Morning sunlight streams through the kitchen window of Ji-woo's mobile home, casting golden rectangles across the small dining table where three college students sit surrounded by the evidence of a lazy breakfast: empty cereal bowls, half-drunk coffee mugs, and a laptop displaying beach resort websites.
Maeve's copper hair is still damp from her morning shower, pulled into a messy bun. Priya wears yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her long black hair cascading over one shoulder. Ji-woo, ever the minimalist, sports a sleek black t-shirt and leggings, her dark hair perfectly straight as always.
Priya sighs dramatically and reaches for her coffee mug. Just as she lifts it to her lips, Maeve's phone erupts with a notification—not a gentle ping, but an insistent, official-sounding buzz that makes all three of them freeze.
Maeve glances at the screen, and her green eyes go wide.
Maeve opens the message, reads it once, blinks, reads it again, and then releases a squeal of pure, unadulterated joy that makes both Priya and Ji-woo jump.
Silence. Complete, stunned silence. Then—
The swimwear section of the local department store has never seen such focused, efficient shopping. Maeve, Priya, and Ji-woo move through the racks like a well-trained tactical team, which, technically, they are.
They hit the checkout with military precision, swipe their debit cards (thank you, Navy stipend), and rush home to pack.
The next several hours are a whirlwind: stuffing suitcases, texting the other Constellation members, coordinating rides to the airport, calling parents to explain they'll be gone for a week (leaving out most of the details about Navy operations and psychic abilities), and triple-checking they have everything.
By 1500 hours, all thirty-seven members of Constellation have confirmed attendance. By 1700 hours, they're all at the regional airport, chattering excitedly around a private charter gate.
The chartered jet is spacious—configured for military transport but comfortable enough for civilian passengers. The thirty-seven fill the cabin with energy and excitement. Some play cards, others watch movies on tablets, a few attempt to sleep but are too wired to manage it.
Maeve, Priya, and Ji-woo sit together near the front, a habit formed from being the first triad, the "Vanguard Core" as they'd named themselves.
The flight is long—nearly seven hours from the Midwest to Honolulu—but it passes quickly in the company of friends. By the time they land at Daniel K. Inouye International Airport, it's 2200 hours local time, and they're exhausted but exhilarated.
The hotel is everything they dreamed: a high-rise resort on Waikiki Beach, with views of Diamond Head and the Pacific Ocean. The lobby is open-air, warm tropical breezes carrying the scent of plumeria flowers.
Check-in is efficient—the Navy has pre-registered everyone. The thirty-seven are distributed across twelve suites, mostly three to a room, maintaining their triad structures.
Maeve, Priya, and Ji-woo get a suite on the fifteenth floor with a balcony overlooking the ocean. They dump their luggage, change into pajamas, and immediately order room service—because after seven hours on a plane, they're starving.
They do exactly that. Twenty minutes later, room service arrives with enough food to feed a small army, and they eat while watching the moonlight shimmer on the Pacific through their balcony doors.
By midnight, they're asleep—three young women in paradise, with six days of sun, surf, and freedom ahead of them.
The morning brings reality in the form of a mandatory meeting. All thirty-seven Constellation members file into a hotel conference room where Commander Marsh and two other Navy officials wait.
The commander looks uncomfortable—like someone who'd rather be anywhere else than delivering a lecture to a group of teenagers on vacation.
Groans ripple through the room. The commander holds up a hand.
Commander Marsh actually smiles.
He distributes information packets with maps, activity suggestions, and emergency contact numbers. Within ten minutes, the meeting is over, and thirty-seven young psychics scatter into the Hawaiian sunshine.
