Dr. Wagner's secret garage was a cathedral of engineering and nostalgia. Rows of polished machines gleamed under cold fluorescent lights a Porsche 911 Carrera RS, 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback, Jaguar E-Type, Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing, and a Ferrari 250 GTO. Each one gutted and reborn under Wagner's hands, their original engines replaced by roaring prototypes of his own design experimental power cores, plasma injection systems, and hybrid Blackmore reactors miniaturized to fit inside the frames of classic legends.
At the center of the garage stood his current obsession a sleek, angular machine bearing the emblem of Erevos Motors, an exclusive Evolto City brand. The car's nameplate read: Erevos Valken-12R, a prototype designed to channel Blackmore energy through a quantum drive engine.
As Dr. Wagner worked beneath the open hood, humming softly to himself, the sound of "Lili Marleen" an old German wartime song filled the garage. The melody echoed against the metal walls, low and melancholic, mixing with the rhythmic clatter of tools.
Then —
FWOOM.
A burst of air and a ripple of distortion tore through the far end of the garage. Wagner froze, a wrench still in hand. The lights flickered as a rift cracked open in the empty space, its edges glowing with unstable energy. A small spaceship, compact and battle-worn, pushed through reality and landed with a metallic thud.
Wagner's eyes narrowed. He reached for a canister on his workbench marked with hazard sigils and labeled "VX-Neurogas: Prototype-09." He tapped a concealed stud on his sleeve, and in an instant, his figure shimmered and vanished fully invisible to the naked eye, to heat sensors, and even to motion scanners.
Silently, he approached the craft. Steam hissed from its sides as the cockpit glass slowly lifted open.
Inside sat a figure tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a WWII-style Russian gas mask, though this one was made of brushed tungsten alloy instead of rubber. Tubes ran from the mouthpiece to a cylindrical oxygen tank on his back. The rest of the suit was sleek, metallic, a polished exo-frame clearly meant for combat.
To most outsiders, it would look impossibly advanced a masterpiece of engineering. But to Wagner, he recognized the design language immediately. A miniaturized Exo-Guard, one of his own friend creations specifically, the Exo-Guard Armor Model "Prometheus-Type X9."
The figure looked around. Then, reaching up, he gripped the side of his mask. The upper portion retracted in mechanical segments until only the breathing unit remained over his mouth.
And when the man lifted it off
Dr. Wagner's eyes widened.
"…Misha!? Mein Freund?!"
He deactivated his cloaking instantly, reappearing right beside the pilot.
The man flinched hard, nearly leaping out of the cockpit.
"Блядь!"he shouted in shock, then switched to rapid-fire Russian,
"Святые угли, Дитрих! Я чуть не получил сердечный приступ!"
("Holy embers, Dietrich! I nearly had a heart attack!")
Misha climbed out of the cockpit, his boots clanging against the metal floor. The exo-suit hissed as the pressure valves released, small jets of steam venting from his shoulders. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Dr. Wagner in a crushing bear hug.
Wagner, caught off guard, let out a muffled grunt, "Ach, Misha! Careful, you'll crack my ribs, you oaf!"
Misha only laughed a deep, joyous sound that filled the entire garage. His words rolled out in rapid Russian,
"Ты даже не представляешь, как я скучал по тебе, брат мой!"
("You have no idea how much I missed you, my brother!")
The MTD in Wagner's pocket flickered alive, auto-translating Misha's Russian in real-time through a soft digital voice. Wagner smiled despite himself, patting Misha on the back with a gloved hand.
"I missed you too, mein Bruder. I thought you were—"
"—Dead?" Misha interrupted, grinning beneath the half-mask. "Ха! Not yet, Dietrich. It takes more than an imploding reactor and three orbital cannons to kill me."
Wagner gave a small chuckle, still shaking his head in disbelief. "You are still the same reckless bastard."
Misha's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "И ты всё тот же зануда, старый лис."
("And you're still the same old grumpy fox.")
Before Wagner could retort, Misha suddenly grabbed his arm. "Come, come! You must see this!"
"Wait— Misha, what are you—"
But the Russian was already dragging him toward the rear of the small ship like an overexcited child showing off a new toy. The craft was bristling with weapon mounts and experimental drives clearly not standard Evolto City tech.
Misha slammed his armored fist against a hidden side panel with a metallic clang. The panel refused at first, then burst open with a puff of hydraulic mist. Inside, faint golden light pulsed like a captured sun.
Dr. Wagner squinted and leaned closer and his breath caught in his throat. Floating in a magnetic field was a miniature Dyson sphere, perfectly formed, a swirling core of contained stellar energy rotating within its own micro-orbit.
"Mein Gott…" he whispered, eyes wide. "That… that is not possible. You've constructed a micro-stellar containment field? In a fighter this small?"
Misha grinned, slapping the side of the craft proudly.
"Мой товарищ," he said, voice thick with excitement. "Это Николь-Дайсон луч."
