London – Vauxhall Cross, MI6

A storm had descended on the normally composed seventh floor of MI6's riverside headquarters. The Thames shimmered in the late evening light outside, but inside the ops suite the glow came from a dozen large displays showing real-time flight data and social media chatter.

On one screen: the black A380, call sign Imperium Heavy, inching back toward U.S. airspace.

On another: feeds from Heathrow and Farnborough spotter networks, still playing the viral takeoff videos.

"Sir, FAA's registry has gone dark. Public records now say 'Private Holder – Confidential.' Americans scrubbed the name," A senior analyst reported to the deputy chief

"It doesn't matter. We already knew who it was before the scrub. Eighteen years old. Liam Scott. What we need is background information on him," the deputy chief said, as he tapped a finger against the desk and glanced up at the map, where the jet's transponder pulsed a steady green.

"He's headed back to LAX now. If the Americans think they can keep this contained, they're mistaken."

"Shall we task GCHQ?"

"Already done. SIGINT is pulling every packet that leaves Imperial Terminal. If they won't tell us what he's carrying, we'll find out ourselves." He said, as he rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing at the screen.

"And pull Interpol's red cell analysts in. If this boy is what he appears to be, every sovereign wealth fund and defense contractor will want a slice of him before the week ends."

***

Beijing – Ministry of State Security (MSS)

The great mahogany table in the secure war room of the MSS was covered in maps of flight routes and dossiers. A projector beamed the live ADS-B feed of the A380 over the Pacific, its black fuselage glowing in high-resolution satellite photos snapped by a Yaogan reconnaissance satellite an hour earlier.

"It's returning to Los Angeles. That means it's not an abduction or a covert exfiltration. This is a show of power," he said with a hardened expression on his face.

His deputy nodded, tapping a laser pointer against the satellite image, as he added, "The real question is how an eighteen-year-old built a structure to conceal this?"

The director's expression became solemn when he thought about the answer to that question. He closed his eyes briefly and gave more orders.

"Order our liaison office in San Francisco to begin soft approach. Cyber will continue to harvest every mention of 'Liam Scott' across Western platforms. Begin discreet financial forensics on JP Morgan Private Bank. They will surely have a tie to him."

He glanced at the big screen where the A380's contrail curved over the Pacific like a brushstroke, and muttered to himself, "If this child is real, he will become a strategic asset. If he is a front, then we will unmask who is behind him."

***

Moscow – FSB Headquarters

Cigarette smoke still hung heavy in the vault-like ops room beneath Lubyanka Square. Four colonels leaned over printouts of Liam's known assets, while a large plasma screen showed the black A380's altitude and speed.

"Back to the States?" one of them scoffed. "Americans keep their ghosts close."

The general in charge, ground his cigarette out and spoke without looking up. "Continue satellite tail. Tap Aeroflot's LAX staff for eyes. If this 'Flying Palace' lands at Los Angeles, we want photographs of every crate that leaves it."

He turned to his cyber chief. "And penetrate his Family Office, however deeply buried it is. If the Americans are fronting a new kind of private power projection, we cannot be left blind. If he is theirs, he'll be weaponized. If he is not, we will weaponize him."

***

Riyadh – General Intelligence Presidency

In a marble-lined chamber scented with oud, the Saudi intelligence chief stood beside a young prince as a wall screen replayed footage of the A380's departure, then showed its return track creeping across the Pacific.

The prince's eyes glimmered with curiosity when he saw this.

"He's going back. Interesting," he murmured, with a small amused and curious smile.

The Chief nodded in agreement and said, "We have already tasked our people in Miami and New York. He didn't hide his financial traces, so it will be ready soon. But our best asset inside Airbus hadn't been able to get anything from anyone at Toulouse no matter how hard they probed."

The prince nodded slightly when he heard this.

"As expected. They are all under NDAs. It won't be easy to get anything out of them. And if we try to wringle it out, they will call on Berlin," he said, and the Chief nodded in agreement.

"Then he's not only wealthy. He's also hidden. Keep watching. Perhaps he will need partners when the world turns against him," he said with a sly smile.

***

Tel Aviv – Mossad SIGINT Floor

Rows of operators stared at a mosaic of feeds: FAA radar, ADS-B Exchange, satellite stills, Reddit's r/aviation threads, and financial chatter about a mysterious "Liam Scott."

"We've got an eighteen-year-old ghost flying a Flying Palace across the Pacific. Hollywood couldn't write this," One of the operators smirked and said, as he continued reading the feed,

But his section chief didn't share the same sentiment as him. With a solemn face, he gave out instructions.

"Flag every vendor in our database who's ever touched an A380 cabin refit. Somebody built that monster. Somebody got paid. Follow the invoices."

***

Across the globe, lights burned late in government offices as Liam's name — or the absence of it — scrolled across secure channels. Satellite operators shifted tasking priorities, SIGINT filters recalibrated, and analysts whispered into encrypted phones.

What none of them realized was that Liam, reclining in the lounge of the aircraft, listening to snippets of their chatter that Lucy was feeding him in real time.

***

While the great powers plotted in shadow, the world's eyes turned toward Los Angeles.

By the time Imperium Heavy checked in with SoCal Approach, Los Angeles was braced for impact — not from a storm, but from a flood of cameras.

At the perimeter of LAX, every legal spot along the fence was clogged. The usual scattering of plane spotters with tripods and telephoto lenses had been joined by other people.

Livestreamers could be seen holding selfie sticks, shouting into their phones: "We're live at LAX, chat! Any second now the #BlackTitan is coming in hot!"

News vans from every local station had arrived, their telescoping antennas pointed skyward and their satellite dishes rotating to lock on.

National networks had parked satellite trucks in the cargo lot, anchors rehearsing their lines as producers shoved earpieces into their hands.

Traffic had snarled for miles. Police cruisers lined the access roads, lights spinning red and blue, with officers trying to herd the crowds back from the fence. But the crowd only grew. People climbed onto car hoods, rooftops, even trees for a better view.

The fence itself rattled under the weight of bodies pressed against it. Hundreds of phones with their cameras all pointed upward.

From the skies, the A380's shadow stretched long as it descended through a bank of high clouds. The platinum streaks along its fuselage caught the evening sun, dazzling against the obsidian skin.

The crowd erupted with shouts, cheers, and screams of disbelief before the wheels even touched the ground.

"THERE IT IS!"

"OH MY GOD, IT'S REAL!"

"LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT THING!"

Livestream chats exploded with comments:

"I'm watching from Brazil and I can't believe this is real."

"This kid just broke aviation."

"Forget Tēslā, I want stock in THIS guy."

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