The tranquility of the forest shattered as the mushroom cloud climbed into the sky.

A nuclear explosion erupted in the distance, its force uprooting hundreds of trees, hurling them like toothpicks across miles.

What was once a thriving expanse of green transformed into a barren, charred wasteland in mere seconds.

Flames consumed the epicenter, their searing heat devouring everything in their path, leaving nothing but ash and molten earth in their wake.

Dika stood motionless, mesmerized by the apocalyptic display. The fire reflected off his glasses, casting an eerie glow over his face.

Moments later, a deafening shockwave tore through the forest, flattening underbrush and scattering debris like confetti.

The ground beneath their feet trembled as the delayed, bone-rattling roar finally reached their ears.

Ezra staggered, shielding his eyes and ears as the blast washed over them.

Pieces of smoldering bark and splinters rained down, stinging his exposed skin.

Dika calmly removed his glasses and earplugs, his expression unreadable, as he turned to leave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Ezra, standing a safe distance away, giving a small, casual wave.

…

“I see why Carina told me you’re the best bombardier.”

Ezra called out, his voice carrying a hint of awe.

“That explosion gave me goosebumps.”

Dika raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised by Ezra’s sudden praise.

“Thanks.”

Ezra jogged closer, his steps crunching against the scorched earth.

“How many kilotons was that one?”

Dika shrugged nonchalantly, his hands busy tidying up the trigger cable.

“It's the same as before. I just tweaked the efficiency.”

From the shadows of the surviving trees, their attention shifted to a nearby clearing.

A group of PE club students sprinted frantically across the field, their sneakers slapping against the cracked, dry ground.

The sharp voices of their teachers cut through the still-smoky air, urging them to move faster.

Sweat poured down their flushed faces, the scorching noon sun relentless in its assault.

The heat shimmered in waves over the clearing, intensifying the already suffocating air.

Dika chuckled, watching one poor kid trip and immediately get barked at by a particularly shrill instructor.

“I heard you don’t have memories. Is that right?”

Dika asked, breaking the silence.

Ezra shifted slightly, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun blazed at its peak.

“Sounds about right. I just can’t remember a thing.”

They stood side by side, watching as the massive sports field stretched out before them. The human mobs—students from the PE club—ran about, kicking balls and laughing, their voices carried by the warm breeze.

“That’s a blessing.”

Dika murmured, almost to himself, as his eyes lingered on the lively scene.

Ezra glanced at him.

“What makes you say that?”

Dika hesitated, his tone growing heavier.

“Have you heard about someone else’s memories? The ones they remember?”

“Yeah.”

Ezra replied, folding his arms.

“Carina’s.”

Dika let out a long, weary sigh.

“Oh, Carina’s...”

His voice softened with something akin to pity.

“Hers are some of the worst. Mine’s nothing compared to hers.”

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Ezra turned toward him.

“What do you mean?”

Dika’s expression turned wistful, a strange, detached smile forming on his lips.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fuse, holding it up for a moment before letting it fall to the ground.

“I mean.”

He said quietly.

“I just couldn’t bear to watch someone else detonate the bomb I made.”

The fuse landed with a soft thud, and Ezra’s gaze followed it as it rolled to a stop.

The distant sound of cheers and laughter from the field only made the weight of Dika’s words settle deeper between them.

It was the late 1960s, a time of quiet desperation and unspoken hope in the small, dusty town where Dika lived. A tinkerer by trade, Dika wasn’t the kind of man anyone paid much attention to. His neighbors knew him as a recluse, more at home among broken radios and shattered glass than at the town’s bustling marketplace. Yet, if you asked him, he wouldn’t describe himself as a man of isolation.

He was a dreamer.

And life was less kind to him than his dreams.

He made a meager living fixing broken radios and toasters, his hands callused and burned from years of toil. His meals were scarce, his nights colder than he liked to admit. He spent his nights in his tiny workshop, crafting sparks from scraps.

"Why fireworks?"

A shopkeeper once asked as Dika handed over his last few coins for supplies.

“I could’ve been a farmer.”

He answered, lighting a cigarette with a match he'd just struck.

“But farming doesn’t make the stars dance.”

His early fireworks were crude, loud things that often ended in failure.

Borrowing books from a kind schoolteacher, he taught himself chemistry, learning the delicate balance of powder and pigment.

Each experiment brought singed fingers, smoke-filled lungs, and whispers of recklessness from his neighbors.

“You’ll blow yourself up one day, Dika.”

They’d warn.

He only laughed, the light of a dream too bright to extinguish in his eyes.

By the time he reached his twenties, his fireworks weren’t just sparks—they were stories. Bursts of crimson and gold, violet and silver, each one a labor of love.

Then, somehow the town announced the Annual Fireworks Competition. Grand prize: $10,000. Enough to rebuild his family’s crumbling house. Enough to send his siblings to school. Enough to give his mother the rest she’d spent years dreaming of.

The rules were simple: the biggest, brightest firework would win.

For weeks, Dika disappeared into his workshop. Old powders, discarded pipes, salvaged metal—nothing was too broken for him to use. His neighbors saw less and less of him, only the faint glow of his workshop’s lamp illuminating the night.

Months and months of work slowly piling up and paying off.

The firework took shape—six feet tall, painted in bold red and gold stripes, a marvel of his ingenuity. But the effort came at a cost. Dika’s hands trembled from fatigue. The acrid scent of chemicals clung to him, and his constant smoking only worsened the toll on his body.

