The planet looked dead from orbit.
Not "no life" dead—worked-to-bone dead. A brown-gray industrial basin where old refineries had bled the soil dry, where scrapyards sprawled like tumors around the bones of abandoned factories. Dust storms rolled across the flats in slow sheets, catching the sun and turning everything the color of old ash.
Lyra brought the Union down on a clean vector, engines throttled careful. The DropShip's shadow slid over rusted conveyor lines and collapsed gantries, over a grid of cracked service roads that led toward the salvage house's target: an old depot complex half-swallowed by slag berms and broken machinery.
"Touching down two klicks south of the depot," Lyra said, voice calm in everyone's ears. "Wind's ugly. Visibility will get worse once you start moving. Keep your lanes tight."
In the mech bay, Dack stood in the harsh white lights between steel giants, suited up in his black pilot bodysuit—tight, functional, with scuffs at the knees and forearms from living in machines. Lean frame, average face, the kind you forgot if you weren't looking for it—until his eyes went hard and you realized he was measuring you like terrain.
Jinx bounced on her heels in her own kit—black tank, gym shorts, red jacket thrown on like she'd stolen it from a soldier who didn't deserve it. She flipped her long dirty-blonde hair over one shoulder and winked bright blue eyes at Taila like this was a field trip instead of a war zone.
Taila stood close to Dack's side in her black halter top and long black combat leggings with red stripes, hands clasped behind her back like she was trying to look calmer than she felt. Dark hair pulled back, cheeks already warm from the bay heat and the way Jinx kept glancing at her like she was a snack. Her eyes tracked the mechs—always the mechs—like she needed them to make sense of everything else.
Morrigan lingered near the bay bulkhead in her gothic black dress, arms crossed and expression sharp, a glare for everyone and everything. Even in a DropShip she looked like she belonged in moonlight, not fluorescent steel. She watched the lance prep with a kind of hungry irritation that never quite turned into begging.
And behind them, just off to the side, the Calder twins hovered with their tool packs and grease-streaked hands—Rook and Rafe—both young, both built from hard work rather than gym mirrors, hair tied back practical, faces smudged from the last frantic refit. They'd clipped Moonjaw's patch onto their packs where it could be seen without becoming a billboard. Not uniform. Not yet. But it was there.
Jinx noticed immediately.
"Look at that," she said, delighted, pointing with two fingers like she was presenting them to an audience. "Patch is showing."
Rafe's mouth twitched. Rook didn't react much, but her hand brushed the patch once, instinctive. Together, they looked like a single creature with two bodies—standing too close, moving too similarly, eyes cutting in the same direction when a sound changed.
Lyra's voice came through again. "Ramp in sixty seconds. Dack, you'll have line-of-sight to the depot if you crest the slag berm. Jinx, right flank. Taila, left. Don't chase into the ruins."
Dack climbed the ladder into the Dire Wolf without ceremony and sealed in. The cockpit wrapped around him. HUD bloom. Familiar hum. The machine's presence settled like a heavy coat.
Jinx did the same with her Highlander, cheerful even as she locked herself into a coffin of armor and gyros.
Taila climbed into her Griffin and sealed the hatch with a steady hand.
The bay lights dimmed to "combat" as the ramp began to open.
Dust rolled in.
The world waited.
---
The depot was worse up close.
A field of broken industry—collapsed conveyor bridges spanning shallow pits, rusted cranes frozen mid-lift, stacks of container husks welded into makeshift walls. The salvage house's "reclaimed components" were somewhere inside the complex, marked by old transponders and a legal claim that didn't mean much to the people squatting here.
The first thing Dack saw on sensors wasn't a mech.
It was movement—small heat signatures darting between scrap piles.
"Infantry," Lyra said. "Spotters. They're tagging you."
Jinx's laugh crackled over comms. "Let them watch."
A light mech flickered on Dack's sensors a second later—fast, low signature, cutting across the ruins like a rat.
"Flea," Taila said, voice tight. "Scout."
The Flea didn't engage. It just looked at them—then vanished behind a slag mound.
Dack didn't chase.
