Lesson 5, Capture the Flag

Chris slipped through the heavy metal door and vanished into darkness.

The air lingered, thick with dust and the bite of concrete. He blinked once, adjusting to the dim light, then advanced—heel to toe in his combat boots—and the warehouse slowly resolved out of the dark. Dirty glass panels—some shattered—lined high-set windows, bare brick walls rose exposed, pipes ran in every direction, and large crates emerged as silhouettes.

He moved behind a stack.

A teammate slipped in behind him, boots brushing the concrete as the door ground slowly shut.

Chris clung to his laser rifle, his sight gliding sideways. To his left, three comrades crouched behind another pile of crates, rifles up, frozen on standby. All three wore camouflage overalls, combat helmets, and vests—gear designed not to protect them, but to register the hits of laser beams.

Chris beckoned toward the depth of the room. The comrade leading the trio returned the signal in quiet acknowledgment. They advanced in staggered silence.

Chris moved first, then stopped. One of the others flowed past him, covering the left while Chris took the right, the third staying back to watch their rear. Every step was measured—low-profile, weapons always leading the body.

The far end of the warehouse glowed faintly. Red. The enemy base. The flag hung from a steel frame between two crates, unmistakable even in the low light. Shapes moved around it—guards shifting positions, rifles angled outward, waiting.

Chris raised two fingers. Then three. Then a fist. They spread.

The first laser burst tore through the air without warning—sharp, electric, unmistakable.

“Contact!”

The warehouse exploded into motion. Red and blue beams crisscrossed the space, ricocheting off crates, flashing across brick and metal. Chris broke from cover, firing in short, controlled bursts. One guard dropped out immediately—vest flashing, eliminated.

Another beam clipped Chris’s shoulder.

Hit. Life down.

He didn’t stop.

“Flag! Go, go, go!”

His teammates surged forward, drawing fire. One went down. Then another. The air filled with shouted warnings and the staccato pulse of laser fire.

Chris reached the frame, ripped the red flag free, and turned. Too late. A beam caught him square in the back.

Hit. Life down.

He sprinted. Crates blurred past as he cut hard left, then right, ducking low.

Another hit. Then another. Life countdown accelerating.

“Cover him!” someone shouted.

Two teammates tried to hold the line—firing, retreating, firing again—but one dropped almost instantly. The last kept shooting until a beam flashed on his vest.

Out. Chris was alone.

He backpedaled, firing blind shots to keep the pressure off, then spun and ran. The heavy metal door loomed ahead.

Another hit. One life left.

He hit the door full-force. Metal shrieked as it gave way—and he crashed through.

Inside their base, two defenders snapped into position, firing past him, holding the line as Chris sprinted across the floor and slammed the flag onto the marker.

The signal blared. Game over.

Behind him, the two defenders whooped, thrusting their laser rifles into the air in triumph, then slapped a quick high-five.

Chris bent over, ripping off his combat helmet, sweat running down his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, lungs burning, heart still pounding.

Hard ride for sure. Definitely not what Wendy had on her mind when she told him to clean out the basement.

© 2026 Márta Vajai

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