Henryk

  “Who is it…?” Adaline spoke, dragging her voice in a musical note. She opened the door, holding a broom in one hand.

  Henryk was there, back turned. She saw his brown jacket first, then the mop of hair.

  “Hey,” Henryk said, offering a short wave without turning around.

  Adaline glanced past him, toward the street.

  “Came alone?” she asked, wearing a smirk like a second skin.

  Henryk nodded, eyes flicking past her shoulder.

  “Is your sister here?” he asked.

  Adaline’s arms curled around herself. Her smile faded, lips pressing together like she wanted to chew on them.

  “She isn’t here…”

  “Oh,” Henryk said, already half-turning. His boots scraped lightly on the concrete step. “Then I’ll just be back later. Sorry for just randomly showing up.”

  “Hey… wait.”

  Her voice caught him mid-turn. He stopped and looked at her again.

  “She seriously just went to the store to get some stuff for dinner tonight,” she said, resting a hand on her chest. “You can come inside. If you need to.”

  Henryk didn’t answer right away. He looked left, then right. The street was quieter than usual. Oddly so. There wasn’t the usual rattle of traffic or city noise humming through the air. Just that stillness, the kind that made your skin itch.

  He wasn’t a creep. He shouldn’t have to think that, but he did.

  His thoughts flashed to his little sisters—eleven and twelve—and the unspoken rule that said you don’t just walk into someone’s house when only the younger sibling’s home.

  But this was Adaline. They knew each other. He’d saved her life. She was seventeen, and he was nineteen. Maybe he was overthinking it. Making it weirder than it needed to be.

  Besides, he wasn’t going down to the basement. And if nothing else, he respected boundaries.

  “How was the trip to Oceana?” Adaline asked as she stepped aside and let him in.

  Henryk shrugged.

  Horrible. A kid died. Isaac died. But he’d be damned if he said that out loud.

  “It was difficult,” he said, voice lower now. He sighed and pressed his fingers into his closed eyelids like he could hold something in.

  Adaline tilted her head. She noticed the apron slung over his shoulder like a sash.

  “You went back to work after just coming back from the mission?”

  Henryk followed her gaze down to his clothes and let out a faint laugh.

  “I haven’t been there in days,” he said. “It’s a miracle Bianca hasn’t gotten rid of me yet. Honestly… it’s a good way to clear your head.”

  “Oh really,” Adaline said. She was behind the counter now, her red skin catching the light that crept in through the windows. The warmth of early October wrapped the room like a half-remembered dream.

  September was closing. Fast.

  His first real month at the Academy. The dream job. The golden ticket. Every other kid back home wanted to be where he was. Some would’ve cut their teeth for the chance.

  And yet all he could think was what a horrible, lonely hellhole it was.

  Henryk continued, his voice low and almost amused. “Yeah, it’s either this or music, and I ain’t in the mood for that.” He gave a tired shrug, like the weight of something heavier than fatigue sat on his shoulders.

  Adaline smirked, leaning on one hip. “So you decided to come over here for a visit, then?”

  Henryk gave a dry chuckle. “Sure. Thought I’d swing by and tell Bea just how amazing a job she’s been doing.”

  Adaline pouted, arms wrapping around herself again, her expression souring in mock offense. “You know Bea isn’t doing all the work.” She lifted her chin, smug as a cat. “I did the programming for the 02 model.”

  That stopped him. Henryk’s eyes widened a touch, and Adaline caught the flicker of surprise. She chuckled, clearly pleased to have stolen his attention.

  He leaned on the edge of the bar, the wood creaking faintly under his forearms. “How’s it holding up, then?”

  Adaline sighed, letting the breath slip out like smoke. “Bea could give you the specifics, but on the bright side, most of it’s ready to be assembled. We’re close.”

  “Deadass,” Henryk muttered, a crooked grin tugging at his lip.

  Adaline held up her hand, almost as if to slow his optimism. “Well… that’s not exactly true,” she said, trailing off as her fingers twisted through the air. “Our father still has some old tech from Mars. So me and Bea figured we’d throw a few of his inventions into the mix—see if they fill in the blanks for the Stargazer. Or maybe even other transformable suits.”

  Henryk nodded along, thoughtful. “Run into anything major?”

  Adaline’s expression dimmed. Her hand reached up to scratch the back of her thick black hair, a tell that something wasn’t going smooth. “Well…”

  That’s when the front door clicked open.

  Both heads snapped toward the sound.

  Bea stood in the doorway, wrapped in a padded coat, scarf tucked around her neck and hair, cheeks flushed red from the cold. She looked like she'd just stepped off a battlefield of wind.

  “Damn, it’s freezing out there… Adaline, help me with the—” She paused mid-sentence when her eyes landed on Henryk. “Groceries,” she finished flatly.

  “Hey, Bea,” Henryk said. “Wanted to stop by. Check out how the Stargazers are coming along.”

  Bea arched an eyebrow, a smirk breaking her frozen lips. “You really couldn’t wait, could you?” She cocked her head. “Adaline, toss the groceries in the fridge for me. I’ll show Henryk.”

  Adaline rolled her eyes, tossing a withering look toward her sister. “You always show Henryk everything. Even the stuff you didn’t do.”

  “Adaline,” Bea said, firm and final.

  Henryk gave Adaline a glance and a passing wave as Bea reached for a wall switch. A soft mechanical click echoed, and the hidden elevator hatch slid open, revealing a metal cage embedded in the wall.

  He followed her inside, the doors hissing shut behind them as Adaline stared daggers through the narrowing gap.

  “What’s her deal?” Henryk asked.

  Bea rolled her eyes. “She’s in her last year of high school. College applications coming up. She’s moody.”

  Henryk’s brow lifted at that. Bea was still watching the elevator doors like she was seeing something behind them that wasn't there. He shook his head, not at her, but at the weight of what wasn’t said.

  “You don’t want your sisters surrounded by the fighting. That it?” he asked.

  The doors clicked open.

  Bea met his gaze with something cold but honest. “Wouldn’t you say the same for yours?”

