Andrew Clark:

October 27, 2025

15:36 MHT

S.A.F. Autumn

Fleet Base East

Sydney, Australia

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The steady hum of the hydrogen power plant vibrated faintly through the deck plates—a reassuring rhythm that almost made the Autumn feel alive again. Finally. It had been weeks of clawing through setbacks, duct-taped solutions, and sheer stubbornness, but progress was visible. Tangible. Even my office was operational again, no longer a chaotic mess of parts, tools, and construction dust.

But something wasn’t right.

The moment I stepped into the room, my eyes locked on the chair behind my desk. Not my chair. My beloved hot rod red gaming chair—the throne that had survived more battles, storms, and awkward team briefings than I cared to count—was gone. Obliterated in the crash. I’d ordered a replacement, of course. An exact replacement. Because that chair wasn’t just furniture; it was comfort. Stability.

This? This was neon pink.

I stopped dead in the doorway, staring at it like it might suddenly sprout legs and start dancing. "What the hell?"

Nathan shuffled in behind me, lugging a crate like it owed him money. He dropped it with a grunt and straightened, noticing my expression. "What’s up with you? Find another broken monitor?"

I jabbed a finger toward the desk. "That’s not my chair."

Nathan followed my gaze and promptly burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that could get a man airlocked under the right circumstances. "Oh, that is beautiful. Did Star do this before she left? Because this has her name written all over it."

"No," I said through gritted teeth, stalking closer to the offending piece of furniture. "Star’s in Tennessee. And the replacement was supposed to be identical to the original."

Nathan tilted his head, examining the chair like a museum exhibit. It was obnoxiously pink—bright enough to signal ships in deep space—with cushions that practically screamed “bubblegum explosion.”

"Well," Nathan said, snorting, "someone screwed up. Or maybe they thought you needed a bit of flair. Pink really pops, you know."

"Flair," I muttered, glaring at the chair like it owed me rent. "This is a war crime."

John walked in next, balancing a precarious stack of crates. He glanced at us before setting them down with deliberate care. "What’s going on now? Did the plant blow already?"

"Look," Nathan said, gesturing toward the chair like it was the centerpiece of an art gallery.

John turned to look. His eyebrows shot up, and he froze for a moment before shaking his head. "That’s… wow. Not what I’d expect from you, Andrew."

"It’s not what I’d expect from me either," I said flatly, crossing my arms. "The original order was for the exact same chair. Red. Classic. Respectable. Not this… abomination."

John chuckled, leaning against the desk. "Maybe it’s fate. A fresh chair for a fresh start."

"Fate can go to hell," I muttered.

John pulled a multitool from his pocket and started cutting open one of the crates. "Well, at least the office is back. For a while there, I thought you’d be stuck working out of your quarters permanently."

"It’s nice to have a proper workspace again," I admitted, dropping into the pink monstrosity and immediately regretting it. The cushions were obnoxiously soft—like sitting on a cloud dipped in pure spite. If I wasn’t careful, I might actually get used to it.

"The real progress is downstairs," I added, leaning back. "The hydrogen plant’s installed and running tests. So far, no explosions, which I’m taking as a good sign."

"And the neck armor?" Nathan asked, rummaging through another crate.

"Arrived this morning," I said. "We can’t install it until the structural repairs are finished, but it’s here."

Nathan pulled out a tangled mess of cables, frowning. "And the cameras? Are we finally getting some eyes back, or are we still flying blind?"

"Half blind," I said, gesturing to the wall of monitors. "We’ve got a few working exterior views and some internal feeds, but most of the system’s still offline. It’s better than nothing."

John tilted his head toward one of the active monitors, which displayed the ship’s prow bathed in the soft light of Sydney’s late afternoon sun. "At least we’ve got that. Makes the place feel less like a ghost ship."

"Don’t get too comfortable," I warned. "If the diagnostics push the power plant too hard, it’s back to emergency lighting and cold showers."

Nathan groaned, dropping the cables onto the desk. "That’s all the motivation we need to keep it running."

By the time we’d unpacked the last crate, the chair was still sitting there, daring me to make peace with its existence. It had this obnoxious aura, like it knew it had won. Nathan leaned against the wall, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"You’re gonna keep it, aren’t you?" he said, a glint of mischief in his eye.

"No," I said firmly, even as I sank back into it. The damned thing was comfortable—obnoxiously so.

