The order had been given.
No more skirmishes. No more containment.
Tonight, Cubao would burn.
Inside the MOA Complex's main airfield in the reclaimed lands, now an airbase carved from war—floodlights bathed the tarmac in harsh white light. Rows of armored vehicles stood in readiness. Mobile artillery barrels angled toward the eastern horizon. Rotor blades spun lazily as helicopters powered up. Engines hummed like sleeping monsters being stirred awake.
It wasn't just a strike.
It was a reckoning.
Technicians moved with surgical precision beneath the vaulted hangar dome. The Reaper drones—sleek, gray hunter-killers—rested on reinforced racks like silent predators. One by one, ground crews loaded Hellfire missiles beneath their wings, securing them with magnetic clamps and ratcheted locks.
"Payload confirmed," said one of the techs, stepping back as a checklist scrolled across his tablet.