  They stepped into the garage. The space was dim, shadows stretching across the concrete like fingers. Bea led him to the far wall. Chains hung from the ceiling, thick and rusted. Suspended in the center of them was a block—a massive piece of tech, riddled with dials, wiring, and half-lit numbers that rotated in slow, glitchy loops.

  “What the hell is that?” Henryk asked, voice edged with awe.

  “The thing that got caught up in one of those Witch mechs,” Bea said. Henryk’s eyes widened again, this time not in surprise but recognition.

  She scanned the room, her eyes always moving. “There’s more lying around, but most of it’s already stored at the Sons of Mars hangar. The rest’s going to be built out at The Block.”

  “The Block?” Henryk echoed, brow raised.

  “It’s a science hub,” Bea said, her tone flat like she’d explained it a dozen times before. “A haven for industrialists and their families. They've practically built a whole damn society out there. I could’ve sworn I told you this already.”

  Henryk let out a long breath. “It’s been a rough few days, Bea.” His eyes darkened with exhaustion. “Forgive me if I’m not operating at a hundred percent—shift work followed by night classes’ll do that.”

  Bea fixed him with a deadpan stare. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Henryk.”

  She tilted her head, gears clearly turning. “The shield—you wanted it custom-fitted to mount your father’s evisceration weapon, didn’t you?”

  Henryk nodded, arms crossing.

  “Good to know…” Bea muttered, her gaze drifting to the chain-hung engine block. Her expression shifted—lit up, almost feverishly. “Everything about this Warcasket has to be measured. Weight distribution. Ammunition loadouts. Hell—you even said no lead-based rounds…”

  “Why not?” Henryk quipped, throwing his hands behind his head with a crooked grin. “Lasers are the future.” He cast a sweeping glance across the workshop. “Half the other houses and private corps are still using shell-based firearms. I figured the Martians would be past that.”

  Bea looked at him. Then she laughed—short, breathy, and real.

  Henryk blinked. “What’s so funny?”

  She shook her head and let it go. “Stargazer 01 and 02 both have to be assembled at the Block. The gear we’ve got here? It’s not enough. Can’t process the alloys we need, let alone fabricate them at scale.”

  Henryk nodded, soaking in every word.

  “Honestly,” Bea continued, “assembly’s probably going to be the easy part. We’ll have the materials on-site for both units and—”

  “How close were you able to match the specs?” Henryk cut in, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.

  Bea hesitated. “Transformation functions, based on the simulations…” She took a breath, her eyes dropping to the floor. Henryk rubbed his palms together, like warming them before a fire, watching her with anticipation. “…they should work. In theory.”

  Henryk punched the air with a grin. “I knew it. You’re a damn genius, Bea.”

  Bea shook her head, brushing the compliment off. “Don’t gas me up. Simulations are one thing. These are test types. Bright yellow rollout units. We’ll run trials around the Block, collect enough data to validate the frames before we even think about deployment.”

  “You’re saying the whole thing might not work?” Henryk asked, incredulous.

  “That’s why you pushed for two, right?” Bea said, voice firm. “Henryk, Warcasket construction isn’t plug-and-play. Either one of these might fail. Might melt, detonate, collapse in on itself. Both transformation sequences could break mid-run.”

  “The sims say they work,” Henryk pushed back.

  Bea groaned, rubbing her forehead like his words physically pained her. “God—it’s like talking to a wall. We start with dummies. Then controlled pilots. Then we go back to the academy and rebuild from the ground up, again. How’s that sound?”

  Henryk was already nodding, smiling, until her last words sank in. His smile faltered. “Wait… you’re coming with?”

  Bea exhaled slowly. “Remember what I said about Adaline? Colleges?”

  Henryk nodded, slower now.

  “There’s a strong dance program,” Bea said, almost whispering. “And a good network of engineering firms. Manufacturing too.”

  “Ha. Leaving us already,” Henryk said, smiling, but there was a crack in it. A jagged edge.

  Bea looked down, her feet shifting. “Who knows when the next war breaks out,” she said.

  Henryk’s face went still. His eyes fixed on her.

  Bea’s voice turned quieter, heavier. “The Emperor is a eunuch. When he dies, the Imperial ARC dies with him. No heirs. No successors. The universe will shrink, Henryk. Borders will return. And when that happens—when humanity remembers how small it really is—it’s going to turn violent fast.”

  She looked away again.

  “The Block is neutral territory. Even the Revolutionary Army steers clear. It's for people who want out. Who don’t want to be part of the Empire… or the Houses. Or their ancient, bloodstained games.”

  Henryk stared at her. He drew a long breath, deep and worn. “Do what you have to. For you. For Adaline.”

  Bea’s eyes widened slightly. She turned her back to him, facing the strange mechanical heart suspended in chains.

  “…how did I know it would be you,” she murmured, “out of everyone, that would understand.”

  And as she said those words, the yellow digits on the block engine shifted—casting soft, golden light across their faces, like a slow-burning fuse had just been lit.

  Edward

  “What the fuck do you mean August and Tyson have been gone for weeks?” Edward roared, his voice cracking across the office like a gunshot.

  The walls didn’t seem thick enough to hold it. Outside, the rest of the crew who'd returned from the mission loitered near House Mars—some at class, others slumped on benches or trying to laugh off the blood-soaked week. But inside, behind Edward’s heavy desk, a vein bulged purple across his temple like it was trying to break free of his skull.

  Mateo, Franklin, Wilbur… even Kieren, who still had bandages on his ribs and dried blood on his boots—they’d never seen Edward like this. Not even when the raids turned to slaughters.

  Ty stood close, silent but sharp, watching Edward with the same narrowed gaze Mateo wore. Franklin looked like he might cry at any moment, his lip trembling. Wilbur swallowed hard, like something live and wriggling had gotten lodged in his throat. Only Mateo kept that iron-jawed soldier stillness, though the burn in his eyes said he was just one word from snapping.

  Mateo was the one who broke the silence. “Exactly what Tyson told you. Joseph took August with him. Because of that girl—”

  “Beatrice,” Wilbur corrected, barely above a whisper.