("My comrade, this is the Nicoll-Dyson Beam.")
Wagner's expression shifted from disbelief to fascination. "A beam weapon using a miniature Dyson engine as its power source… You're telling me you fitted two of these on the ship?"
Misha nodded, smirking. "Да! Оба! Both sides. I call them the twin suns of damnation!"
Wagner rubbed his temples, torn between admiration and exasperation. "Of course you did… of course. Only you, Mikhail Dragunov, would turn a scientific miracle into a glorified cannon."
Misha laughed so hard the echo bounced off the garage walls. "Эй! Что за учёный, если не можешь стрелять солнцем, да?"
("Hey! What kind of scientist are you if you can't shoot the sun, eh?")
Dr. Wagner crossed his arms, still studying the shimmering Dyson chamber. "It's… beautiful. Dangerous. But beautiful," he murmured. Then, as curiosity inevitably got the better of him, his gaze shifted toward the ship's hull. "Tell me, Misha, what exactly powers this abomination of yours?"
Misha's grin stretched impossibly wider the kind of grin that meant something utterly insane was about to follow. "Ах! Рад, что спросил!" ("Ah! I'm glad you asked!") he said, clapping his hands together.
He strutted toward the rear of the craft, boots echoing with heavy clunks. The twin thrusters began to separate as he approached, panels sliding aside like opening wings. Internal mechanisms hummed, revealing a hidden core bathed in radiant golden light.
Misha spread his arms theatrically, practically shouting,
"Та-даааа!" ("TADA!")
Dr. Wagner blinked, momentarily speechless. Suspended inside a containment cradle was an unmistakable artifact a crystalline, flame-shaped object pulsing with living energy.
The Matrix of Leadership.
"Mein Gott…" Wagner whispered, stepping closer in disbelief. "That… that cannot be what I think it is."
Misha nodded eagerly, tapping the containment glass. "Да! Матрица лидерства! The Matrix of Leadership! Took it right out of Primus's dead chest!"
That made Wagner freeze mid-step. He turned slowly, eyebrows furrowed.
"…Primus?" he repeated, voice skeptical. "Not Optimus Prime, but Primus himself?"
"Да-да! Definitely Primus!" Misha said proudly, placing his hands on his hips. "Whole planet was falling apart, I crawled through molten metal, laser storms, angry ghost robots and there it was! Just floating there in the core of Cybertron, still glowing like Christmas morning!"
Wagner pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, "Scheiße…" Then louder: "Misha, that makes no sense! If Primus is truly dead, then the Matrix would not hold power its energy is directly tied to him! It should not even exist!"
Misha just shrugged with a lopsided grin.
"Ну… tell that to the glowing relic currently powering my ship, comrade scientist!"
He rapped on the side of the ship with his knuckles CLANG CLANG! and the engines flared to life, burning with celestial-blue fire.
The entire garage trembled from the pulse.
Wagner stumbled back slightly, eyes wide as readings from his suit flooded with impossible data. "Those energy signature that's soul energy! You idiot you're running a warship on the soul of a god!"
Misha just laughed, arms crossed proudly.
"Ага! And she purrs like a kitten!"
Wagner threw up his hands, half horrified and half impressed.
"Gott im Himmel, you are insane! This… this is blasphemy! Magnificent, beautiful blasphemy!"
Misha grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Мы не боги, Дитрих. Мы просто инженеры."
("We're not gods, Dietrich. We're just engineers and scientists.")
And Wagner despite the sheer impossibility of it all couldn't help but laugh.
The ship's engines powered down, the golden glow of the Matrix dimming to a steady pulse. Misha ran a hand along the hull, humming contentedly like a proud mechanic admiring his work. Dr. Wagner, meanwhile, was still shaking his head, muttering half-German expletives under his breath.
"Running a God's soul as a power core…" he grumbled. "Only you, Mikhail. Only you."
Misha just laughed, slapping him on the back. "Эй, кто-то должен думать нестандартно, да?" ("Hey, someone has to think outside the box, eh?")
They walked down the ramp together, the echo of their boots fading into the hum of the garage. Sparks still flickered from half-finished engines, and the scent of oil and ozone filled the air.
Wagner stretched, glancing at the clock on the wall late, or early, depending on one's perspective. He sighed, then smirked.
"Komm, Misha," he said, turning toward the exit. "Let's get out of this damn lab. How about the Rusted Halo? I could use a drink. Whiskey's on me."
Misha threw his head back and laughed a booming, infectious sound that seemed to shake the walls more than the engines ever could.
"Ха-ха-ха! Конечно, конечно!" he said between chuckles. "But I'll have vodka, thank you very much! I still don't understand why you drink that… what do you call it… whiskey? Too sweet for an alcoholic drink!"
Wagner rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ja, ja, I know. You Russians think anything that doesn't burn a hole through your throat is 'too sweet.'"
Misha smirked, crossing his arms. "Потому что мы пьем как настоящие мужчины, Дитрих!" ("Because we drink like real men, Dietrich!")
