Trilogy
Midnight Departure . Content Warning.
The city breathed smoke and rain as Dakota eased the blue 2018 Charger out of the shadows near Union Station. The engine growled low, a beast beneath her fingers, the custom deck bumping through the speakers like a heartbeat. It wasn’t just any ride this was hers, the one she trusted to carry her through whatever hell came next. Kansas City at night was a whole different beast, wrapped in its own secrets. Neon signs flickered above the damp streets, a mix of old jazz joints and new tech startups lighting the fog like a surreal dream. She loved the city’s edge half grime, half gold just like her. Dakota lit a blunt, flicked the lighter with a calm flick of her wrist, and took a long drag. The smoke curled into the cracked window, mixing with the cool Missouri air. She exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the dim streets. Quiet, calm, but ready. She didn’t speak much, and when she did, it was usually a joke. A bad one. But it was her way. Tonight, she had a job to do. Her phone buzzed with a text from Bliss: Meeting at 9. Don’t be late. Bring your A-game. Dakota smirked, tapped the screen back with a one-word reply: “Ready.” That was Dakota—the driver. The wheel woman. The silent storm. She could drive anything that had wheels, and not just drive it—she could *own* it. Forklift, motorcycle, whatever. And when the heat came down, she was the one who got everybody out, smooth and fast, no questions asked. This wasn’t just some quick score either. They were planning something massive. The vault under Union Station was legendary supposedly impenetrable, guarded by lasers, biometric locks, and the latest in security tech. And it was stuffed with more money and diamonds than the city had ever seen. The biggest heist in American history, and Dakota was at the wheel. By the time she pulled into the lot behind the old warehouse on the edge of the Crossroads District, the sun was just a memory, the sky settling into a deep midnight blue. A few people milled about, but Dakota’s eyes zeroed in on the figures waiting near the rusted loading dock. Bliss stood apart, cool and composed in her signature black leather jacket, sharp as a razor. Next to her was Zayla, fingers twitching like they were about to punch invisible keys in the air, the faint glow of her laptop screen reflecting off her rainbow braids. Lulu “Boom Boom” Gonzalez leaned against the wall, twirling a lit sparkler between her fingers with a laugh like a wildfire. Toni was there too tall, strong, with dreads pulled back tight. Her gaze was sharp, scanning everything like a predator. Naima, with a smile that could disarm a bomb, stood chatting with Jin, who looked quieter but just as deadly. One more figure stepped out of the shadows, a slim woman with tattoos crawling up her arms and a piercing gaze. That was Sam — the newest recruit, a master of security systems and surveillance. Bliss nodded toward Dakota as she approached. “Glad you made it,” Bliss said, voice smooth but no-nonsense. “You’re gonna need that charger and those nerves tonight.” Dakota nodded, tossing the blunt in a nearby trash can and cracking her knuckles. “Let’s make history.” The crew gathered around an old folding table lit by a single flickering bulb. Bliss unfolded a blueprint of the Union Station vault, spreading it out with precision. “This is it,” Bliss said. “Underneath the old train terminal. The vault’s not just secure it’s a fortress. Laser grids, motion sensors, biometric locks, and cameras everywhere.” Zayla leaned forward, tapping at her tablet. “Security’s all digital, but I’ve been crawling the network for weeks. They’re running a next-gen AI system. It learns every time someone tries to get close. We’ll have a small window when they reset the system about thirty minutes.” Lulu’s grin widened. “So, when do I get to blow stuff up?” Bliss shot her a look but smirked. “Right after we get in.” Naima flicked her hair, already running through a list of contacts and covers in her head. “We’ll need inside access. That’s where Jin and Sam come in.” Jin nodded silently, while Sam flicked her comm device on and off with quiet focus. “Dakota,” Bliss said, finally, “you’re our ace behind the wheel. Get us in and out. No hesitation. No mistakes.” Dakota’s lips twitched into a grin. “You got it.” The stakes couldn’t be higher. The vault beneath Union Station was rumored to hold over $80 million in untraceable cash and diamonds worth even more, all laundered through a network of corrupt politicians and businessmen. The mastermind behind it? A faceless billionaire tech mogul who hid in plain sight, his name whispered in the backrooms and boardrooms of KC. But this wasn’t just about the money. One of them had a score to settle and the rest? They were in it for the thrill, the challenge, and the chance to rewrite the rules. As the crew broke apart to prepare, Dakota stayed behind, staring out at the city skyline. The streetlights flickered and reflected off the wet pavement like stars fallen to earth. She lit another blunt, smiled to herself, and said quietly, “Y’all ever wonder if