  “Beatrice,” Ty echoed, stepping forward to take over. His voice cut through the air like steel. “Joseph said she had intel on Martian relics. Said it might be a chance to recover something lost.”

  Edward’s face shifted. Eyes wide, lips curling. “You mean to tell me… he went into deep space?” His voice dropped, like gravity pulling it toward the floor. “Just the two of them?”

  Tyson gave a slow, bitter nod.

  Edward leaned forward, knuckles whitening against the desk. “Fucking idiot… he should’ve waited. Or not gone at all.” He hissed through his teeth, eyes flicking back and forth like he was solving a war in his head. “I can’t take more time off from the academy. Not just classes, but… everything with Gerald… and—” He stopped, breath catching like he’d swallowed glass. “I’ll pay mercs. A few survey teams to sweep the zone. Maybe they’re marooned. Maybe they’re—Jesus Christ, it’s been over a week.”

  The room turned colder. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly.

  What was meant to be a short recon had turned into a missing persons case. And Edward—Edward now stood to lose not one Knight, but three. The weight of that pressed down on him like a dying star.

  Joseph. August. Issac.

  Three of his best. All gone. Their Spikes unharvested. Their legacies, dust.

  Vinnie would’ve executed him for this kind of incompetence. Would’ve used a hot blade and a public square.

  Some king you are. Everyone around you dies, and you’re the one left standing. What does that make you?

  “Issac is dead.”

  The words fell like an axe.

  A silence spread out, slow and full of thorns. Mateo blinked. His mouth moved before he could stop it. “W-what?”

  Edward raised his head. His face was stone, his eyes bloodshot. Mateo’s expression twisted in disbelief and fury. It wasn’t just shock—it was betrayal. Franklin let out a wet gasp and started crying, eyes scrunched like a child’s. Edward hated how surprised he was by that. They’d known Issac. Fought beside him. Laughed with him. That should hurt.

  Edward couldn’t cry.

  The Spikes had taken that part of him. Hollowed out the soft places and replaced them with steel. But guilt? That still stuck to his ribs like tar. Sticky, black, and never leaving.

  Issac used to call them all mortals, even the squires. Like he still remembered what that meant.

  Edward felt his hand drift toward his chest. His fingers clawed, digging at the uniform like he might find something underneath—something real.

  Mateo’s eyes widened, catching the strange gesture, but Edward forced it down, like swallowing bile. He waved them off.

  “Tell the others,” Edward said, voice low, hoarse. “If you need anything… you know how to reach me.”

  And with that, he sank into his chair. A man made smaller by the throne he chose to sit on.

  Mateo looked over to Ty, a wordless glance passed between them. They understood.

  Franklin and Wilbur turned, boots heavy, breath quiet, making for the door.

  But—

  “That’s it?” Mateo’s voice cut through the tension like a blade pressed too deep.

  “I’m going myself,” Edward muttered, more to the floor than to them. “Or I’ll hire mercs. Someone has to figure out what the hell happened to Joseph and August.”

  His eyes widened, as if a ghost had just passed through him, and he clutched at his face with a trembling hand. “Joseph… Jesus, man. You said you were a lieutenant in the Revolutionary Army. How the fuck did you—?”

  Mateo didn’t catch the slip.

  But Ty did. His head snapped up—those beastlike ears of his twitching, every inch of him suddenly alert. A low tension buzzed between them, invisible but real, like something buried deep just got pulled to the surface.

  Edward noticed too late. He locked eyes with Ty—and paled. A cold sweat bloomed along his brow. He should’ve kept his damn mouth shut.

  His stare shifted to Mateo, now burning. “You lot. Leave me,” Edward said, rubbing his temples like he could squeeze out the sleeplessness. “I haven’t rested in days. And now you’re telling me we’ve lost another one of the few real fighters we’ve got…”

  “Well, maybe if you actually took us on real missions, we’d be real fighters,” Mateo shot back, his voice a hammer swung with purpose. His fists had begun to clench, slowly and deliberately, as if preparing for more than just words.

  Edward clocked the movement. His eyes flicked to Mateo, then to Ty. He didn’t need to be reminded—Ty might not be as augmented or twisted by mutation, but he was Warcasket-trained and dangerous in close quarters. A knife in the dark. A bomb in a hallway.

  Then Ed looked to Wilbur and Franklin—both pale, both silent—and back to Mateo. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Mateo—!” Franklin blurted, eyes wide.

  “Oh hush,” Ty said dryly, like he’d heard worse in a graveyard.

  Edward leaned back, the fatigue pulling at his face. “Yeah. You all came from the Midworlds. Didn’t have much experience back then. But if Issac, August, and Joseph are gone… I can’t even imagine what Axel, Arthur, and Henryk are dealing with right now.”

  He let the silence hang for a beat before continuing. “Before? You’d have all been tossed out. Even Ty. But things have changed. The fall of Mars changed everything.”

  He drew a long, bitter breath.

  “Next mission—you’re dropping with us.”

  Wilbur and Franklin nearly collapsed under the weight of those words. The anxiety rolled off them in waves, Wilbur’s teeth practically chattering loud enough to echo.

  But Mateo?

  He smiled.

  Hands clasped behind his back, eyes calm, the grin of a soldier who’d waited for this moment. Or maybe hoped for it.

  “Easy, easy,” Edward said, waving a hand to the two panicking squires. “I’m not talking about Oceana-level shit. I mean it.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “I’ll let you in on a secret. We’re heading to the Block. Couple weeks from now.”

  That froze the air.

  Everyone’s eyes popped open at once.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “H-huh? Why?” Ty asked, speaking what they all were thinking.

  Edward exhaled. “We’ve got Martian contacts in the Block. Now that you serve House Mars—you serve them too.”

  “Of course,” Wilbur said from the side, his voice barely audible.

  Mateo’s sigh came hard and sharp. “Trust me, we all read the fine print before we signed up with House Mars.”

