"Target acquired! Going in!" Mosca's voice crackled through the comms, cutting through the chaotic din of the playground below. She weaved through the mayhem, the air thick with the smells of sun-baked plastic, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of spilled juice boxes. She zipped between towering, brightly colored structures, her senses on overdrive as she dodged a small, erratic creature. "I’ve landed and begun the operation,” she reported, breathless but steady.

A moment later, her transmission cut off, replaced by a harsh hiss of static.

"Mosca, report in!" Moscon's voice was sharp, his heart pounding as he fought to keep panic from creeping into his tone. He knew this playground—a war zone of noise and unpredictable movement, danger lurking behind every swing and slide. But it wasn’t the chaos that had his blood running cold; it was the sudden, terrifying silence from Mosca. "Mosca! Status report, now!"

Silence.

"Moss, stay sharp. Anything can—Watch your six!" Moscon's voice crackled with urgency as he caught a flash of movement on his HUD.

Moss, the team's brash young hotshot, twisted in midair, narrowly avoiding a spinning red disc that whizzed past him like a guillotine. "Thanks, boss! No sweat. Target in sight, dropping in now!" he shouted, adrenaline coursing through his veins, oblivious to the gravity in Moscon's voice. Moss was too much like the one Moscon had lost during the "fast food" mission—reckless, fearless, and too damn green to realize just how quickly things could go sideways.

"Steady, Moss. Get in, get out. Rendezvous at point B," Moscon ordered, his focus already shifting back to the last place he'd seen Mosca. His mind replayed that past mission in brutal detail—the panic, the helplessness, the searing pain of loss. Losing Mosca, his oldest friend, was a scenario he couldn’t let happen. Not again.

His eyes locked onto the spring-horse, its chipped yellow paint and rusty spring standing out amidst the playground's riot of colors. Mosca had planned to land there, using its battered back as cover. But now, as he circled above, the sight of the empty horse gnawed at him.

Mosca had chosen the spring-horse for its perceived safety, its weathered surface offering what she thought would be a stable perch. But the moment she touched down, the world exploded in a blur of chaos. A child’s shriek pierced her ears, a high-pitched wail that seemed to split the air. She barely registered the blur of red as the frisbee hurtled toward her. It was on her in an instant, a whirling disc of doom. She dropped low, the air displaced by the frisbee nearly knocking her off the horse. Mosca landed hard, but she was okay — right? The rusted spring groaned ominously beneath the weight of one of the creatures that seemed to come out of nowhere. Her instincts screamed — move now!

From above, Moscon's pulse hammered as he scanned the playground, his mind racing to figure out where she could have gone. The children's laughter was a relentless roar, a thunderous wave that seemed to swallow everything. The sheer volume of sound, the unpredictable movement, made every shadow a threat, every gust of wind a potential danger. His eyes darted to the spring-horse, desperation gnawing at him.

He shot upwards, gaining altitude in a burst of speed. From this height, the playground was a storm of activity—swings cutting through the air with violent arcs, the slide gleaming like a polished blade, and children moving like unstoppable forces of nature. The red frisbee that had nearly decapitated Mosca now lay forgotten on the ground, a stark reminder of how close disaster had been.

He flew across the playground, his wings buzzing with tension, and landed at the rendezvous point—a discarded fry, golden and still warm, its presence a grim echo of a previous mission's dark outcome. It was their agreed-upon regroup spot, but as he touched down, his thoughts were only on Mosca. “Come on, Mosca. Check in, damn it,” he muttered, every second stretching unbearably.

"Boss, I’m here!" Moss's voice cut through the tension as he landed beside Moscon, his wings still humming with the rush of the mission. "Got the target, boss. It was close, but I pulled it off!"

"Good work, Moss," Moscon said, but his words were distant, his eyes still surveying the skies. The seconds dragged on, each one a needle of fear stabbing deeper.

Then, finally, he heard it—a faint, familiar buzz. Relief washed over him as Mosca appeared, her wings beating steadily but slower than usual, her movements fatigued but controlled. She looked roughed up, but she was alive.

"Sorry for the scare," she panted as she landed beside him, a tired smile tugging at her lips. "That frisbee almost did me in, and the spring-horse... well, let's just say it was a close call."

Moscon didn't hesitate. He grabbed her, pulling her into a tight embrace as only two — well, mosquitoes could, the tension finally unraveling. For a brief moment, the chaos of the playground disappeared, leaving just the two of them, safe, alive.

"Glad you’re okay," he murmured, pulling back slightly to search her eyes, his own filled with a mix of relief and something deeper. "Let's get out of here."

With Moss trailing closely behind, the trio took off into the sky, leaving the madness of the playground far below. As they flew back towards the safety of the blue baseball cap, their makeshift base of operations near the lake, Moscon felt a renewed resolve harden within him. The mission was complete, and they had all made it out alive. But more than that, he knew he would never let himself lose anyone again—especially not Mosca.