squirrels judge us for walking upright?” The laugh that followed was soft, but it was a start. The first night of a story that would burn Kansas City forever. Kansas City was quiet in the early hours too quiet. The kind of quiet that made Dakota suspicious. She didn't trust silence. Silence was the space where bad things plotted. Union Station towered above the city like a sleeping beast. Its massive stone columns held the weight of decades, and beneath it? A vault built during World War II, retrofitted, reinforced, and quietly filled with more secrets than the FBI. Inside Bliss’s temporary HQ an abandoned art gallery on Vine Streetthey gathered again under low lights and heavy tension. The room still smelled of paint and bourbon. Walls were covered in printouts, blueprints, post-it notes, security footage, and red string connecting names like a murder board. Zayla called it The War Room. Bliss stood by the center table, arms crossed, chin high. She didn’t have to speak to command the room her presence was enough. Everyone was in position, waiting for the deeper dive. "We’re running out of time," Bliss said. There’s a shipment coming in Friday at 3 a.m. It’s our only window before they switch to a new security AI. Once it’s in place, even Zayla won’t be able to touch it. Zayla raised a brow. You say that like it’s true. But yeah it’s true. A low chuckle passed through the room. Dakota didn’t laugh. Her eyes were fixed on the corner screen looping real-time surveillance of the Union Station loading dock. The calm before the storm. Toni leaned against the table, reviewing the building's foundation prints. "This vault? It's built into the limestone bedrock. There’s only one tunnel that leads under from the east. Everything else is sealed off." Lulu whistled. "Boom-boom’s gonna have a tight squeeze." "Too tight for a full blast. I can get us in, but it’ll have to be surgical," Lulu replied, pulling out a schematic and a stick of gum. Naima adjusted her diamond studs. "What’s the plan for the guards?" Sam answered, her voice smooth. "Two-man teams rotating every three hours. KC Private Patrol. We can intercept the rotation. Jin already cloned two badges." Jin, always quiet, gave a small nod. She had hands like a magician, fast and precise. Her specialty? Forgery, lock-picking, facial recognition spoofs—basically, anything that required being invisible in plain sight. Bliss continued. "The target vault is ten meters beneath the original train line. We'll enter through the maintenance tunnel beneath the old loading dock. Dakota will bring the van in—" "Charger," Dakota cut in. Bliss raised a brow. "Fine. The Charger." Zayla smirked. "She’d marry that car if she could." Dakota just shrugged. "She never cheats on me." The room cracked up again, the tension thinning for a moment. Backstory poured out between blueprints and strategizing. Everyone had their own reason for being here. Lulu used to build IEDs in the desert before the military said she was too unstable to keep around. Zayla got caught hacking into a Pentagon server at sixteen. Instead of juvie, she got recruited by someone who promised her protection. When he ghosted her after a job went sideways in Berlin, she swore never to trust a suit again. Naima was the daughter of a con artist. Learned to flirt before she could walk and scam before she could spell. She ran the soft side of every hustle—access cards, digital spoofing, and playing rich idiots like pianos. Sam had been KC police. That’s how she knew the patrol schedules. She left after her partner took credit for her collar and left her hanging when things got dangerous. Since then, she operated in the gray. And Dakota? Nobody really knew what brought her to the edge. But Bliss did. Late that night, after the crew dispersed, Bliss and Dakota stood on the gallery roof, smoking in silence. "You still in?" Bliss asked. Dakota looked out over the city. "I was in the second I heard it was Union Station." "You got history there?" Dakota exhaled slowly. "My uncle helped build that vault. Told me stories as a kid. Said it was impenetrable. Said the only way in was if the walls trusted you." Bliss grinned. "Then we better earn their trust." The week blurred by in motion and shadow. They mapped guard routes. They ran dry runs. They bribed a janitor. They tested tools. They even scoped out tunnel rats to make sure no local kids would stumble into something fatal. Zayla created an algorithm that mimicked the vault’s AI behavior. Every day, they ran simulations, adjusting their timing to the millisecond. One screw-up, one glitch, and the whole city would wake up to a crater where Union Station used to be. Dakota stayed in the garage. Modified the Charger with reinforced plating, built-in jammer tech, and secret compartments. She played loud music while she worked—SZA, Nas, Biggie, a little Jill Scott. The night before the job, they met one last time. Bliss said, "If any of you want out, now’s the time." Nobody moved. Dakota cracked her knuckles. "Let’s go be legends." The Job Kansas City was sleepless. Downtown buzzed under a quiet tension the city hadn’t felt in years. Union Station majestic, historical, once a beacon of the railway era had become the silent epicenter of what would go down as the most sophisticated and daring heist in American history. And the night had just begun. 