  Edward continued, not missing a beat. “Two reasons. First, Henryk’s developing a new type of Warcasket. He wants to test it. And we’ve got a few Martian prototypes that Bea—”

  “Beatrice,” Ty corrected, raising a finger like a professor scolding a student.

  Edward shot him a glare, face tight with disdain. “Bea,” he said, deliberately skipping the full name. He waved his hand, brushing Ty’s interruption aside. “We don’t have the space or facilities here to run real tests. But the Block’s different.”

  He looked at them, expression unreadable. “Second reason: the Block’s a spectacle. Always has been.”

  “Free stations,” Franklin breathed. “Independent from the Emperor’s leash. Everyone wants that dream.”

  Mateo rolled her eyes. “More like the Empire lets them have it—for now.”

  Edward’s mouth twisted. “I’d like to see Neptune pull some wild stunt while the whole fucking galaxy’s watching. Hell, maybe even the Emperor himself, if we’re lucky.”

  The chuckle that followed wasn’t amused. It was dry. Bitter. Franklin, Wilbur, and even Mateo flinched at the sound of it, as if something wrong sat beneath the laugh.

  Then Edward's face turned sour again, pulled back to the weight of the moment. “Maelia—she’s the heir to the sector now. Planning to speak publicly about what Neptune’s doing. War crimes. Atrocities.”

  “You think anyone’ll listen?” Mateo asked, folding her arms.

  Edward sighed. “I hope so. The universe hasn’t been kind to Martians lately. But Maelia’s a politician through and through. She may not be fully human… but there’s something else about her too. Something I can’t name yet.”

  They all tilted their heads, confused.

  Edward chuckled faintly, and shook his head.

  “Just a hunch,” he said. “Just an inclination.”

  Marcus

  “They’re assigning us to the Block?” asked Marcus, pacing behind Ernest and Margaret. The corridor around them buzzed faintly with the hum of life support systems and the soft hiss of compressed air—zero-g made the motion feel like they were gliding, not walking.

  Margaret wore a smile that could’ve lit up the entire shuttle bay. Wide, infectious, and full of the kind of cheer Marcus wasn’t sure he trusted this far from home.

  Ernest didn’t bother turning around. His voice was low, like he was talking more to the walls than the two of them. “Piper’s meeting us there.”

  Marcus frowned. He glanced at Margaret, then back to Ernest. “Wait, for real?”

  Margaret clapped her hands, her laughter bouncing off the bulkheads like soft chimes. “Just a couple more weeks and her suspension’s over.” She closed her eyes, riding the thrill of it. “I can’t wait to get my best friend back.”

  Marcus chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “No kidding. Half the academy’s been begging to be put in their place lately.”

  They rounded the corner just as Marcus caught sight of something massive through the side viewport. The Pippard III—the namesake mobile suit of Piper herself—stood like a sleeping beast in the transport bay hangar, lined up with a dozen others like iron titans awaiting war. Bulky frames, weapons loaded and magnet-locked along their chassis. Bazookas, beam rifles, sniper cannons. No more worries about fuel efficiency or energy cores. Everything was overcharged and overbuilt. Just like the Martians liked it.

  And then, in the blink of an eye, peace shattered.

  A pulse of light. No explosion from within the ship—but outside? A propellant tank flared white-hot, blossoming in the void like a sunlit wound. The window didn’t crack, but it quivered—enough for them to feel it.

  “The hell was that?” Margaret hissed.

  Ernest’s lip curled. “Who the hell’s running ops right now?” he growled, stalking forward. “Zahira’s still on the bridge. If one of her escorts got winged, she’s going to eat someone alive.”

  “I’m more worried about us getting cooked,” muttered Marcus, rubbing the back of his neck. They pushed forward, crowding with the others at the reinforced viewing panel, peering into the chaos unfolding outside.

  “Who’s fighting? Enemy fire?” someone behind them asked.

  “No alarms. Can’t be that close,” another voice answered, uncertain.

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Those are Iman’s colors.”

  Marcus squinted. The matte black armor of the Pippard III streaked across the void like a ghost. But the mono-eye—normally violet—was flaring crimson. Her mobile suit moved like a creature unchained, burning through ammo like oxygen, twisting in a series of brutal spins and breakneck strafes.

  “Wait—she’s still in that mood?” Margaret added, exasperated.

  Iman didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her machine surged forward, diving in a sharp arc, pirouetting through a haze of tracer rounds and explosive flak. The window shook again as she passed by in a blur of pale blue light. A near-miss from a bazooka shell painted the hull with fire.

  “Someone radio her!” Margaret barked, stepping back from the crowd. “Tell her to take this psychotic ballet somewhere else before she clips a fuel line!”

  She crossed her arms, visibly disgusted. “And to think Zephyr and the Mercurians promoted her. Commander of the 34th? Gods help us.” She scoffed, turning on her heel.

  But Marcus stayed.

  His eyes were locked to the window, watching Iman’s machine rip through space like it was made of paper. Each movement was surgical—no wasted steps, no hesitation. There was something furious in her stillness. Even as the machine danced, Iman’s face, visible for just a flash through the cockpit cam, remained stone-cold. A pilot on fire, and yet completely untouched by it.

  Then he felt it. A tug. Not strong, just insistent. Like a child reaching for a parent.

  Marcus turned.

  Margaret was staring back at him. Her eyes were big and round and soft, brown like warm tea, like the calm before a storm.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Margaret, her tone clipped, but her feet didn’t move right away.

  Marcus lingered, casting one last glance at the window. Outside, Iman’s Pippard wasn’t just fighting—she was waging her own private war.

  Her machine—no, her beast—had been gutted and rebuilt. It wasn’t even officially classified as a standard Pippard III anymore. The engineers had started calling it something else: the Pippard III Rapid Movement Type.

  The original was already a walking bunker, but Iman’s suit had been hardened even further. Reinforced plating wrapped her calves like iron shackles; extra thrusters and rocket pods bristled from her heels and ankles like something out of a fever dream. There was no subtlety to it—only power.

  Then the first wave hit.