He walked the Dire Wolf forward, heavy feet compressing ash and gravel, and took the high line along the berm like Lyra suggested. The old conveyor skeletons gave him intermittent cover. The depot spread out beneath him like a trap diagram.
And then the trap showed its teeth.
A missile swarm arced up from behind the depot's container wall—high, indirect, disciplined.
"Missile boat," Lyra said instantly. "Heavy."
Jinx's tone sharpened. "That's not raider amateur hour."
The missiles came down in a tight pattern that tried to bracket Dack's approach—forcing him to either back off the high line or push into a lane with limited cover.
Dack answered with his own LRMs, controlled salvos that raked the container wall where the missiles originated—not to kill what he couldn't see, but to force movement and reveal outlines.
A silhouette shifted behind the wall.
Boxy shoulders. Wide stance.
"Catapult," Lyra confirmed. "Heavy. Indirect fire. It's anchoring the rear."
Before Dack could reposition, a second heavy stepped out from behind a collapsed crane: long, angular, predatory lines.
"Marauder," Taila breathed.
It didn't rush. It stalked—moving like it understood range and angles, like it expected Dack to make a mistake.
Then the assault mech appeared deeper in the complex, framed by broken silos like a monument.
Broad torso. Thick legs. Heavy arm mounts.
"Awesome," Lyra said, and her voice tightened for the first time. "Assault. That's the commander."
And on the right side, where the terrain opened into a scrap yard lane, something heavier than it should've been stepped into view, heat shimmering around it.
"Warhammer," Jinx said, pleased like she'd just found a worthy opponent.
Four enemy machines.
Moonjaw had three.
The depot suddenly felt less like a job and more like a test.
"Hold lanes," Dack said. Flat. "We don't split."
Jinx's Highlander shifted right, using a broken conveyor support as partial cover. Taila's Griffin moved left, keeping to the slag piles where she could duck in and out without getting caught in the Catapult's rain.
The Catapult fired again. Missiles screamed overhead.
Dack let them come. He adjusted, took the hits where armor was thick, and returned fire with a gauss shot that punched into the container wall near the Catapult's position—sending metal shards flying and forcing it to reposition.
The Marauder answered with a long-range strike that burned armor off the Dire Wolf's torso.
Jinx cackled. "Ohhh, he's got hands."
Taila's voice came tight. "They're trying to pin us."
"They are," Lyra said. "And they're smart enough to do it without charging."
Dack's sensors flicked—movement on the left flank again.
The Flea reappeared, sprinting through a lane Taila was watching, trying to draw her out.
Taila didn't move.
She waited until it committed, then fired a single PPC shot that lit the dust like lightning and made the Flea stumble hard, armor flaring.
Her LRMs followed a heartbeat later—just enough to make the scout break off and disappear again, limping.
"Good," Dack said. "Stay disciplined."
The Warhammer shifted right, trying to pressure Jinx's lane and force her off cover.
Jinx leaned into it instead.
She fired her gauss rifle once—clean, heavy recoil rocking her Highlander—striking the Warhammer's shoulder plating and making it twist. Then she followed with a missile burst that forced it to backstep.
"You want a brawl?" she asked cheerfully. "Come closer."
The Warhammer didn't oblige. It fired back, long-range energy chewing at Jinx's armor while the Catapult's missiles started walking toward her lane to force her out.
Lyra cut in fast. "Jinx, you're getting bracketed. Shift three meters left—use the crane foot as cover."
Jinx actually listened. She moved, begrudging but smart, letting the heavy crane base eat the worst of the incoming missiles.
The Marauder pressed forward again, clearly trying to duel Dack—drag him into a straight fight while the Catapult and Awesome controlled the grid.
Dack didn't give it what it wanted.
He pivoted the Dire Wolf slightly, using a broken conveyor support to break the Marauder's line for half a second, then fired LRMs at the Catapult again—forcing it to reposition, messing with the missile cadence.
"Taila," he said. "Keep eyes on the Marauder's feet. Don't let it own the lane."
Taila's Griffin shifted, careful, keeping to cover and taking shots only when they mattered.
The Awesome finally fired.