After months of relentless effort, Dika completed his masterpiece: a single firework the size of a carriage, packed with intricate mechanisms and powerful explosives.

The test was scheduled to take place on the city’s outskirts, where thousands would gather to witness the event.

But life, as always, had other plans. A week before the test, Dika collapsed in his workshop.

The doctor’s diagnosis was grim—severe exhaustion and chemical poisoning from years of exposure to volatile substances, and he also liked to smoke.

He was confined to bed rest, his body too frail to continue.

The day of the test arrived, but Dika was too weak to attend.

It was the new year night.

He lay in his bed, he could hear the faint murmur of the crowd in the distance, the excitement palpable even from miles away.

His heart raced, torn between pride and despair.

At first, he dismissed it as the townsfolk consoling themselves with mundane festivities.

But soon, the unmistakable whistling sound of rockets piercing the night sky cut through the stillness.

He turned his head toward the small window, straining his frail body to catch a glimpse of the outside world.

From his position, he could only see faint flashes of light reflecting against the distant horizon.

Then came the bursts—brilliant cascades of color painting the heavens in hues of crimson, gold, and violet.

His heart sank.

“That’s not mine.”

He murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

The rockets belonged to his rivals—other fireworks makers.

Each burst was a mockery, a reminder of what he could not achieve.

Dika clenched his fists weakly, his breath shallow.

The sound of the crowd cheering for the rival fireworks pierced through his chest like a dagger. He could imagine their delighted faces, their laughter, their awe at the display. The thought twisted in his mind like a cruel specter.

One particularly massive rocket soared higher than the rest. Its ascent seemed to last an eternity, a symbol of triumph and promise.

Then it exploded in a deafening roar, scattering thousands of glittering sparks across the sky.

The light reflected on Dika’s gaunt face, casting shadows that danced across his room.

It was so beautiful.

Tears welled up in his eyes, not from envy, but from the crushing weight of his shattered dreams.

He had always envisioned his firework dominating the heavens, leaving the crowd breathless and united in wonder.

Instead, he was an invisible witness to his opponents’ success.

The bursts continued.

Dika turned away from the window, his chest heaving as he fought back sobs.

As the explosions continued outside, each louder and more vibrant than the last, Dika closed his eyes.

He could still see them in his mind’s eye—his rivals’ fireworks soaring higher, shining brighter, bursting with a brilliance he would never achieve.

Nobody could help him carry and fire firework he had finished into the night sky.

With that, the last spark of hope within him extinguished, leaving only silence and the distant echo of applause to accompany him into the dark.

Days turned into weeks, but Dika never recovered.

His health deteriorated further, his spirit crushed under the weight of his failure.

He reached for the metal clamp with trembling hands. Carefully, he positioned it over the pipe that carried oxygen. The hiss of air was silenced.

He adjusted the respirator on his face, ensuring it was tightly sealed. Slowly, he inhaled one last time, filling his lungs as much as he could. Then, closing his eyes, he held it in, counting the seconds as the burning ache in his chest grew stronger. He held on for as long as his body allowed, until the edges of his vision darkened and his consciousness slipped away.

"I cursed my fate."

Dika said.

"The only dream I've always been proud of, disappeared just like that."

And with that, Dika’s light faded, leaving behind nothing but the ashes of a dream unfulfilled.

At that moment, Pungkas burst into their hideout, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Oi! Took me a while to find you!"

He exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.

"I had a hard time attaching munitions into the hardpoints!"

Dika's demeanor shifted abruptly, his past momentarily forgotten as he focused on the present task at hand.

"Oh!"

He responded, a sense of urgency in his tone.

"Alright! Sorry for the wait!"

Without another word, Dika dashed towards Pungkas, his movements quick and purposeful.

Ezra watched silently, a resigned sigh escaping his lips as he stood and prepared to leave.

As he glanced down at the bomb fuse left behind by Dika, he noticed a can of cold sparkling water resting beside it.

Attached to the can was a yellow sticky note, the words scrawled in Dika's handwriting:

"Thank you for having me."

…

Ezra tailed them and stood at a distance, his gaze fixed on the hangar before him.

In the fading light of the evening, he watched as Dika and Pungkas meticulously maneuvered the nuclear bomb into the confines of the B52H's fuselage.

The air crackled with tension as they worked in tandem, their movements fluid and purposeful. With each careful adjustment, the bomb inched closer to its final resting place, nestled snugly within the belly of the mighty aircraft.

Carina stood nearby, her expression unreadable as she observed the proceedings.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, a silent testament to the weight of their mission and the gravity of the task at hand.

As Dika and Pungkas secured the bomb in place, she stepped forward, her voice steady as she issued a final directive to ensure everything was in order.

In another corner of the aircraft hangar, Davin meticulously prepared the F-16V.

With nothing in his hands but experience, he started the engines one by one, listening intently for any irregularities in their rumbling roar. Satisfied with their performance, he methodically checked each aileron, ensuring they responded smoothly to his commands.

With a confident nod, Davin pushed the throttle to full blast, feeling the powerful engines come to life as the afterburner spit flames into the deflector behind.

Despite the deafening roar of the engines, he remained focused, his hands steady on the controls as he assessed the aircraft's responsiveness.

The wheels remained firmly locked in place, ensuring the plane stayed grounded as Davin conducted his pre-flight checks.

He ran through his checklist, with a final sweep of the cockpit, he signaled to one of the workers to shut down the engine.