  Missiles screamed in, and she raised her shield. The impact lit up the void like a dying star. A thunderclap of flame and smoke rolled outward, swallowing her whole. But before the others could even register the kill, she dropped below the smoke, silent as a shadow, beam rifle already locked and sighted on the next target.

  Inside her cockpit, Iman felt the pressure build against her skull like fingers pressing in from all sides. That sixth sense—a breathless anticipation of motion and malice—buzzed along her spine.

  She moved.

  Her thrusters flared, screaming blue fire, as she twisted and dove with a speed the human eye couldn’t track. The missiles followed, and machine gun tracers stitched the space around her like angry, flaming needles. One of them even fired off elbow-mounted rockets, but Iman blurred past, barely leaving a ripple behind her.

  The black of her suit swallowed stars.

  She ducked and rose, jinked and twisted, every thrust slamming her body with pressure like a jackhammer to the chest. Her teeth gritted as she kicked out, launching forward with both legs. “I... I can go faster,” she growled, voice shaking with adrenaline. Her hand yanked the throttle, slamming it to the red line.

  The rockets under her flared again, but this time the sound changed—sharper, angrier. The air hissed inside her cockpit as she shot skyward, a feral grin splitting her lips. An explosion erupted behind her, catching the flank of her mech and wreathing her silhouette in smoke and fire.

  From the blaze, another Pippard came charging through—guns blazing. Its machine gun cut a swath of fire through the haze, while two others spread wide to give covering fire. One was trying to jam a fresh clip into a bazooka.

  Then Iman struck back.

  A lone violet beam pierced the smoke—cutting through it like a scalpel. The laser cracked against one mech’s shield, glancing off, but another struck home, hitting the rocket launcher dead center.

  “Purging!” a woman screamed through comms. Her voice barely audible over the deafening boom that rocked the void.

  The mech twisted away just in time—but the explosion caught her side. The bazooka was vaporized, and the blast ripped open chunks of her armor. Sparks burst across her frame.

  “Cassie!” cried another pilot nearby—her voice shrill with panic. Her suit turned sharply, plates glowing from heat exposure.

  “I’m fine...!” Cassie snapped back, though her voice quivered on the last syllable. The fire in her HUD flickered. Her temple pounded, her ears rang like struck bells.

  Then, out of the smoke—Iman returned.

  Spinning like a wraith, she tore back into view. That same unnatural calm was painted on her face. Behind her, purple bolts stitched through space, chasing a new target: a Warcasket unit weaving to stay ahead of her shots.

  “This one’s circling,” muttered the other pilot beside Cassie.

  “Here,” the Warcasket pilot said calmly.

  Cassie’s console flared. A new weapon feed appeared—a beam rifle. She grabbed it, fingers locking around the controls. “Thank you, Tavian.”

  Tavian offered a rare, sheepish smile. “F-For training, this is really starting to feel a little too real…”

  Cassie ran a hand through her sweat-slick hair, wincing as her head throbbed again. The blast had rattled her. Her pulse pounded in her jaw and temples like war drums. But still, she steadied her breath, raised her rifle.

  Both women paused.

  And then—“Ladies! Can I get a little help here, please?” came a frantic, high-pitched voice through their comms—cracked with static, panicked and pleading.

  Both girls snapped their heads toward the source of the scream.

  Iman was inside the fray now, cackling like a banshee. Jordan barely managed to raise his shield in time, the beam rifle rounds slamming against it like a jackhammer against a tin wall. The impact nearly ripped the shield from his grip.

  She didn’t let up.

  The laughter echoing from Iman’s cockpit was low and rich, like someone savoring violence the way others might savor a fine wine. Her face was split by a painted smile, eyes wide and hungry. Her beam rifle spat energy as she advanced—until it hissed dry. That was when she swapped. One fluid motion. Her submachine gun snapped up in the other hand and began raking fire in a torrent of blazing steel.

  She burst through the smoke in front of Jordan like a demon stepping out of hell.

  “Cassie—Tavian!” he screamed, voice raw and red. The sound was so guttural, so choked with panic and blood-pressure that everyone in the control room jerked to attention. For a moment, they weren’t sure if this was a drill—or if they were watching someone die for real. If Jordan was acting, he deserved an award.

  Inside his cockpit, all Jordan could see was the looming, cyclopean eye of Iman’s mobile suit—the burning crimson orb staring into him, not at him. Sweat poured down his back, beading across his lip. He tasted it—sour, electric.

  Then the kick came.

  Iman’s foot smashed against his shield with a clang that rattled teeth. The servos in Jordan’s arm groaned, metal whining like a dying animal. His HUD blinked warnings in red.

  “Shield integrity—down seventy-nine percent!” he yelled. “You’ve got to be fucking—”

  But there wasn’t even time to curse.

  The next kick came—worse. Iman cocked her leg, twisted her body with the grace of a dancer, and engaged every thruster. Blue fire burst from her limbs. Her mobile suit spun like a black hurricane, accelerating mid-kick into a full spiraling assault. It was less a move and more a force of nature—controlled chaos in plated steel.

  “Come on! This the best you fucking got? Show me, pussy!” she howled, laughter howling through her cockpit. It wasn’t just aggression. It was manic joy. Like the fight was a drug and she’d finally hit her high.

  “She’s toying with him,” muttered Marcus, watching from the observation window. The blue and purple flashes from rifle fire and muzzle bursts danced across his face like warpaint. Beside him stood Ernest and Margaret, silent witnesses to a one-woman storm.

  Ernest scoffed and folded his arms. “I hate it when Iman gets in one of her moods. They’re rare, sure. But when they come? You don’t want to be the poor bastard she drags into a training session.”

  Margaret sneered, lips curled in disgust. “She’s a goddamn lunatic. No wonder she and Piper are always at each other’s throats.”

  Marcus and Ernest both turned to look at her, but Margaret didn’t flinch. Her arms were folded tightly over her chest. Her eyes didn’t leave Iman’s suit—locked on it like she expected the woman to burst through the glass.