The impact wasn't just heat—it was authority. Heavy energy strikes that carved into the slag berm near Dack, forcing him to choose: stay high and take punishment, or drop into the depot's maze.
Dack chose neither.
He moved laterally along the berm, keeping elevation but changing angle, forcing the Awesome to adjust its aim while his own sensors mapped the depot interior.
Then Lyra's voice snapped in—sharp, urgent.
"Dack. Restricted salvage crates are inside the central depot hall. I'm seeing heat signatures around them that don't match engines. That's a trap cluster. Don't shoot the hall."
Jinx groaned. "So we can't just level the place."
"No," Lyra said. "Not if you want the cargo intact. Not if you want this contract to look clean."
From the Union's bay cameras, Rook and Rafe had been watching too—heads tilted the same way, as if listening to the depot through Lyra's sensor feed.
Rafe's voice came in quietly over the internal channel. "Those heat spikes—"
Rook finished, "—are conduit charges."
Rafe: "If the hall takes—"
Rook: "—heavy impact—"
Rafe: "You get a chain—"
Rook: "—cookoff."
Lyra's eyes narrowed on her screen. "How sure."
Rook's answer was calm. "Yes."
Rafe's voice softened. "We've seen that rigging."
Dack didn't ask where. He didn't need to.
He just adjusted the plan.
"Jinx," he said. "We break the Catapult's position. Taila, you keep the Marauder honest. I'll pull the Awesome's attention."
Jinx laughed once, thrilled. "Now we're talking."
The Dire Wolf stepped off the berm and dropped into the depot's edge lanes, heavy feet crushing rusted sheet metal. Dust exploded around it. The Awesome's aim snapped toward him immediately.
Good.
Dack fired a gauss shot at the Warhammer—not to kill it, but to force it to turn and expose a side to Jinx. The Warhammer reacted, shifting its torso, trying to keep both threats in view.
Jinx took the opening and punished it—gauss shot into exposed plating, then missiles to follow.
The Warhammer staggered, armor peeling.
The Catapult fired again, trying to save its brawler with missile rain.
Dack answered with LRMs at the Catapult's missile racks—forcing it to duck deeper behind cover, breaking its line-of-sight rhythm.
"Taila," Dack said, voice flat. "Marauder's trying to box us."
Taila's Griffin shifted left to deny the Marauder a clean push into the hall lane. She fired a PPC shot that struck the Marauder's leg plating—just enough to make it adjust and slow its stride.
The Marauder answered with a long-range strike that clipped Taila's shoulder, making her Griffin rock.
Taila's breath hitched. She didn't panic. She backed into cover and held.
Jinx's voice softened for a fraction. "You good?"
Taila's reply was tight. "Yes."
Dack watched the Marauder's movement. It wasn't raider sloppy. It used cover correctly. It kept its distance when it needed to, pushed when it sensed weakness.
Whoever was in that cockpit was good.
The Marauder stepped forward again, testing Taila's lane.
Dack's voice cut clean through comms. "We need one intact."
Jinx paused. "What."
"We need a chassis," Dack said. "For later."
Jinx's grin returned, wicked. "For our goth gremlin?"
Morrigan was listening from the Union. Everyone knew it.
There was no response from her. But the silence carried heat.
Taila's voice came careful. "Capture… which."
Dack watched the board and chose. "Marauder."
Jinx made a pleased noise. "Oh, that's a nice one."
Lyra cut in, calm but edged. "If you try to capture it, you don't chase it into the hall. Keep it outside the trap zone."
Dack answered once. "Copy."
He shifted the Dire Wolf's position subtly, presenting the Marauder with a lane that looked like opportunity—a lane that would pull it away from the hall and closer to Taila's controlled angle.
The Marauder took it.
It stepped into the open lane between two collapsed conveyors, intent on bringing its weapons to bear on Dack.
Taila was waiting.
She fired a PPC shot directly into the Marauder's left leg assembly—bright, violent, precise.
Jinx followed with a gauss shot that hammered the Marauder's right leg plating.
The Marauder stumbled, gyro fighting.