9:03 p.m. — Union Station Parking Deck Dakota flicked the blunt out the window of her decked-out 2018 blue Dodge Charger and twisted her neck just enough to crack it. The LED lights under the body of the car shimmered against the pavement like an electric warning. She exhaled a thin cloud of smoke, eyes narrowed behind dark aviators. She popped a beat into her earbuds. It was go-time. "The Raven has landed," she muttered into the mic. Inside Union Station, seven stories underground, a maze of security systems buzzed to life. Red lasers danced across a pressure-sensitive vault room while motion sensors calibrated to detect the slightest change in temperature or movement. The vault was not just locked; it was encased in military-grade concrete and surveillance tech designed by former NSA contractors. And they were about to rip it off. 9:07 p.m. — Command Van, 3 Blocks South Bliss stood in front of five monitors, fingers moving across a digital touchscreen like a conductor at the head of an orchestra. Her hair was pulled tight into a high knot, eyes laser-focused. She took a breath and spoke into her comms. "Zayla, disable the elevators. We don’t need any tourists running into this shit." Zayla’s voice crackled through, amused as always. "Already done, boss lady. Sucks to be a stair person tonight." "Lulu, you're up in ninety. Get those charges placed precisely. We don't want collateral." "You act like I don't romance my explosives," Lulu said, licking her thumb and adjusting her goggles. "This building about to hum like Sade." "Toni and Naima, secure the perimeter. Anyone who doesn't belong gets the church-mother look until they turn around. Jin, you're on site with the badge. Get to the security booth." They moved like liquid—one crew, nine stories, one plan. 9:20 p.m. — Upper Lobby Jin strolled in wearing a security uniform perfectly tailored to her frame. Her ID badge scanned without delay—thanks to Zayla. She gave a casual nod to the real security guard on rotation. "Quiet night?" she asked. He grunted. "Tourists left early. One train stuck in St. Louis. Slow as molasses. "Good," Jin said, already stepping behind the desk. In less than two minutes, she'd routed their camera feed to a three-hour-old loop.
By Dakota Denise about a year ago in Chapters
Every Day Is Theirs: A Heart’s Tribute to Our Parents Beyond One Day
✍️ By: Umair Ali Shah Yousafzai --- 🌸 Introduction: The Problem with “One Day” In an age where love has been reduced to emojis and celebrations are confined to trending hashtags, it’s become common to see people dedicate just one day a year to their parents — usually in the form of a well-edited photo, a generic social media caption, or a short video clip. "Happy Parents’ Day!" they declare, and with that, consider their duty fulfilled. But can one day capture the essence of lifelong sacrifice? Can a Facebook status outweigh a mother’s sleepless nights? Can an Instagram reel compensate for a father’s decades of toil? The answer — spoken by the heart — is a resounding no. Parents are not a seasonal celebration. They are the soul of our lives. They do not deserve a day; they deserve our every day, our every breath, our every success, our every prayer. --- 🕊️ A Love Beyond Comprehension Parental love is not poetic — it is prophetic. The mother’s womb becomes a sanctuary before we even open our eyes. Her body breaks to give us life. Her nights shatter so our dreams can form. Her meals go cold so ours stay warm. She becomes our shadow, our comfort, our shield. And the father? He becomes the silent mountain who absorbs the storm before it reaches us. He ages behind the curtain so we can grow on stage. His shoes wear thin so ours stay new. His pockets empty so our dreams can fill. His hands become rough while ours remain soft. Such love cannot be compared. It cannot be counted, priced, or postponed. It is as eternal as the sky — silent but all-encompassing. --- 🏠 From Cradle to Grave: They Gave Us Everything The truth is simple and painful: the very people who gave us everything, we give them the least. They carried us when we were weak. They taught us to walk, to speak, to eat. They encouraged our smallest achievements and bore our greatest failures. They forgave our rebellion, our rudeness, our rejection. They kept loving even when we didn’t love back. And what did they ask for in return? Nothing — except a little time. A little respect. A little remembrance. And yet, many of us fail even in that. --- 📅 One Day is Not Enough — It’s Almost Insulting Designating one day for parents is, in many ways, an insult wrapped in sentimentality. It suggests that gratitude can be scheduled, that love can be timed, that sacrifice can be acknowledged only when it's convenient. Do parents love only once a year? Do they support us only on Sundays? Do they pray for us only during exam season? No. Their love is relentless, their loyalty unconditional, their