Wagner chuckled, tapping the side of his head. "And yet, I'm still the one who remembers the next morning."
"Потому что ты старик!" ("Because you're an old man!")
They both laughed, stepping out into the night air of Evolto City neon lights flickering off wet pavement, the distant hum of people walking . Two old soldiers of science, heading toward the Rusted Halo, a place where machines, mercenaries, and misfits alike gathered to drink away the chaos of the multiverse.
As they walked, Misha glanced at Wagner and said, quieter now, "It's good to see you again, comrade. I thought our paths would never cross again."
Wagner smiled faintly, pulling out his cigarette case. "Heh, neither did I… but fate seems to enjoy my misery." He flicked the lighter, a small flame dancing between them. "Come on, before I change my mind."
Misha grinned, bumping his shoulder. "Только если они подают ледяную водку." ("Only if they serve vodka cold.")
"Always the barbarian," Wagner muttered fondly as they disappeared into the neon glow.
◇◇◇
The air inside the massive chamber thrummed with mechanical resonance. Endless rows of Exo-Guards towering figures of armored perfection stood shoulder to shoulder, a sea of black steel and glowing eyes that filled the hall from one end to the other. The ground trembled faintly beneath their synchronized breathing systems, the hum of reactors pulsing like a living heartbeat.
The Crucible Hall was one of Evolto City's oldest assembly sites, large enough to fit a mountain and tonight, it was full to the brim. From the lowest-ranked trainees to decorated veterans clad in ornate Exo-Guard armor, all stood in formation, motionless, waiting.
At the center of the colossal space stood a raised platform and on it, their supreme commanding officer:
Metallurge Kaldren Voss, High Marshal of the Exo-Guard Legions.
His armor was unlike the rest forged from shimmering Voidsteel with intricate Dendrite runes running across the plating. Two massive conduits along his spine glowed faintly, feeding into the black-forged hammer resting on his back the symbol of the Metallurge.
His voice, when it came, boomed through the hall like rolling thunder, projected through the comm-channels of every suit present.
"Brothers and sisters of the Guard…" he began, his tone steady but carrying weight. "I have received direct transmission from Lord Zalthorion Veilstryx himself."
Every visor flickered, every reactor dimmed to standby. The sound of mechanical breathing fell silent a million warriors listening in unison.
Kaldren paused for a heartbeat, then continued.
"Evolto City stands on the edge of storm once more. A danger approaches something that even Lord Veilstryx deems worthy of full mobilization. The Citadel Command has issued orders: effective immediately, production of Titans and Jaegers will increase tenfold."
Even the stoic veterans shifted slightly at that.
But then Kaldren's next words lit the fire.
"And by decree of Zalthorion himself…" he said, raising his hammer toward the vaulted ceiling, his armor's eyes blazing bright gold.
"Production of the Mobile Suits… is to be restarted."
For a heartbeat, silence and then the hall erupted.
A wall of sound cheers, shouts, metallic stomps echoing off the steel. The sheer volume shook the chamber. Some Exo-Guards raised their arms; others slammed their gauntlets against their chests in salute.
They had all heard the legends stories of the Mobile Suits that once soared across galaxies, the machines that fought beside Titans during the first Evolto city Defense Wars. Tales passed down from veterans long gone, and recordings so ancient they bordered on myth.
Metallurge Voss chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through his helm's vox. He let the cheers go on for a moment longer before raising his hammer high once more.
"Enough!" he commanded, and the crowd instantly fell silent discipline returning.
"I understand your excitement," he said, his tone softer now, but still commanding. "I share it. I, too, grew up hearing of the Mobile Suits their elegance, their power, the warriors who bonded with them as extensions of their very souls. But know this—"
He paced across the stage, the heavy steps of his armor echoing like drumbeats.
"—Not every one of you will earn the right to pilot one."
Murmurs rippled through the ranks, but no one dared to interrupt.
"My logistics division and I have reviewed every service record, every neural synchronization report, every combat performance log. Selection will be automatic."
He raised one massive gauntlet, and the lights in the hall dimmed. Only the glowing eyes of a million Exo-Guards illuminated the darkness.
"When your suits light up," he said, his voice echoing like a vow, "you have been chosen to undergo Mobile Suit training. Those who are not chosen your duty remains no less vital. You are the shield of Evolto City, the first and last line of defense."
And as if responding to his words, some of the Exo-Guards' visors flared to life with bright gold light a chosen few, scattered among the endless sea of warriors.
A low, awed murmur rippled through the ranks. Some stared at their glowing armor in disbelief. Others clenched their fists, pride swelling in their cores.
Kaldren Voss looked out at them, satisfaction flickering across his scarred face beneath the helm.
"Prepare yourselves," he said solemnly. "The age of steel and soul… returns."
The entire hall saluted a synchronized movement so thunderous that it echoed through the foundations of Evolto City.