Dack fired LRMs—not at the torso, not at the cockpit—but at the Marauder's legs again, stripping armor and forcing it to slow further.
The Marauder tried to retreat, realized too late that retreating meant crossing Taila's lane.
Taila fired again—another PPC strike that made the Marauder's left leg buckle.
The heavy machine dropped hard to one knee, then toppled sideways into the dust with a grinding crash that shook the depot's metal skeletons.
The pilot didn't punch out immediately.
Good pilots didn't like giving up.
But the Marauder was down, and the Dire Wolf was walking toward it like the end of an argument.
Dack didn't rush the kill.
He spoke over external speakers, voice flat enough to feel in the bones. "Shut down. Eject."
The Marauder's torso twitched like it wanted to aim anyway.
Jinx's Highlander stepped into view on the right flank, gauss barrel leveled at the Marauder's torso.
Taila held left, PPC charged, steady.
The Marauder stopped moving.
A heartbeat later, the cockpit hatch blew.
The pilot ejected.
A dark figure arced up on a plume, then dropped under chute into the depot's shadow, disappearing between scrap piles.
Dack didn't chase the pilot.
He didn't care about the pilot.
He cared about the machine.
"Secure it," he said.
Lyra's voice snapped. "The rest aren't done."
She was right.
The Awesome and Catapult were still alive, still dangerous. The Warhammer was damaged but not dead.
And now the enemy knew Moonjaw wanted salvage.
The Catapult repositioned again, sending missiles downrange toward the downed Marauder—trying to finish their own asset rather than let Moonjaw have it.
Dack pivoted and fired LRMs at the missile stream's origin, forcing the Catapult to flinch and break cadence. Jinx punished the Warhammer again when it tried to cover the Catapult's move.
Taila, lane discipline iron, kept her Griffin positioned between the Catapult's line and the downed Marauder.
The Awesome stepped forward, heavy and relentless, trying to push Moonjaw off the salvage.
Dack answered it the only way he could—by being a bigger wall.
He took the Awesome's fire on thick armor and returned controlled shots that forced the assault mech to keep adjusting. He didn't need to kill it quickly. He needed to keep it busy while Lyra guided them through the hall objective.
"Cargo transponder is inside the hall," Lyra said. "You need to get eyes on it. Not shoot it."
Jinx sounded irritated. "So we walk in like polite thieves."
"Like contractors," Lyra corrected.
Dack shifted the Dire Wolf forward into a lane that gave him partial cover from the hall's outer wall. Jinx held right, pressuring the Warhammer and preventing it from flanking. Taila moved left, using slag berms to approach the hall entrance without crossing the trap line.
Inside the hall, broken machinery formed a maze. The air smelled like old oil and dust. The transponder pinged faintly through layers of metal.
Lyra's voice guided Taila in. "Two meters left. There—don't step near that conduit cluster. It's rigged."
Rook's voice came through again, calm and synced with her sister. "That line—"
Rafe finished, "—is bait."
Taila swallowed. "How do you know."
Rook's answer was flat. "We've seen it."
Taila didn't ask more.
She moved carefully, Griffin's heavy feet placed with deliberate precision, until her sensors locked onto the marked crate cluster—actuator bundles and sealed guidance packages.
"Found it," Taila said.
"Copy," Dack replied. "Hold position."
Outside, the Catapult tried again to bracket the hall entrance with missile rain. Dack fired LRMs to disrupt and Jinx punished the Warhammer when it stepped out to cover the Catapult's reposition.
The Warhammer finally gave ground, armor smoking.
The Awesome, realizing its plan was failing—Marauder down, Warhammer pressured, Catapult disrupted—did what an assault commander did.
It tried to withdraw.
Not a rout. A controlled pullback into the deeper ruins where Moonjaw would have to chase or let it go.
Jinx's voice sharpened. "We let it walk?"
Dack's answer was immediate. "We don't chase into unknown traps. We finish the job."
Jinx swore—happy and angry at once. "Fine."
The Catapult fell back with the Awesome, missile racks still dangerous but now used to cover retreat.
The remaining Flea scout darted once across a lane, then vanished—leaving nothing but a final sensor ping like a promise.