  “She’s not training,” Margaret said. Her voice dropped, calm and flinty. “Look at her. We just got these mobile suits. We’re not even supposed to train near the ships. And now she’s out there throwing a temper tantrum over some boy. I don’t even like Henryk that much, but every damn time Piper’s involved…”

  “Ay,” Marcus cut in sharply, voice low and warning. “Be careful. You know Iman can hear you.”

  Margaret’s gaze narrowed into a glare. “She’s not here.”

  Marcus didn’t break eye contact. “You’d be surprised the kind of shit Henryk and her can pull.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “Sometimes… I forget how loyal you are to your friends.”

  “Is that really such a bad thing?” Marcus asked, not blinking.

  “Not entirely,” Margaret murmured. And she meant it. There had always been conversations like this—women warning men about the company they keep. Some listened. Some didn’t. Margaret knew, deep in her gut, which camp Marcus belonged to. And it wasn’t the one that ever listened.

  Back in the chaos, Jordan had had enough.

  He dropped his SMG, letting it tumble, forgotten, as he reached to his side and drew his beam blade. It hummed to life—a clean, brilliant blue, the kind used in simulations and drills.

  “Iman! Training blade! TRAINING BLADE!” he shouted, his voice breaking as his screen flared with warning glyphs.

  Every set of eyes in the control room snapped to the feed.

  Iman’s blade didn’t burn blue.

  It burned purple.

  And everyone knew that meant one thing: live heat.

  Her beam saber was longer, the hilt more pronounced, designed for something different. A stub arm mounted on her back worked the weapon into her free hand, the mechanical motion smooth, almost instinctual. The SMG dropped from her grip like an afterthought.

  The weapon snapped to life, a violent shudder of energy bursting from both hilts. A radiant purple glow—unforgiving, unyielding. The blades ignited with an unnatural hum, their tips crackling and vibrating with the promise of destruction. The two weapons—saber and cross—locked together with a clang that resounded in every crevice of the battlefield.

  “Come on, fight me!” Iman’s voice crackled through the radio, shrill and filled with malice. Her words cut through the static like a knife through flesh, and the feed was immediately coated in sparks, an electric hiss escaping from the distorted transmission.

  Jordan’s heart slammed against his chest, his grip tightening around his own beam saber. His eyes widened in disbelief. The fear crept in—not from instinct, but from something deeper, something primal. This shouldn't be possible. He shouldn’t be hearing Iman’s voice, distorted, chopped into fragments, yet—there it was. That cackling—that twisted, unhinged sound.

  The air around them seemed to crackle as if the world itself couldn’t bear the madness.

  Instinctively, Jordan swung his beam saber in an overhead slash, the blade cutting through the air with a resounding hiss. The weapon met its mark—slicing through Iman’s beam rifle hand at the shoulder. Sparks flew, and Iman grunted, retreating with a violent burst of thruster fire. She twisted and drew her rifle, the barrel flaring with energy as she began to unload.

  Purple laser bolts raced through the air in rapid succession, carving paths through the void of space. Jordan, barely managing to hold onto his sanity, turned on his heels and fled. His thrusters roared, propelling him forward with every ounce of energy he could muster. But as he glanced behind him, his stomach dropped. Iman was right there, right behind him, pushing her rockets to their absolute limit. Her chase was relentless. Unstoppable.

  “I-Iman! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Jordan howled, his voice high and raw, a strangled cry that echoed across the open expanse.

  Cassie and Tavian, watching from afar, stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what they were witnessing. The chase, the madness—it was something more than just training. It felt like real war.

  “Good! Good!” Iman roared through the comms, her voice wild with elation. “Fight me, more! Show me what you’ve got!” She was laughing now, her voice tinged with sadistic delight. “Oh, you’re going to be good!” Her words came in a taunting growl.

  Jordan and Iman were weaving between the transports, dodging around the flagship like two predators in a deadly game. Every move was a blur, a cacophony of shrieking thrusters and blinding laser fire.

  Marcus, gritting his teeth, watched in disbelief from the observation window. His hand instinctively gripped the controls of the ship, steering it erratically as he tried to make sense of the chaos.

  “This is getting out of control,” he muttered under his breath. His heart pounded, his thoughts racing. He knew the captains of the ships, from the smallest transports to the flagship commanders, had to be wondering the same thing: What the hell is going on?

  Just then, Cassie and Tavian's Warcaskets shot past, diving into the fray with the precision of hunters tracking their prey.

  “We need a plan!” Tavian’s voice crackled through the comms, tight with urgency.

  “That was plan C!” Cassie shot back, her voice tinged with frustration.

  “Then we need a plan D!” Tavian barked.

  Cassie bit her lip, the sharp taste of blood flooding her mouth. Sweat trickled down both girls’ brows, their bodies tense with the weight of the moment. “Fine. Here’s the plan…” Her gaze flicked toward the scene unfolding below them. “We’ll cut her off from the side.”

  She drew her beam blade, the weapon humming with lethal intent. “We’ll hack her with the blades,” she continued, her voice growing colder, harder. “Sorry, Commander. But if you’re not going to follow the training protocols... then why the hell should we?”

  Tavian mirrored her, drawing her own blade, the violet glow casting a stark contrast against the darkness of space. The two women’s war machines were a blur of motion as they descended toward the chaos below.

  Jordan, now frantic, saw the reinforcements—Cassie and Tavian were coming. They’d close the distance, they’d pin Iman down. No more running. No more chasing.

  Iman wouldn’t be able to get away.

  The plan was simple: close quarters. Pin her down.

  But Jordan knew something they didn’t. The action—the idea—was important, sure. But Iman? She was a force of nature.

  Jordan whipped around on his thrusters, the velocity of the turn tearing at his insides. He brought his beam blade up, the blade humming in the vacuum of space. The two weapons collided again, a violent clash, the sound of crackling energy filling the void. Their sabers locked in a brutal contest, their movements nothing but a blur of thrusters and fury.

  Jordan broke the lock first, twisting his wrist and slamming the throttle forward. His engines screamed as they fired to life, pushing him hard against the pull of Iman’s momentum.

