The light flickered in the distance, casting a warm, golden glow over the parking lot. Moscon hovered in the shadow of a neon sign that flashed intermittently, reading "McBurgerFry," a beacon to the hungry and weary. But tonight, for Moscon and his newly enlisted companion Mosley, it was more than just a restaurant—it was a fortress, a high-security facility teeming with danger and opportunity.

Mosley shifted nervously beside him, his wings buzzing with a barely contained excitement. “I’ve read all the intel, boss,” he whispered, his voice carrying a youthful edge. “Just stick to the plan. We’re in and out. Easy pickings.”

Moscon sighed, his compound eyes scanning the perimeter. The outdoor play area was their target—a maze of plastic tubes and slides, offering just enough cover to make a quick entry and exit. The plan was simple: skim the outskirts, dart in under cover, and avoid getting too close to the kitchen window. But Mosley was eager, too eager, for his own good.

“Keep your head low and don’t make any sudden moves,” Moscon instructed. “We only take what we need. Stay in the play area, remember?”

Mosley nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the gleaming interior of the McBurgerFry, the golden glow of fryer oil and the tantalizing aroma wafting through the air. It was intoxicating.

Suddenly, without warning, Mosley zipped out of the shadows and darted toward the pick-up window. Moscon's eyes widened in disbelief. “Mosley, no!” he hissed, but it was too late. The young cadet was already at the window, drawn by something unseen, a craving that overrode all sense.

Moscon cursed under his breath and followed, his wings buzzing louder as he pushed forward. He couldn’t let Mosley get himself into trouble, not on his first mission. Not on his watch.

Mosley, oblivious to the danger, squeezed through a small gap in the pick-up window. Inside, the world was a cacophony of sizzling noises, clattering trays, and shouting voices. Mosley weaved through the air, his path erratic, drawn by an unseen force. Moscon was right behind him, keeping his eyes sharp for threats.

The two of them darted past the kitchen, where a worker flipped burgers on a scorching hot grill. The air was thick with the hiss of steam and the sharp, acrid smell of burnt grease. Mosley got too close, his wings flickering dangerously near the heat. Just as he was about to veer into the flames, Moscon yanked him back.

“Watch it!” Moscon growled, the tension in his voice unmistakable.

Mosley gulped, nodding quickly, but his expression was still defiant, his excitement undimmed. They dodged a torrent of fries that flew across the room as two children launched a food fight near the condiment station. Moscon twisted midair, pulling Mosley with him, narrowly avoiding a volley of chicken nuggets that sailed like projectiles through the space.

A nugget spun past them, trailing a glistening red droplet of ketchup in slow motion. Moscon ducked, pulling Mosley down with him, the droplet passing so close that it grazed their wings. Moscon felt the sticky residue cling to his side, but he shook it off, focused on the mission.

They zipped past the play area’s entrance, nearing their goal, when a worker appeared, broom in hand. The broom swung down with surprising speed and force, the bristles scattering dust and debris in all directions. Moscon dodged left; Mosley darted right. The broom came down again, narrowly missing Mosley’s head.

“Stay with me!” Moscon shouted, his heart racing.

“I’m fine, boss!” Mosley called back, just as a child’s foam sword came swinging through the air. Mosley tried to dodge, but the blade caught him off guard, knocking him down with a soft thud onto the cold, tiled floor. He lay there, dazed, as the sword-wielding child laughed and swung the weapon again, the foam blade slicing the air with a whoosh.

“Mosley!” Moscon shouted, diving down, dodging the sword just in time to see the entrance door swinging open, a massive wall of metal and glass. Mosley’s eyes widened, his wings fluttering weakly as he tried to move. The door was closing, its bottom edge descending toward him with a slow, menacing grace.

Moscon watched, helpless, as the door’s edge grazed the floor. But a slight warp in the bottom spared Mosley, the tiny gap allowing him to slip through unscathed. He landed outside, just beyond the reach of the closing door, a look of astonishment and relief on his face.

He turned back toward Moscon, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. “We made it, boss! We—”

Mosley’s words were cut short. In the next instant, a child's shoe descended from above, oblivious, indifferent. The sole hit Mosley with a soft, terrible crunch, the world around Moscon slowing to a crawl.

“No!” Moscon screamed, his wings buzzing furiously as he tried to rush forward, but he knew it was too late. Mosley was gone.

Moscon hovered there, a mixture of shock and rage coursing through him. The child’s shoe lifted away, leaving nothing behind but a small, crumpled form. He felt the weight of the loss sink into his being, the sting of failure sharp in his heart.

He turned away, his wings carrying him into the night, but the image of Mosley’s final smile burned into his mind. A reminder. A lesson. He had made it out alive, but at what cost?

As he flew into the darkness, he knew he would never forget the fast food mission to McBurgerFry, the high-security facility where he had lost Mosley. And he knew, deep down, that he would never let himself lose another mosquito to recklessness, to a mission gone awry.

Moscon flew on, a lone figure against the moonlit sky, carrying the weight of his loss, vowing to honor the memory of a fallen comrade, his heart heavy but determined.