The depot went quiet in ragged pieces.
Not peace.
Just the space between fights.
---
Lyra brought the Union in low once the immediate threat line cleared, landing outside the hall's trap radius. The DropShip's ramp dropped and the bay flooded with heat and dust.
Rook and Rafe didn't wait to be told.
They ran down the ramp with their tool packs, moving like synchronized machinery—one already pulling clamps and rigging cables, the other scanning the downed Marauder with a diagnostic rig.
Rafe's eyes were bright, almost feverish with focus. "We can keep it—"
Rook finished, "—intact."
Rafe: "If we—"
Rook: "—sanitize—"
Rafe: "—fast."
Lyra's voice was tight over internal comms. "Be careful. If that mech has a beacon—"
Rook cut in, immediate. "It does."
Rafe finished, "We can see it."
Dack's gaze narrowed. "Where."
Rook's fingers traced a section behind a panel seam with absolute certainty. "Here."
Rafe was already removing fasteners. "Hidden module. Not factory."
Lyra's mouth tightened. "Mother Lark."
Jinx's grin turned sharp. She pushed her long hair back, blue eyes glittering with satisfaction. "Good. Let her know we take things."
Taila watched the twins work with a kind of awe that felt too close to envy. She was getting good in sims. Getting better in the field. But these two? They made machines obey.
Morrigan stood at the top of the ramp, arms crossed, gothic dress whipping slightly in the engine wash, glaring at the downed Marauder like it had insulted her.
She didn't say anything.
But her eyes stayed on it like she was imagining herself inside.
Dack noticed.
He didn't comment yet.
Rook and Rafe pulled the beacon module and killed it. Rafe held it up—small, ugly, expensive.
Rook's voice was calm. "It pings a node."
Rafe finished, "Outer ring."
Lyra's gaze sharpened. "Lark's Nest."
Rafe blinked. "You know it."
Lyra didn't answer directly. "We're learning it."
They secured the beacon module in a sealed container like it was venom.
Then they started the real work: recovery.
Rigging cables clinked. Winches whined. The Marauder's dead weight shifted as the Union's cranes took its burden. The heavy mech scraped across dirt and metal, leaving a gouge like a scar.
Dack stayed in his Dire Wolf cockpit, watching lanes while the salvage operation happened. He didn't trust silence.
Jinx did the same—Highlander torso angled outward, guarding the perimeter like she was daring the raiders to come back.
Taila held near the hall entrance, protecting the cargo crates from opportunistic infantry.
The salvage house rep arrived two hours later—small vehicle, clean jacket, fake confidence.
He stared at the downed Marauder being hauled up the ramp, then at the actuator crates.
"That wasn't in the—"
Lyra cut him off without raising her voice. "Salvage rights. Combat disabled. Captured in the engagement perimeter."
The rep's face pinched. "The contract—"
Lyra tapped her slate. "The contract says reclaimed components are primary objective. It does not say we are forbidden from taking hostile assets disabled during execution."
He tried to argue. Then he saw Dack's Dire Wolf silhouette watching from the dust haze.
He swallowed. "Fine. But the drop hub will audit."
Lyra nodded once. "Let them."
The rep looked at the beacon container the twins had sealed off. "What's that."
Lyra's eyes went colder. "None of your business."
He decided not to push his luck.
---
Night came dusty and raw.
Moonjaw didn't sleep immediately. Not after a fight like that. Not after realizing the depot raiders weren't random scavengers. Not after dragging a Marauder onto their ship like a prize that could also be a curse.
The mech bay lights dimmed to a softer glow. The Union's interior hummed with cooling systems and quiet movement.
Rook and Rafe were still in the bay—hands black with grease, hairline damp, bodies exhausted in the way only physical work made you exhausted. They moved around the captured Marauder like surgeons around a patient.
Jinx wandered in like a cat that had decided the bay was her kingdom. Her red jacket hung open, tank top clinging slightly from sweat. She looked satisfied in a way that should've been illegal.
She stopped beside the twins and watched them work for a moment, then said, casual as anything, "You two ever think about looking like you belong?"