  Iman felt the jolt, a primal thrill surging through her. Her mind’s eye sharpened. She snickered, a playful, almost mocking sound. “...That could’ve got me,” she said, the words dripping with dark amusement. Her fingers danced over the controls, slamming the button to her thrusters.

  In an instant, her mobile suit roared to life, engines flaring like a beast unleashed. Plumes of flame erupted from every direction, setting the emptiness of space alight with their intensity.

  Jordan, now fully committed, poured every last bit of power into his engines. He grinned—this was where the fun began. He shot forward, slamming into Iman with all the force of a comet. The momentum, the speed—it was all coming together. But he was too fast, too eager.

  That was his mistake.

  Iman saw it coming a split second before he did. She had learned him, knew him better than anyone, even herself. And as the distance closed, she prepared to make her move.

  The impact was sickening, a deafening collision that rocked the very foundations of their war machines. Jordan’s Warcasket crashed into Tavian’s, Iman’s reinforced leg—her left leg—crashing into the head of Tavian’s mech with bone-shattering force. The world around Tavian went black, not from the disorienting impact, but because her suit’s power flickered out.

  But the pain didn’t stop her. It never did. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself through the darkness as she was flung downward, gravity taking hold of her like a vice.

  Iman, outside the chaos, slammed the button to power up her engines again. Her mobile suit—using Tavian’s broken machine as leverage—pushed forward, shoving Jordan downward.

  “Jordan!” Cassie screamed into the comms, but Jordan didn’t hear her. His world was consumed by the roar of Iman’s thrusters and the cold, unrelenting pressure of her attack.

  “I-Iman, chill, fucking chill!” Jordan screamed, but there was no mercy in Iman’s eyes. All he could see were the sparks of their beam blades locking, the vicious arc of light flaring as her movements became a blur of deadly intent.

  Iman, smiling like a predator with its prey, drew her blade back in one smooth motion. The overhead chop came down, fast, slicing through Jordan’s Warcasket like butter. His legs—both—were severed at the knees, the sparks flying like fireworks in the dead of night.

  “I-is this about the time... we had that celebratory dinner?” Jordan’s voice trembled with panic, the words coming out in gasps. “I didn’t pay you for the burger, I’m sorry, Iman! You know I’m broke... I’m sorry, chill... chill!” His panic seeped through every word, desperation heavy in his tone.

  Iman’s grin only widened. She lifted her blade with malevolent precision, the weapon humming with hunger.

  Jordan’s heart pounded in his chest. What had he done? All these years fighting beside Iman, he never expected this—this level of fury.

  Cassie’s scream echoed through the comms, but even as she cried out, Iman was faster. She whipped around, launching her leg into a brutal kick. The momentum was too much, and in a flash, Cassie and Jordan were sent spinning, trapped in a deadly whirl.

  “We’ve got to be smart about this,” Cassie spat, her eyes never leaving Iman’s form. The cold, black silhouette of the enemy was more terrifying than any weapon.

  Jordan nodded, but it was too late.

  Iman was already a blur. Her beam blade reared back. Before Jordan could even react, the beam shot forward, cutting through the space between them. The energy struck him directly in the head, the force enough to send his suit spiraling, drifting, his consciousness flashing white.

  “C-Christ, all that... for that?!” Jordan shouted into the void as his Warcasket was left drifting in the cold emptiness of space, his suit’s systems failing.

  Cassie, her chest heaving with anxiety, whipped around, her gaze locking onto Iman’s form. Her hands tightened around her beam blade, her fingers digging into the hilt as she leveled the weapon.

  “...Come at me, monster,” she hissed, her voice raw and defiant. The world seemed to stop. The stars stretched out before her, an endless void of nothingness. And in the middle of it all, there was only Iman.

  Iman didn’t speak. She powered on her engines, and Cassie’s breath caught in her throat. Every muscle in her body tensed, the instinct to fight roaring to the surface.

  Cassie planted her feet, but she couldn’t prepare herself for what happened next. Iman’s mobile suit launched into the air, spinning with the grace of a storm, and Cassie had no choice but to watch as Iman’s figure blurred. The next thing she knew, Iman was headed straight for the hanger, leaving Cassie to process the wreckage in the distance.

  “What the hell...?” Cassie snarked, her heart still pounding as she stared at the shattered remains of Tavian and Jordan’s suits. Her magnification settings kicked in, and she could see them—both of them—emerging from the wreckage, their emergency releases coming online.

  Cassie’s console blinked to life. A single, urgent message flashed on the screen. She squinted at it. Her pulse quickened.

  “I-Iman?” Cassie’s voice came through, laced with disbelief. “Is this some kind of trick?”

  “No,” Iman’s voice cut through the static, sharp, with an edge of annoyance—an irritation Cassie didn’t realize Iman could even have. “We’re done with the training for the day.”

  “Training?” Cassie’s laugh was bitter, a jagged thing that scraped at the inside of her chest. “That was fucking traumatic.”

  Iman’s silence echoed back over the comms, but Cassie could almost hear the exhale of breath, the sound of frustration being bottled up. “Quit being dramatic,” Iman’s voice came through, dismissive. “No one got hurt. No one got killed. Pack your stuff up and head back to base... You’re lucky I don’t have Marcus or—”

  “Marcus and what?” Cassie shot back, her voice rising, a hard edge cutting through. “Throw us through the fucking wringer again?”

  Her fingers gripped the controls with white knuckles, her body tense, simmering with that anger that came only when things were going off the rails.

  Cassie growled, her voice suddenly quieter, more dangerous. “You know what, Iman,” she said, her lips trembling into an uneasy smirk, followed by a low chuckle that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know exactly why you’re like this. What, your little boy toy didn’t like you back or something? We’ve been hearing rumors, and…”

  Iman’s eyes snapped wide within the cockpit. The familiar, painful sting of past memories shot through her chest. A flash of something darker, sharper, flickered across her face. She snapped her rifle up in one fluid motion, the action so quick it was like a reflex.

  She couldn’t even hear the words anymore. Just the roar of her pulse, the cold, the emptiness of space—too familiar now. She didn’t think. She just moved.