- Diamond Head Crater Hike: Sunrise trek to volcanic summit
- Manoa Falls Trail: Rainforest waterfall hike
- Lanikai Pillbox Hike: Stunning coastal views
- Food Truck Culture: Giovanni's Shrimp, Leonard's Malasadas
- Duke's Waikiki: Barefoot beach bar and live music
- Waikiki Beach: Swimming, surfing, sunbathing
- The Wall - Kuhio Beach: Calm waters, less crowded
- Sunset Luau: Traditional Hawaiian feast and performance
- International Marketplace: Shopping and dining complex
- Nightclub Dancing: 18+ venues with live DJs
Their first stop is Duke's Beach, the famous stretch of sand near the Duke Kahanamoku statue. They arrive in their matching white string bikinis, drawing more than a few appreciative glances.
But within thirty minutes, they realize this beach isn't for them.
They relocate, walking down the beachfront path. The Wall at Kuhio Beach is indeed quieter—a seawall creates a protected lagoon with calmer waters, perfect for wading and relaxing without fighting the surf.
They claim a spot on the sand, spread out their towels, and finally relax.
🌊 BEACH DAY BLISS 🌊
Three girls. Three white bikinis. Three friends finally getting the vacation they deserve.
They spend the afternoon doing exactly that—sunbathing, wading in the calm waters of the lagoon, eating shave ice from a nearby vendor, and engaging in the kind of deep, meandering girl-talk that only happens when you have nowhere to be and nothing to do.
They discuss everything: classes they're taking, boys they may or may not be interested in (verdict: too busy for relationships), their adoptive families, their mysterious origins, and what it means to be human when you're engineered to be more than human.
As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, they finally pack up and head back to the hotel to shower and change for dinner.
That evening, all thirty-seven attend a commercial luau—one of those tourist-friendly events that's nevertheless rooted in genuine Hawaiian culture. There's a traditional imu ceremony where a whole pig is unearthed from an underground oven, followed by a feast of kalua pork, poi, lomi salmon, haupia, and other Hawaiian delicacies.
The performance is spectacular: hula dancers, fire knife dancers, storytelling through movement. The girls watch in fascination, occasionally using their abilities to enhance the experience.
After the luau, they return to the hotel, happy and full and sunburned in that pleasant way that means you've had a perfect beach day.
The next morning, they wake up early—voluntarily, which is unusual for college students on vacation—to hike Diamond Head for sunrise. The trail is challenging: 560 feet of elevation gain, steep stairs, narrow tunnels through the volcanic crater.
But the view from the summit is worth every step.
They stand at the summit of the volcanic crater, watching the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. The entire coastline of Oahu spreads below them, Honolulu gleaming in the early light, the ocean shifting from black to deep blue to turquoise as the sun climbs higher.
They take photos—lots of photos—because some moments deserve to be captured even if you can remember them perfectly.
That evening, a large group of Constellation members hit one of the 18+ nightclubs. They're all given bright orange wristbands marking them as underage—no alcohol service—but they don't care. They're here to dance.
The club is packed, music pounding, lights flashing. Maeve, Priya, and Ji-woo hit the dance floor with a dozen other Constellation members.
Here's where their training shows. All of them had dance instruction as children—part of their development program, meant to build coordination and body awareness. But combined with their psychic abilities, they're extraordinary.
They move in perfect synchronization without planning it, their bodies responding to the music and to each other with preternatural grace. Maeve's precognition means she anticipates every beat change. Priya's telepathy lets her feel the emotional resonance of the music. Ji-woo's spatial awareness means she never collides with anyone, moving through the crowd like water.
Within twenty minutes, other dancers have moved to the edges of the floor, creating a circle around the Constellation members. They've become the entertainment.
They dance for hours, drawing energy from the crowd, from the music, from each other. By the time they stumble back to the hotel at two a.m., they're exhausted but exhilarated.
After two intense days of activities, they opt for a lazy beach afternoon. Back at The Wall, sprawled on their towels in their white bikinis, they're drifting in that pleasant state between wakefulness and sleep when all three phones buzz simultaneously.
Priya checks hers first and sighs heavily.
She types rapidly, asks the AI assistant for a tax estimate, and waits. The response comes back in seconds.
