The path ahead was clear.

  Tex’s next stop: the Armory.

  Havoc’s domain.

  He typed in her old override code. No resistance. The door opened with a reluctant hiss, servos groaning like they hadn’t been cycled in decades.

  The space inside was vast—vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, gantries arched overhead like rusted ribs. At the center, a massive circular platform dominated the chamber, surrounded by rails spiraling upward toward the Ark’s highest decks.

  At the top: a sealed blast door.

  At the center: Havoc.

  The ancient bomber morph sat hunched over, cradling a rusted bomb in her lap like a sacred relic. Her oversized hands—pitted, scorched, and worn to bare alloy—moved slowly over the casing with a cloth, polishing it in reverent silence.

  Her nose glass was cracked. Yellow optics flickered on as he entered, casting twin beams like searchlights.

  Tex braced himself.

  Then came the voice—slow, warm, and impossibly gentle.

  “There you are… I was wondering when you'd stop by for tea.”

  She didn’t rise. Just kept polishing.

  “Looking for munitions?” she asked, tilting her head toward a line of decommissioned bombs. “Some of my babies are still live… but most are quiet now.”

  She nodded, almost sagely.

  “I’m sure Helga knows what’s best.”

  Tex scanned the racks. Most were inert. A few… definitely weren’t.

  “You’ve changed,” he said carefully. “You alright? How long’s it been since you flew a mission?”

  She looked up, her optics flickering like a VHS tape struggling to track.

  “How long has it been?” she repeated, more to herself. “Five… maybe six years?”

  She smiled softly. Her plating creaked with the effort.

  “Not often someone stops by to visit.”

  Tex slowly approached, settling onto the platform across from her. She loomed over him even seated, massive and rusted, like a monument waiting for time to catch up.

  It felt wrong. She shouldn’t be left to fade like this.

  “Havoc… when they made you… what was it like?”

  She chuckled—low and dusty. A puff of grit escaped her tired vents.

  “I was just a girl back then,” she said. “Worked on the bomber lines. Lost my legs in an accident. Soldiers showed up with papers. Said I’d still be of use. Next thing I knew, I woke up like this.”

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  She tapped her chest. The metal rang dull.

  “Summer of ’44. Or maybe ’43. The years all bleed together now.”

  She glanced down at the bomb in her lap, running a hand across its casing like a memory.

  “We were trying to hold Britain. The Bloc crossed at Pas-de-Calais. Landed a few weeks after I was commissioned. Every flight was a gamble.”

  Her smile faded.

  “We were fighting Trotsky’s dream. So we did our part.”

  She paused.

  “It was Manchester—’46—when we started using the dirty stuff. I remember how cold it was. The Reds would chase our bombers up until they froze and dropped like stones.”

  Her voice dropped lower.

  “Hard days. But we flew them anyway.”

  Tex watched the way she held the bomb—not like a weapon.

  Like a headstone.

  “They called us angels of judgment,” she said. “But I always thought we were ravens. Black wings. Loud mouths. Always circling the dead.”

  She thumbed over the faded yield stencil.

  “Never thought I’d live long enough to polish this instead of drop it.”

  Tex leaned forward.

  “Do you regret it?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Just rotated the bomb gently. It groaned like a coffin lid.

  “You don’t regret breathing,” she said. “Even when it hurts.”

  She sagged slightly.

  “This world isn’t meant for people like me, Tex… It’s your world now. I just hope you do better than we did.”

  She looked up at him, her optics shining like two small suns in her weathered face.

  “You’re the inheritors of a war that let hate win. And no one wins in war.”

  A pause.

  “I have one request.”

  Tex’s voice softened. “Anything.”

  She looked toward the ceiling. Toward the sealed blast door.

  “I want to see the sun. Just one last time.”

  Tex blinked.

  She couldn’t mean it.

  “Havoc—”

  “Susan,” she interrupted gently. “Susan Durant. That’s who I was.”

  For a moment, Tex didn’t see a morph.

  He saw a woman.

  She clutched the bomb tighter. Then slowly rose, walked to the racks, and placed her keepsake down with care. She picked up a larger one. This one armed.

  Tex scanned it.

  Two thousand pounds. If it detonated, it’d rip a hole straight through the Ark.

  “You’re serious,” he said.

  “Never been more,” she said, “but first… tea.”

  Her bomb bay hissed open. Steam rose. Mechanical arms unfolded and poured two cups of chamomile with ritual grace.

  She held one out.

  “Please. One last cup.”

  Tex took it, sat beside her, and drank.

  It was ancient. Weak. Chemically inert.

  But the scent still stirred something warm.

  She sipped hers slowly, both hands around the cup.

  “I joined the Ark in ’54. Ran raids up the coast. We were based in Penobscot before America annexed Canada.”

  She sighed.

  “Penobscot was lovely. I remember the fishing boats. Lights on the water. It felt… alive.”

  Tex said nothing. Just listened.

  “We used to drop dirty bombs to stop the Bloc—nukes, cobalt, neutron shells. Block their advance. Funnel them. It worked for a time.”

  She tapped her cup.

  “Then they hardened their forces. Sent in AI. So we upped the dose. Poisoned the land. Until it started to poison us, too.”

  Her voice dimmed.

  “By the time we hit the Midwest, we couldn’t feed ourselves. The Entente began to starve.”

  Another breath.

  “We hit the Bloc’s breadbaskets next. Cobalt strikes. It was desperate. Brutal. Didn’t even matter who starved first anymore.”

  Tex watched her carefully.

  “Then the command bases went dark. Silent. And when the orders came back… they weren’t human.”

  She set her cup down.

  “Just coordinates. Just numbers. No logic. Just fire.”

  She looked up again.

  “I can’t do it anymore.”

  Tex didn’t speak. He just nodded.

  “Then let’s go.”

  They moved to the lift.

  Tex keyed her access code. Denied.

  His jaw clenched.

  She had been locked in here. Forgotten. Left to rust.

  He punched the panel, tore it open, and hotwired the controls. The platform shuddered, then began its slow rise toward the ceiling.

  Each creak echoed like a prayer through the towering spiral.

  At the top, the blast door hissed open.

  Sunlight spilled in. Pale. Cold.

  But real.

  It painted the chamber gold, catching on rust and steel like stained glass.

  Susan stepped onto the launch deck.

  She looked up. Quiet. Centered.

  The bomb was still in her arms.

  She turned to him, optics glinting.

  “Thank you, Tex. For listening. For remembering. For letting me choose.”

  Her voice cracked.

  Then she turned.

  And walked off the edge.

  No scream.

  No explosion.

  Just the sun catching her one last time.

  And then she was gone.