The convention floor hummed with the vibrant and glorious cacophony of fandom. The air itself seemed charged with laughter, the staccato rhythm of camera flashes, and a thousand overlapping conversations on everything from movie plot holes to intricate game lore. Cosplayers flowed like a colorful, living tide. Disciplined Stormtroopers marching in orderly rows exchanged knowing glances with anarchic Deadpools hellbent on trolling everyone, while scantily clad anime heroines posed dramatically beside battle-scarred fantasy warriors adorned in intricate foam rubber armor..
Wes and Mina, melding seamlessly with the cosplay scene, in their ridiculously detailed and screen accurate costumes, stood near a collectibles booth. They were surrounded by a tight-knit cluster of Wes's friends, a self-professed league of geeks with outsized personalities and even bigger hearts.
"Guys, this is Mina," Wes announced proudly, his hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. "My niece from California. It's her first convention, so be nice."
"First convention?!" Alex, a jovial, rotund man encased in a slightly-too-tight Iron Man suit that was conspicuously missing a gauntlet, nearly dropped his prop Arc Reactor. "We've got a newbie! Welcome to the madness!"
Mina laughed, the sound genuine and unrestrained. "I'm already overwhelmed, in the best possible way."
Lianne, a tall woman with short, sharp blue hair, her Star Wars pilot's uniform looking weathered and worn, leaned in closer with a conspiratorial grin. "Don't let him fool you, Mina. Despite his attempts to deny it, Wes is actually the biggest geek in this group. Half the cosplay crowd calls him Commander Korath, because he refuses to break character whenever he's in costume."
Mina turned to Wes, her own grin widening. "I noticed that. Just a while ago, he was screaming in Klingon at several fangirls while taking selfies with them."
Wes shrugged with practiced modesty, "Fans love it when you commit to your character. Besides, girls love a man in uniform, specially Klingon."
"It's not the costume, bro." Gino, a wiry guy in a surprisingly authentic Ghostbusters uniform and proton pack, scoffed, his eyes rolling. "If you came here wearing nothing but speedos and a Hawaiian shirt, you'd still have girls lined up from here to outside the convention center just to take a selfie. You're, like, the Henry Cavill of cosplayers."
"Nice try, but I'm still not joining you as Franky for your One Piece group," Wes retorted good-naturedly, deflecting the compliment with easy camaraderie.
Everyone laughed, including Mina. The warmth of the group, the easy teasing, the shared enthusiasm, it was infectious. Mina felt herself relax, a sense of lightness settling over her that she hadn't experienced since leaving Berkeley. For the first time in months, she wasn't the sad, displaced girl burdened by her parents' messy divorce. Here, she was simply part of something fun, something utterly unburdened.
As the conversation shifted to new movie trailers and the arcane wonders of 3D printing techniques, Wes's hand subtly drifted to his wrist. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration from his smartwatch cut through the surrounding laughter. He checked it discreetly; the notification wasn't from any social app. This was different. An encrypted call from UMBRA's secure satellite network.
He forced his smile to remain steady, masking the subtle shift in his internal landscape. "Hey, I just spotted an old friend by the props section. Be right back."
"No problem, man," Gino said easily. "We'll take care of Mina."
"Thanks." Wes offered Mina a reassuring, effortless smile, a momentary anchor in the swirling chaos, then he turned and began weaving through the dense crowd. His gait was fluid, purposeful, a predator moving through a herd, yet perfectly camouflaged.
Mina watched him go, a flicker of curiosity igniting in her chest. Even in costume, Wes carried himself with an underlying tension, an alertness that didn't quite fit the image of a simple, successful businessman. She shook off the nascent thought, smiling as Alex began recounting a hilariously disastrous incident where he accidentally set a foam helmet on fire during a recent costume build.
Meanwhile, Wes moved deeper into the labyrinthine convention center. The vibrant roar of the main floor gradually faded with each step, replaced by the hushed hum of ventilation systems, as he crossed into a empty service corridor. It was a utilitarian space, lined with anonymous storage crates and half-packed equipment, a temporary backstage for the fantastical show happening just beyond its walls.
He reached for his phone, pulling it from a hidden pocket within his Klingon armor. The caller ID glowed: RICHARD (VERIDIAN HQ). He answered, his voice dropping to a low, quiet command.
"Talk to me."