Priya closes her eyes, her telepathy expanding outward like ripples on water. Within moments, she's touched the minds of all thirty-six other Constellation members, transmitting a simple message: Emergency meeting. Hotel conference room. One hour. It's about money.
All thirty-seven gather, still in various states of beach attire, ranging from swimwear with cover-ups to resort casual. The mood is tense.
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room.
The room erupts in discussion. Some are nervous about pushing back against the military. Others are enthusiastically on board. Eventually, they take a vote.
Unanimous. All thirty-seven agree: from now on, they work as paid contractors or they don't work at all.
• Base Fee: $600.00 per job/operation, per person
• Hourly Rate: $25.00 per hour, per person
• Minimum Billing: 2 hours
• Travel Time: Billed at half rate
• Expenses: Reimbursed separately
• Payment Terms: Net 30 days
EFFECTIVE DATE: February 23, 2026
APPROVED BY: All 37 Constellation Members
STATUS: Non-negotiable
That evening, as predicted, Commander Marsh contacts Maeve. His request is simple: the Navy has lost track of submarine activity in the waters around Hawaii. Their sensors are malfunctioning—picking up nothing but noise. Can the girls help locate the submarines?
Maeve listens politely, then delivers the news.
Silence on the other end of the line. Then—
On the mainland, General Winters storms into Commander Marsh's office without knocking, her face red with fury.
General Winters sinks into a chair, the fight draining out of her.
The next afternoon, Maeve's phone buzzes with confirmation: payment approved, proceed with the submarine location mission.
The three girls head to The Wall at Kuhio Beach, still in their white bikinis—because if they're going to do psychic reconnaissance, they might as well get more sun while they're at it.
They wade into the calm waters of the lagoon, join hands forming a triangle, and open their combined consciousness.
Her ability expands outward like sonar, sweeping through the ocean depths. Within seconds, she gets hits.
Priya closes her eyes, her consciousness diving deep, reaching through miles of ocean toward the submarine Ji-woo located. She extends her telepathy like a gentle knock on a door, trying not to intrude but to announce her presence.
The response is immediate and startling—a voice in her mind, male, amused, and completely unguarded.
US SUBMARINER: Hey there, sweetheart. What are you doing in my head?
Priya gasps, surprised both by the instant connection and by the casualness of the greeting.
US SUBMARINER: (laughing) Oh really? Well, that's good. We're testing new stealth technology. It clutters the area with electromagnetic noise so sensors can't penetrate. Looks like it's working.
US SUBMARINER: Compartmentalization, sweetie. It wouldn't be a good test if they knew it was coming. The brass wants to see if the system can fool our own detection networks before we deploy it against hostiles. So why do they have a little girl like you doing this kind of work?
US SUBMARINER: Torpedoes aren't psychic, dear. Hey, are you going to be in Hawaii long? I'd love to meet you in person when we surface.
US SUBMARINER: Spring break? College girl, huh? That's even better. So, Priya—yeah, I caught your name from your thoughts—send me a picture of you.
US SUBMARINER: You just did. As soon as you thought about it, you transmitted it. Damn, girl. You're gorgeous. Now I really need to meet you. And your two friends—you sent their images too. I love those little white string bikinis you're wearing.
Priya's mental shields snap up in alarm as she realizes what happened. Thinking about herself inadvertently transmitted her self-image, and thinking about Maeve and Ji-woo standing next to her transmitted their images too.
But it's too late. Two more voices flood into her consciousness—one with a Russian accent, one with a Chinese accent.
RUSSIAN SUBMARINER: Check out the redhead! Those green eyes, that copper hair, all those freckles—I need to know her. I need to meet her.
CHINESE SUBMARINER: The Korean girl. The one with the perfect skin and the dark eyes. I want that one.
Priya's stomach lurches as she realizes she's accidentally connected to telepaths on all three submarines—American, Russian, and Chinese—and they're all talking to each other like old friends.
