The clearing materialized like a fever dream. Sunlight pierced the canopy, illuminating Daisy weaving paracord through bougainvillea petals. Her combat knife flashed, crafting floral Ops-Core helmet covers that somehow complemented our tactical gear.
Emma emerged from the tree line shaking her Valentino silk scarf like battle colors. "Gypsies!" she declared, unbuttoning her Thom Browne shirt with Broadway flourish. The bulletproof lining caught sunlight as she spun, transforming into some post-apocalyptic cabaret dancer.
Kate watched through rifle scope crosshairs. "Three o'clock," she murmured, tracking movement none of us could see. "Jack's circling."
But even paranoia couldn't dampen the moment. Emma's improvised striptease reached its climax—the shirt fluttered down to reveal La Perla lace body armor. My pulse synchronized with the safariland holster's click as she bowed.
"Encore!" Daisy signed in military hand signals, her smile sharper than the gerber strapped to her thigh.
We became warped mirror of Burning Man attendees. Kate's Cartier bracelet clinked against the charging handle of her SCAR-H. Daisy wove infrared chem lights into flower crowns. When Emma produced a flask of 25-year Macallan from her GoRuck, we drank to forgotten gods.
The stream ambush came at dusk. Daisy stripped to Crye Precision combat underwear before we realized her intent. "Swim recon," she signed, plunging into the murk with SEAL-team precision.
Emma froze mid-Margiela sandal removal. "When did she—"
"Last resupply," I lied, turning to guard the perimeter. My night vision goggles revealed more than scenery—Kate's fingers tracing the Colt Python at her hip, Emma's nervous adjustments of her EMP-shielded Rolex.
The water ritual unfolded like pagan baptism. Emma's diamond choker cast prismatic death threats across the shallows. Kate scrubbed gunpowder residue with L'Occitane samples from her medkit. Only Daisy moved with purpose, mapping currents for tomorrow's ambush points.
Summit assault began at 0400. The Harris Falcon III radio in my pack weighed more than our remaining rations. Emma's "good luck charm"—a St. Christopher medal fused with tracker chip—clicked against the antenna array with every step.
"Channel 16," Kate hissed as we breached the ridgeline. Her cracked lips resembled the map's contour lines. "Mayday protocol."
The power-on sequence felt like arming a nuke. Green backlight revealed one bar of signal—our Holy Grail in LED form. Emma snatched the handset with manicured claws: "This is Emma Stone! Send fucking SEALs!"
Static.
We rotated positions like SWAT breachers. Kate tried aviation frequencies. Daisy input GPS coordinates in Morse. My final attempt used Blackwater extraction codes that should've triggered satellite override.
The fall played out in slow-motion horror—Emma's defensive shove, Kate's fumbled catch, $250k worth of comms gear shattering on basalt. Silence swallowed our hope whole.
"Faulty maglock," Kate spat, examining the debris. Her SIG Sauer's laser danced near Emma's temple. "Convenient."
Daisy interposed her body between them, hands signing
We descended as shadows lengthened. Kate's "herbal cigarettes" couldn't mask the despair. Emma's diamond nose stud glittered with unshed tears. Only Daisy maintained operational readiness, her flower crown now holding surveillance microcameras.
Nightfall found us stringing razor wire with trembling hands. The last MRE crackers tasted of lithium from the smashed radio battery. Emma's whispered "What now?" carried more dread than incoming mortar fire.
I distributed watch shifts with hollow bravado. "We improvise." My knife etched escape routes into a Prada compact mirror—urban survival meets haute couture.
Daisy took first sentry duty perched in a sniper's nest of Gucci scarves and rappelling gear. Her final hand signal before vanishing into darkness