prayers eternal. Then how dare we give them just a day? --- 🕯️ Real-Life Reflections: Forgotten Candles of Our Lives Visit an old age home and you will see forgotten candles flickering dimly, waiting for someone to relight their flames. Mothers who once carried their children now carry loneliness. Fathers who once stood tall now sit silently by windows, hoping someone might knock on the door. "I gave him everything," says one mother, staring into her fading memories. "And now he sends money, but not himself." What do we owe them? Not riches. Not luxury. We owe them presence. We owe them honor. We owe them time. And if we fail to pay that debt in life, we will spend the rest of our lives repaying it in guilt. --- 🌙 The Islamic Perspective: A Duty, Not a Favor In Islam, honoring one's parents is not optional. It is second only to worshipping Allah. The Qur’an places “being good to parents” immediately after “worship none but Allah” (Surah Al-Isra, 17:23). > “And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say: ‘My Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up [when I was] small.’” — (Qur’an 17:24) The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: > “Paradise lies beneath the feet of your mother.” “The pleasure of Allah is in the pleasure of the father.” In a world that celebrates freedom, Islam reminds us: you are never free from the duty of loving and serving your parents. --- 💔 The Western Dilemma: Celebration Without Connection In many modern societies, holidays like "Mother's Day" and "Father's Day" are celebrated with great pomp. But beneath the flowers and fancy cards lies a bitter reality — many parents live alone, neglected. The market profits from emotional neglect. Capitalism sells love, but doesn't practice it. You buy a card, send flowers, click "like" on a photo — and you're done. But love is not a transaction. True love is in changing your schedule to be with your aging parents. True respect is in asking about their health — not for politeness, but from the heart. True honor is in making them feel needed, not obsolete. --- 📖 Stories That Break the Heart A man once left his father at a senior facility, promising to return in two weeks. The weeks turned into months. The father finally said, “I don’t need your money. I need the child who once clung to my finger.” Another story tells of a woman whose son lives abroad. He sends money monthly, but hasn’t visited in five years. She keeps his childhood toys clean, thinking he may come home any day. The question isn’t whether these parents are physically alone. The question is: Why are their children emotionally absent? --- 💡 What Can We Do, Starting Today? Let’s stop thinking in hashtags and start living in actions. Here are real, practical ways to honor your parents — not just once a year, but daily: 1. Call them. Not just when you're free — call them often. 2. Visit them. Your presence matters more than gifts. 3. Sit in silence. Let them feel your calm. 4. Ask their opinions. Make them feel heard, respected, and needed. 5. Pray for them. Every prayer, every day. 6. Serve them. Bring water, massage their feet, feed them with your hands. 7. Share your life. Tell them about your joys and struggles. Let them be part of your world. --- 🌹 To the Fortunate Ones: Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late If your parents are still alive, know this: you are living in a blessed time. You still have the opportunity to make them smile, to ease their aches, to sit beside them and just… be. Don’t wait for their graves to remember their value. Don’t take their presence for granted. If you must celebrate something, celebrate their hands that held you. Celebrate their words that guided you. Celebrate their love that never expired. 🌿 Closing Prayers: Words from the Heart to the Heavens As we close this column, we do not end with logic or poetry — we end with prayer, because only prayer carries the weight of what parents deserve. > Allah! Bless my mother with health, happiness, and peace. Forgive her mistakes and elevate her status. Place light in her grave, if she is gone, and joy in her heart, if she is alive. > Allah! Grant my father strength and serenity. Forgive him, reward him, and make his sacrifices a means of his success in both worlds. > Allah of the worlds! If I have ever disobeyed or hurt them, forgive me. And if I have ever pleased them, accept it as a seed of paradise. > The Most Merciful Allah! Keep my parents close to me in this life — and reunite me with them under Your shade in the next. Ameen. 🖋️ Final Word: Love is Measured in Time, Not Days Remember: You don’t need a “Parents’ Day” to honor your parents. You need a sincere heart, an open schedule, a little humility — and consistent action. Let us reclaim the lost beauty of honoring parents not with once-a-year posts, but with daily devotion. Let us teach the world that love is not in celebrating one day, but in cherishing every moment. Because in truth — Every day is their day. Every moment is a chance to love. And every breath we take… is because of them.
By Umair Ali Shah about a year ago in Chapters
