The terminal was a giant ribcage of steel and glass, humming with fluorescent light. People shuffled under it in the usual trance of travel: briefcases bumping into prams, duty-free bags rustling like tired flags, the constant ripple of announcements in five languages, none of them understood but all obeyed. For a moment it was perfect — civilization as choreography, flights rising and landing with the grace of a clockwork ballet.
Then came the whine.
Thin, nasal, the sort of buzzing you might ignore if it came from a wasp or an old electric toothbrush. But the acoustics of the place amplified it until everyone felt it in their skulls. Out on the tarmac, beneath the sodium lamps, something hung in the air. A wobbling insect made of plastic. A drone.
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