US SUBMARINER: We talk all the time. Us psychics have to stick together, you know? Political borders don't mean much when you can communicate mind to mind. Besides, it's boring down here. We chat to pass the time.
RUSSIAN SUBMARINER: So when are we organizing this triple date? I can't wait to be with you.
CHINESE SUBMARINER: You college girls all want the same thing. Don't deny it. We can feel what you're feeling.
And then, horrifyingly, images start flooding into Priya's mind—not from her own thoughts but from theirs. Sexual fantasies, explicit and graphic, involving her and her friends. Three submarine crews full of men who've been underwater for months, projecting their desires directly into her consciousness.
She slams her mental shields closed, severing the connection so abruptly it's like hanging up a phone mid-sentence. She gasps, stumbling backward in the water, and actually spits into the ocean.
DATE: February 24, 2026
VICTIM: Priya (Constellation Triad One)
PERPETRATORS: Submarine psychics (US, Russian, Chinese)
NATURE: Unwanted telepathic sexual imagery projection
STATUS: Reported to Command for disciplinary action
LESSON LEARNED: Better training needed in psychic consent protocols
After showering, filing an official complaint with Commander Marsh (who promises disciplinary action for the submariners), and eating a quiet dinner, the girls decide they need to reclaim their evening.
They return to the nightclub from the previous night, determined to dance until they forget the unpleasant psychic encounter.
And dance they do. For hours, surrounded by friends and music and the pure physical joy of movement, they let the negative experience drain away.
By the time they return to the hotel at three a.m., Priya is smiling again.
The next two days blur together in a perfect montage of vacation activities:
They hike Manoa Falls, getting drenched in the rainforest mist and taking selfies under the cascading waterfall. They devour garlic shrimp from Giovanni's food truck, declaring it the best meal of their lives. They shop at the International Marketplace, buying souvenirs for their families and matching shell bracelets for themselves. They watch surfers at Pipeline, attend another luau, take a sunset catamaran cruise, and dance at two more nightclubs.
They soak up every moment, knowing this week is a gift—a brief escape from the weight of being extraordinary people with extraordinary responsibilities.
The flight home is bittersweet. They're exhausted—bone-deep tired from days of sun, activity, and sensory overload. But they're also happy, tanned, and carrying memories that will last forever.
When they finally stumble back into their mobile homes in the dark, cold Midwest night—what a contrast to Hawaiian warmth!—they barely have energy to drop their suitcases before collapsing into bed.
But before sleep claims them, Priya sends one last telepathic message to Maeve and Ji-woo:
Best. Spring. Break. Ever. I was brown, but with so much sun, now I'm black. I guess I should change my name to Midnight.
Agreed, Maeve responds. With all the sun I'm one giant freckle. Next time, let's skip the psychic harassment from submarine perverts.
Deal, Ji-woo adds. I actually have a tan, for the first time in like forever. Now go to sleep. We have classes tomorrow.
Ugh. Don't remind me, Priya groans. Goodnight, sisters.
Goodnight.
Spring break in paradise. Sun, sand, and submarines.
Three girls in white bikinis saved the day and got paid for it.
They established boundaries, demanded respect, and negotiated fair wages.
They experienced joy and trauma, beauty and ugliness.
They danced until their feet hurt and laughed until their sides ached.
They made memories that will sustain them through whatever comes next.
Because they're not just weapons or tools or government assets.
They're Maeve, Priya, and Ji-woo.
They're students, friends, psychics, and contractors.
They're young women learning to navigate a world that wants to use them
while insisting on being treated like the extraordinary humans they are.
Hawaii was a gift. But the real gift was learning their worth.
And no one—not the Navy, not submarine telepaths, not anyone—
will ever make them forget it again.
ALOHA. MAHALO. A HUI HOU.
(Goodbye. Thank you. Until we meet again.)
"We are bridges between worlds. And sometimes, we're just three friends
trying to survive another semester."
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