Only three days to go.

Max could barely sit still as he double-checked the booking confirmation from the Airsoft hire company for the third time that morning. It wasn't just excitement buzzing through him — it was vindication. Everything he and Kaity had planned over the past month was finally coming together, and soon, the battlefield would be alive with the stinging smack of plastic rounds and the sweet sounds of his sister's inevitable defeat.

He clicked through the email:

Full gear for two teams of 20

– helmets, vests, goggles, gloves.

Replica rifles with adjustable FPS.

(Feet Per Second)

Sidearms for backup (because style matters).

Ammunition:

Enough rounds for at least

20 matches

.

More than enough. They'd be rotating people in and out of matches all day, keeping the action fresh, chaotic, and gloriously competitive.

Kaity strolled into the room, still in her mismatched socks, munching on a banana.

"Well?" she asked, her tone maddeningly casual. "Do we have everything, or do I need to start crafting weapons out of sticks and sarcasm?"

Max rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the grin. "It's all locked in. Enough gear for two full teams of twenty. And more ammo than you can dodge."

"Perfect," she said, dropping into the armchair and stretching like a smug cat. "I hope your team knows how to duck. Or better yet—how to surrender."

"Surrender?" Max scoffed. "I'm personally going to make sure you never live this day down. Half the people signed up just to be on my team."

"Other half signed up to shoot you," Kaity replied sweetly.

Max pulled up the shared spreadsheet where they were tracking team sign-ups. It was chaos—names scribbled down, some with preferred teams, others marked as "Wildcard" or "Just here to watch Max get wrecked." Still, he knew he had a solid strategy. Rotate teammates every round. Learn Kaity's tactics. Break her patterns.

He looked over at her and smirked.

"I'm going to make sure every single person who shows up gets a chance to help me beat you. Or help your team lose to mine. Same thing, really."

Kaity tossed the banana peel into the bin and cracked her knuckles. "Good. That way, I'll have an audience when I wipe the floor with you."

They both knew the truth, though. This wasn't just about Airsoft or bragging rights. This was tradition. Since they were young, every major holiday or long weekend became an excuse to stage something absurdly competitive. Water balloon wars. Nerf ambushes. Capture the Flag with actual painted flags and makeshift bunkers built out of mattresses.

Now that they were older, the games had just scaled up.

Max stood, stretching his arms and cracking his neck.

"Alright, then. Pre-Birthday BBQ tonight. I'll finish setting up the practice obstacle zones in the backyard. Try to get some of these old fuddy-duddies some practice before the big day. You still in charge of the barbecue?"

"Yup. Already got the sausages, burger patties, and enough bread rolls to build a small fortress. Chocolate cake from Coles for the winners." She paused. "You'll have to smell it from the losers' table."

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He fired finger guns at her. "Only if you make it out of the first round."

"Bring it, bro."

The road to the Riders' property was quieter than Barry liked. No birdsong, no breeze—just the crunch of gravel under the truck's tires as Dave pulled into the makeshift driveway. The house loomed above on its tall stilts, dark windows staring back like empty eyes. Barry frowned as his gaze swept across the landscape.

"Stop the truck here," he said.

Dave slowed to a halt, his fingers tightening slightly on the steering wheel. "Y'seein' what I'm seein'?"

"Oh yeah." Barry's tone turned flat as he hit the record button on his chest-mounted mic. "This is Sergeant Barry Smith. Currently attending a private property in a civilian capacity. Observing... what appear to be sharpened wooden stake pits dug into the ground at various approaches to the home. Defensive perimeter includes makeshift barricades—tin sheeting, timber frames. Elevated lights mounted on tall poles."

Dave let out a long breath. "Bloody hell, mate. Looks like they're expecting the SAS, not a bloody digger pickup."

Barry stepped out of the truck, hand instinctively brushing his hip—where his service weapon would be, if he were here in uniform. "Yeah. They definitely trying to keep something out. Either way, it's not exactly neighbourly."

They moved cautiously toward the house. There were no signs of life—no barking dogs, no rustle of movement from inside. Just silence.

Barry circled the perimeter first, checking under the stilts and noting the layered tin and plywood defences, the reinforced ladder, and the scatter of gravel around the entry point.

"Still recording," he muttered. "No signs of recent movement. Windows intact. No visible security cameras, but... plenty of passive defences."

The two men finally climbed the ladder and checked the house itself. It was empty. Not trashed, not abandoned—just absent. Dishes cleaned and stacked. Beds made. Half a loaf of bread on the counter, slightly stale.

Barry swept through each room, narrating quietly. "Living space appears recently used. No signs of struggle or evacuation. Possibly intentionally vacated. He found some mobile phones, but upon inspection, he found them completely flat. No personal IDs in sight. Suspicious."

Dave stood near the back door, shifting uncomfortably. "Alright, well… they ain't home. Guess I'll get the excavator and we'll be on our way."

They climbed back down. Dave walked over to the yellow excavator that sat parked off to the side in a patch of gravel. He climbed in, flicked the ignition, and... nothing.

"Battery's dead."

Barry raised a brow. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, mate. Nothing. Not even a click."

"Try the Ute," Barry suggested, nodding toward the dusty four-wheel drive parked nearby.

Dave popped the hood. Before he went to all the effort of removing it, Dave used his multimeter to see if it would have enough amps to start the excavator "Bloody hell. This one's flat too."

Barry sighed, rubbing his temple. "Of course it is."

Dave looked at the truck they'd come in on, eyes flicking towards the bonnet, knowing his truck battery would be plenty strong. "Well, guess we can use mine."

Barry was already shaking his head. "That's our ride home. If something goes wrong—if that battery drains or dies—we're stuck out here. And I am not getting stranded in the middle of the bush at a potential crime scene."

Dave stepped forward, tone softening. "Mate, I get it. I really do. But if I don't get that excavator back, my boss is gonna hang me out to dry. I'll only use the battery long enough to jump the digger and load it. Soon as it's up and the truck's running again, I swear I'll go for a little wander with you, see what's out in those trees. Quick scout."

Barry hesitated. Every instinct told him this was a bad idea. But his gut also told him there was something big out here—something that wouldn't show up in any database or report.

"Alright," he said finally. "But only because you agreed to go bush with me afterwards. And we don't touch anything we find unless I say so."

Dave gave him a thumbs-up. "Deal."

Barry activated his mic again. "Recording update: we are now removing the battery from our vehicle to attempt a jump-start on the excavator. Will reconnoitre the local bush immediately after. If this is the last recording, assume bad idea was mine."

Dave laughed as he hauled the battery free. "Oh mate, you're not wrong."

Together, they set about bringing the excavator back to life—one civilian, one Police officer off duty, one suspicious property, and a creeping feeling they were getting too deep into something neither of them fully understood.

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