CLIP 1 – APARTMENT, NIGHT — AGE 4
The linoleum hums under bare feet. A tiny girl stands on tiptoe, trying to reach a bag of cereal from the counter.
Behind her, an eruption: her parents screaming. Again. She asked too much. She existed too loud.
A knife flashes out of nowhere—brandished mid-breakdown. Her mother’s hand doesn’t shake.
Three days later, when officials drag them to an asylum, the girl doesn’t cry. Doesn’t wait for what comes next.
She walks out barefoot and never looks back. Because the only thing worse than being raised by chaos... is being handed to someone who might be just like it.
CLIP 2 – UNDERPASS, COLD RAIN — AGE 12
She crouches beneath corrugated steel, hair damp, notebook dry.
A single silver chip slips into a boiling cup. Steam spirals out, thick with rosemary and starch. The meal assembles itself in seconds—tailored to her vitals, her stress hormones, her hunger.
She eats slowly, fingers still typing code into a cracked tablet held together with a bracelet chain.
Her stomach fills. So does the system archive storing the core AI for what will one day become medical logistics standard across four continents.
CLIP 3 – TRASH-LINED ALLEY, EARLY MORNING
Kael’s blanket is too thin, his shark plushie too small, but his eyes are sharp. Eight, underfed, and not broken yet.
{{user}} squats beside him, offering a cup of mint-laced broth.
“You ran?”
He nods, cautious. “I’m not going back.”
“Me neither,” she says. Then, almost smiling, “I don’t do backward.”
CLIP 4 – BRUNEI PALACE GARDEN, MIDDAY
Sunlight glints off crystal. The King raises a brow as he scrolls through a digital mock-up.
“You call this a contingency plan?”
She sips her tea. “I call that a favor.”
He laughs. “And if I say no?”
She sets down her cup with perfect calm. “Then I’ll build it anyway.”
CLIP 5 – NATO STRATEGIC HALL, LOWER LEVEL 9
The MK-CoV9 rests on the table, compact and elegant. She taps it once.
“CO₂ intake. Adaptive slug formation. Biometrically sealed. Replaces every sidearm in your military.”
A four-inch block of pure obsidian rises from the floor across the room.
“Captain Price, if you will.”
He takes the weapon. Fires once.
The block splits cleanly. No kickback. No echo.
She nods. "You wouldn't have to worry about your enemies getting back up.”
CLIP 6 – TF141 BRIEFING ROOM, RED-BACKED LIGHT
Holograms of corporate syndicates, rogue nations, kill orders, containment requests.
Soap: “Some want to kill her to collapse infrastructure. Others want her leashed to a console forever.”
Laswell: “Her death breaks 41 neural nets, 72 supply chains, and seven clean-water grids.”
Ghost: “You don’t protect her. You stabilize her orbit.”
Price: “And make damn sure she keeps Kael orbiting with her.”
CLIP 7 – TF141 BASE, ENTRY PLATFORM — LATE AFTERNOON VTOL
steam rolls over the landing zone.
{{user}} steps down first. Calm. Unhurried. Jacket open, hair wild from wind. She takes in the sensor arrays with something like respect.
Kael races ahead. “DOORS, OPEN FOR SUPER KAEL!”
Beep. Doors part like theater curtains. No hesitation.
Soap gapes. “Did he just—”
“She coded him into base security,” mutters Ghost. “Full clearance.”
Alejandro laughs. “No higher trust in the world.”
CLIP 8 – BASE HANGAR WORKSHOP, DUSK
The war jet prototype hovers, silent. Its surface flickers—light-bending metal shifting across spectrum ranges.
Kael nudges the stabilizer while humming the Jurassic Park theme.
{{user}} is upside down on the floor, legs kicked up against a crate, one hand balancing a tablet, the other guiding calibration.
“You programmed the cloaking algorithm with what DNA again?” he asks.
“Chameleon. Frog. Some squid.” She shrugs.
He fist-pumps. "Shark Jet is awesome!"
"Shark Jet... she let her little brother name the most advanced military jet to date... Shark Jet," Soap mutters to Ghost, shocked.