  In one motion, she drew her rifle, aiming it towards Cassie’s mobile suit with terrifying precision. The shot rang out—a searing blast of energy cutting through the cold space.

  Cassie didn’t see it coming. The blast hit her head-on with the force of a sledgehammer, the impact instant, unyielding. Her suit shuddered under the force. There was no time for a scream—only the violent shock of the hit. Before she could even react, her emergency ejection system activated.

  The escape mechanism hurled her from the cockpit, sending her spiraling into the blackness of space. Her body jerked violently, arms and legs splayed outward as she was flung into the void. She screamed, a raw sound that echoed through the silence, the terror taking hold of her. But there was no pain. No injury.

  She tumbled, her body spinning unevenly through the cosmos

  Iman came floating into the hangar like a ghost, the roar of cheers rising around her like smoke.

  Her mobile suit locked into place with a hiss of magnetic clamps. Steel arms retracted from the hull with the grace of a thousand other landings. Applause chased her down, echoing off steel and polyglass.

  “That was beautiful, Commander!”

  “Like a goddamn textbook!”

  She heard them all. Saw their bright faces, waving hands, their eyes lit up like she was a hero. But her own mouth was flat, her eyes scanning not for praise, but for someone else entirely.

  She hated him, but all she could think about was him. Even if the chances were one-percent. To see his face pop up from within the crowd.

  Except maybe not. Maybe she wanted to see him. Maybe she wanted to scream in his face, or laugh at him, or fall into him and sob until her ribs cracked. Maybe she just wanted to look at him and confirm he still looked away.

  Her cockpit hissed open. She dropped from the seat with a practiced kick, not bothering to acknowledge the crowd.

  No waves. No smiles. No nods.

  She peeled her helmet off, hair spilling out in frizzy black coils, clumped and damp from sweat. Two pigtails, still. She hadn’t cut them. Henryk once told her they made her look like a fighter pilot from some old cartoon. “Fierce,” he said. She hated remembering that.

  Brendan was already there. Of course he was. One hand held a towel. The other, a water bottle. Loyal. Predictable. Good soldier.

  “Commander!” he beamed. “Holy shit, that was flawless. Straight-up poetry. I mean, I don’t think even the Warden expected you to come out of that dive—”

  She snatched both items mid-sentence. Kept walking.

  “Seriously though,” Brendan called after her, tone dimming. “You might wanna prep for debrief. Command didn’t clear a live engagement, so—”

  She was already gone.

  Down the corridor. Past the lockers. Past the bunks. Didn’t take the elevator. She couldn’t do people now.

  She took the maintenance stairs, the ones that stank of rust and burnt coolant.

  Her quarters were a box. Half-a-coffin. One bunk. One ancient datapad with a cracked corner. A duffel bag with a broken zipper. She kicked the door shut with her heel and dropped her gear in the dark.

  Didn’t turn on the light.

  Didn’t unlace her boots.

  She unzipped her flight suit to the waist and let it hang around her hips, the sweat cooling fast in the room’s recycled air. Then she fell backward onto the bed, arms flung out like she’d just been shot.

  Half the blackout curtain was peeled open. Just enough to let the stars through.

  Once, they were a comfort. The stars meant escape. Possibility. Proof that there was always more.

  Now? They just looked cold.

  And somewhere in that frozen field of speckled black was him.

  Tears stung her eyes again.

  Not loud ones. Not the kind you sob out into a friend’s shoulder. These were silent. Hot. Bitter. She buried her face into her pillow and bit the fabric.

  She hadn’t even cried like this when her cousin got vaporized during the Dome evacuations. She hadn’t wept when they pulled six of her squad out of the wreckage on Triton. But here she was—crying over a boy.

  Over Henryk.

  Her father would crucify her if he knew. Her father the accountant. The devout. The man who corrected her surahs even when she got them mostly right. He would call her impure. Would say she’d shamed the whole line.

  Or maybe he’d try to kill Henryk.

  But Henryk would kill him first.

  A Space Knight in name and deed. Her father had soft hands and prayer beads. Henryk had blood under his nails and a stare that went through walls.

  And it wasn’t even like she did anything that bad. Not by Western standards. They hadn’t kissed. Hell, they barely talked.

  She just danced with him.

  Grinded on him at a party. Pressed up against him like she was in some sleazy music vid.

  And then he left.

  Didn’t even say goodbye. She saved his life from the Witches of Jupiter and he didn’t even leave a message. Not a single word.

  Just gone.

  Now he was at the Academy. On his new path. With her.

  Piper.

  God, Piper.

  Big-titted curly redhead with a jawline like a riot shield and the personality of a broken coffee machine. All swagger and no soul. Always wearing those undersized uniform tops, acting like gravity didn’t apply to her.

  Iman hated her. Hated her stupid Martian drawl. Hated the way she laughed like she’d never seen someone get spaced.

  She hated that she noticed.

  She hated the bounce in Piper’s step.

  Hated how sometimes she wanted to yank Piper by her stupid collar and ask her what kind of lip gloss she used.

  God, she hated her.

  She wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not so messy. Not so selfish. She was supposed to be righteous. A warrior. A sister in faith and steel. Instead she got butterflies when tall boys played guitar and smiled without knowing.

  Henryk played one stupid song and stole the party and she was gone.

  And now she was stuck.

  Because in her culture, in her mind, in her bones—she gave something. And once you give that kind of thing, you don’t take it back.

  She was his now.

  Even if he didn’t want her.

  Even if he picked Piper.

  Even if she’d rather throw herself out the airlock than admit it.

  She hadn't prayed in days. Not since Marcus told her. Every time she tried, her lips stopped moving. Like something in her soul recoiled from the words. Like the sky itself knew she was wrong now.

  To everyone else, it was nothing. A dumb party. A weird little dance. But to her?

  It was everything.

  And now?

  Now she was caught between two worlds. Two desires. And it was tearing her apart.

  She curled tighter on the bed, tears drying against her skin, and let the stars keep watching.