Richard's voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of grim urgency. "Wes, we've got a problem. Our security team at the Nome Gateway port in Alaska just reported an unusually high number of non-locals moving about the area."
Wes's response was a deadpan observation, his eyes scanning the empty corridor, noting emergency exits and blind spots. "Nome isn't exactly known for its charms as a tourist hot spot this time of year."
"Exactly. Which can only mean these guys are out there looking for the 'recipe' of our 'secret sauce.' Security has already had to chase several of them away from the access road leading to Bifrost Tunnel." Richard paused, then delivered the core of the issue. "This is bad, Wes. We have a high-value shipment of military drone parts headed for Kyiv, and we can't risk accessing the underground transport trains with all these eyes in the vicinity."
"Do we know who they are?"
"Not yet. Could be anyone. CIA, FSB, NATO, business rivals… we've got the entire alphabet soup to choose from. Face it, Wes, our business model isn't exactly popular with any country serious about enforcing national borders and chokepoints."
Wes allowed himself a thin, humorless smile. "And that's precisely why we're so popular with everyone else who isn't. If it weren't for us, Russia would have overrun Ukraine months ago. These drone parts are what's keeping them in the fight."
"Hey, I'm not complaining," Richard replied. "Just saying, a lot of people are after the location of our Ghost Routes. We need to be careful."
Wes's eyes drifted to the bustling crowd visible through the reinforced glass doors at the end of the hallway, families laughing, costumed fans chatting, Mina's voice faintly audible as she listened to Alex's anecdote. The stark contrast between his two worlds, the one he wore and the one he commanded, hit him sharply.
He kept his voice low, his tactical mind already spinning through contingencies. "Break up the shipment into smaller containers. Then, run them through using regular vehicles only, nothing bigger than an SUV. Make like they're vehicles of employees visiting the old mining site. Have our guys make several trips if needed."
"That will push back our schedule by at least three days. I can't exactly have vehicles going back and forth on that access road for twenty-four hours without drawing more suspicion."
That made Wes pause. A delay of days for a critical shipment was unacceptable, but a compromised route was worse. "That's fine. Have Peter get in touch with Zelenskyy through back channels. Inform him of the delay. Better to have the shipment a little late than not at all."
"Okay, that's a temporary fix for this shipment, but what about the next? We can't use the same solution for all types of cargo. An ICBM isn't exactly going to fit in the back of my Subaru, you know."
Wes's expression hardened, the jovial Klingon commander completely receding. The calculating executive beneath the armor surfaced, his jaw tightening.
"We'll have a more permanent solution in place by then," he said flatly, his voice devoid of warmth. "Schedule an emergency meeting with all the Department Chiefs. We're going to have to brainstorm the hell out of this one."
"Got it. I'll message the others to free up their schedules."
"Also," Wes added after a beat, his mind already shifting gears, "see if you can find out who our new nosy neighbors are. Is it just one group, or several? And do they have any connection to the fly that's been buzzing around me for the past month? It would help to know who exactly we're dealing with."
"Understood. We sent a spider after your fly this morning. Hopefully, we'll know more as soon as he reports in."
The call ended.
For a long moment, Wes stood in silence, his secure phone still in his hand. The muffled sounds of laughter and music drifted from the main hall, echoing faintly against the sterile concrete walls of the service corridor. He ran a hand over his prosthetic forehead ridge, a gesture of almost unconscious tension, exhaling slowly. The taste of dust and secrets lingered.
Then, as if flicking a mental switch, he straightened his posture, slipping the phone back into its discreet belt compartment. He took a deep, centering breath, letting the persona of Commander Korath settle back over him.
By the time he stepped back into the blinding light and cacophony of the main hall, the mask was firmly back in place. The confident grin, the booming laugh, the infectious warmth, all seamless.
Mina spotted him immediately and waved, her face bright, completely unaware of the world-altering conversation that had just transpired. "There you are! We thought you got abducted by Trekkies!"
Wes chuckled, the sound perfectly pitched to the character. "Almost did," he said, slipping back into the role of the beloved, larger-than-life uncle.
He posed for another round of photos beside her, the camera flashes momentarily blinding him. To everyone else, he was just the life of the party, a charismatic geek in a perfect costume.
Only Wes knew that beneath the smiling façade, another world was quietly and dangerously burning.