a halt. One tapped on the door, rifle slung casual-but-ready.
K-man rolled the window halfway. "Morning, officer. Running goods to Ibadan. Dried fish and medical packs."
The guard smiled. "You're in restricted territory. Federal emergency zone. Need to scan for contraband."
Tunde's heart pounded.
The second guard circled the truck. He tapped the side once… twice…
Thwack.
Then: silence.
The guard never made it to the back.
Tunde was already out the other door, pistol whispering two shots into the man's chest before he could cry out. Alero tackled the first guard, slitting his throat with a fast, precise motion.
Octave stood on the roof, eyes lit with neural fire.
A third man — hidden in a camo blind — emerged with a long-range rifle.
She fired first.
A micro-drone from her sleeve sliced through the man's weapon before exploding in a puff of electrostatic fire. He dropped, writhing, circuits in his brain fried.
They dragged the bodies into the bush.
"We can't keep doing this," Octave said. "Each checkpoint we pass increases the odds we'll be flagged. They'll start matching patterns."
"Then we disappear before the patterns matter," Tunde replied.
....
Benin City, 2079 – Southern Wards – 9:42 A.M.
By mid-morning, they reached the outskirts of Benin — once a historic heart of Nigeria, now split between state control and autonomous gang zones. Most of the city's spires were dark, scaffolding hanging like ribs on broken towers. Drones hovered here too, but sluggish, less coordinated.
Alero sniffed the air. "Smells like burnt metal and broken promises."
"Home," Octave said dryly.
They ditched the truck and continued on foot, navigating through the half-flooded alleys of the old river ward.
Tunde led them to a compound marked only by a broken satellite dish and a burned-out NDLEC hoverbike chained to the gate.
He knocked four times, slow. Then twice. Then one short tap.
Nothing.
Then: a hiss.
A panel slid open, revealing a face half-covered in ash and cybernetic wiring. The eyes were sharp. Familiar.
"Tunde?" the man rasped.
Tunde exhaled, for the first time in days.
"Major Arewa."
The gate slid open.
They stepped inside.
Inside the Resistance Safehouse
The compound was quiet, powered by microcells and filtered water channels. Inside were half a dozen people — old NDLEC ghosts, rogue journalists, ex-hackers. A map of Nigeria stretched across the wall, tagged with red zones and dead drops.
Arewa hadn't just been hiding.
He'd been planning.
"You found it," he said, staring at the data shard Tunde handed him. "The WhisperSpine files. I thought Bako wiped everything."
"He tried," Tunde replied. "But the truth's out now. And he's burning Lagos to hide it."
Arewa sat heavily.
"We have maybe ten days before Bako launches full martial lockdown. Less if the President caves. But if we strike first — hard, loud, undeniable — we can turn the tide."
Alero leaned forward. "What's the plan?"
Arewa met their eyes.
"We hijack Bako's own communication tower. The one in Abuja Zone 1. We broadcast everything. In every language. In every dialect. Every village. Every rooftop church. Every underground club."
Octave smirked. "Now that's a war cry."
Tunde smiled grimly.
"Then let's give them a revolution they can't switch off."