Rafe's head lifted. Rook's did too, in perfect sync.
Rafe answered carefully. "We have the patch."
Rook finished, "That's enough."
Jinx's smile turned slow and wicked. "For now."
Rafe's cheeks warmed. "You keep saying that."
Jinx leaned closer, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret. "Because I have a vision."
Rook's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your visions are dangerous."
Jinx laughed quietly. "Yes."
Taila walked in behind Jinx, hair loose now, face softer in the low light, wearing Moonjaw's colors without needing to try. She looked at the twins and said, gentle, "You did good."
Rafe blinked like praise still startled her. Rook's mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"Thanks," Rafe said.
Rook added, "You did too."
Taila's cheeks warmed. "I… tried."
Jinx hooked a thumb toward the direction of the galley. "I'm not saying you need to strut around half-naked in combat. I'm saying… when the pack walks into a port, people should know."
Rafe looked at Rook.
Rook looked at Rafe.
Rafe said, quieter, "People knowing is how you get targeted."
Rook finished, "And taken."
Jinx's blue eyes softened, just a fraction—still Jinx, still sharp, but less teasing. "You're already targeted. That's the point. So if they're going to look at you anyway… you might as well look how you want."
Rafe's throat bobbed. "We never… got to want."
Rook's voice was flat, honest. "We worked."
Jinx's grin came back. "Exactly. And now you can work and make them jealous."
Taila hid a small smile. "Jinx…"
Jinx pointed at her. "Don't start. You like it."
Taila's blush answered for her.
Rafe stared at the patch on her pack, then murmured, almost to herself, "Something… fitted."
Rook finished quietly, "Practical."
Jinx's grin widened like a shark sensing blood. "We'll negotiate."
Rafe's cheeks went redder. Rook's eyes narrowed, but she didn't reject it.
It wasn't a yes.
But it wasn't a no.
And for the Calder twins, that was a shift.
Morrigan stood at the bay entrance, arms crossed, black dress making her look like a shadow given shape. Her glare flicked over Jinx and the twins and Taila—then landed on the captured Marauder again.
She finally spoke, voice low. "That's mine?"
Everyone went still for a moment.
Dack was at the far end of the bay, outside the Dire Wolf now, helmet off, dark hair slightly damp from sweat. Average face. Tired eyes. The kind of expression that never gave away more than it had to.
He looked at Morrigan. Looked at the Marauder.
Then he said, "Not yet."
Morrigan's glare sharpened. "Then why take it."
Dack's answer was simple. "Because you want a cockpit."
Morrigan's throat moved. "I do."
"Then earn it," Dack said. "Sims. Discipline. Cohesion. You'll sit in it when you won't get everyone killed."
Morrigan looked like she wanted to spit something cruel. Instead she swallowed it.
"Fine," she said.
She turned and walked away without slamming a door.
Taila watched her go, quiet sympathy in her eyes.
Jinx watched her go, thoughtful for once.
Rook and Rafe went back to the Marauder's panel, hands working again—already making the machine safer, already making it theirs in the only way they understood: through bolts and tolerances.
Lyra came in last, slate in hand, hair tied back, face calm. She looked at the cargo crates secured in the hold and the captured Marauder strapped down.
"We lift at first light," she said. "We have our cover. We have our cargo. We have a beacon that wanted to lead someone to us."
Jinx's grin returned. "And we didn't die."
Lyra's eyes flicked to her. "Not yet."
Dack looked at the sealed beacon container. "We don't open it until we're off-world."
Rook's voice came quietly from inside the Marauder's open panel. "We can tell you—"
Rafe finished, "—where it wants to talk."
Dack didn't ask yet. He just nodded once. "Later."
He turned toward the Dire Wolf—his anchor—and for a moment his hand rested against its armor like a habit.
No counting out loud this time.
Just a quiet scratch of memory beneath the HUD, left private.
Outside, the planet's wind pushed dust against the Union's hull like it was trying to get in.
Moonjaw slept in shifts.
And somewhere out in the lanes ahead, Lark's Nest waited—quiet, ordinary-looking, and full of teeth.