"Sure you’re not," Nathan said, his grin widening as I shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn’t feel like an admission of defeat.

John folded his arms, smirking like he’d been waiting for this moment. "You’ve got to admit, Andrew, it makes a statement."

"It makes the wrong statement," I muttered, glaring at the chair as though it might suddenly decide to un-pink itself. But they weren’t listening anymore, and I had bigger things to worry about.

For now, I let it slide. Hunting down whoever was responsible for this—because someone was going to pay—would have to wait.

The office was coming together, but not without a healthy dose of chaos. John had commandeered the desk, sorting through files with military precision, while Nathan had turned my shelf setup into what could only be described as a questionable experiment in modern art.

The chair—still blindingly bubblegum pink—mocked me from behind the desk. It was bad enough knowing my original chair had been obliterated in the crash, but now this? It felt personal. Like the universe had decided I needed humbling, and it wasn’t going to stop until I bent the knee to its obnoxiously padded will.

"So," Nathan said, breaking the rhythm of shuffling papers and scraping shelves, "Dr. Zaraki just… left? No announcement, no heads-up?"

"Pretty much," John replied without looking up, his focus on the stack of files. "Four days ago, right? Just packed up and went."

"To Tennessee, no less," Nathan added, crossing his arms. "From Australia. Without so much as a wave goodbye. I mean, who does that?"

I kept my eyes on the datapad in my hands, scrolling through a list of logistics. "He flew there," I said casually, letting the weight of the understatement hang in the air.

Nathan blinked. "Flew? From here? Without anyone noticing?"

John raised an eyebrow, finally setting the files aside. "The Autumn isn’t exactly inconspicuous, Andrew. How does someone just vanish off a ship docked in the middle of a military base?"

"He’s resourceful," I replied, keeping my tone even, refusing to give them an inch. "And he knows how to keep a low profile when he needs to."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Nathan tilted his head, his skepticism practically dripping from every word. "Resourceful. Sure. But that doesn’t explain how he pulled it off. What, did he call in a favor from someone with a private jet?"

"Something like that," I said, shrugging. "What matters is he got where he needed to go."

They exchanged a look, their unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air. I could almost hear Nathan’s brain working overtime to make sense of it, but thankfully, neither of them pushed further.

They didn’t know the details of what Zaraki could do—what he was. And I wasn’t about to enlighten them. Not yet.

"So," John said after a moment, breaking the silence, "what’s the latest on Seoul? Is Team SAF actually competing, or are we just running the show from here?"

"Team SAF isn’t competing," I clarified, setting the datapad down and leaning back. The chair creaked ominously, as if sensing its chance to assert dominance. "The repairs are keeping us grounded, but Star and Cayro are representing us. They’re building a temporary team to compete under the banner."

Nathan frowned, his arms crossing again. "Wait, Star and Cayro are leading a team? By themselves?"

"Not entirely by themselves," I said. "They’ve got Lyra with them. She’s a friend they met during the attack at SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation."

"Lyra," Nathan repeated, rubbing his chin. "Right. The one they rescued. What’s her role?"

"She’s joining the team as a competitor," I explained. "It’s a way to give them more options on the ground. Beyond that, they’re also reaching out to Cameron Balfour. Director Staroko’s handling that part."

John leaned back against the desk, his brow furrowing. "Cameron Balfour? Isn’t he the guy with the attitude problem? The one who stormed off after the last season?"

"That’s the one," I said, leaning back slightly in the chair as if that would make this conversation any easier. "But Star seems to think he’s worth bringing onboard. They’ll need his skill if they want a shot at winning."

Nathan’s skeptical look deepened, his brow furrowing as though he were calculating the weight of his next words. "And what about this… what’s his name? Lord Lyconotu? Who is he, and what makes him a lord? That’s not exactly a title you hear every day."

I kept my face neutral, even as my grip on the datapad tightened slightly. "He’s a leader. Someone with influence. That’s all you need to know."

"A leader of what, though?" Nathan pressed, his tone walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion.

"A group," I said simply.

John glanced between us, his curiosity a little less guarded. "Why’s he so interested in Star and Cayro? He doesn’t exactly sound like someone who’d get involved in skyboarding competitions."

I stood abruptly, the datapad still in my hand, and turned toward the far end of the room. The movement wasn’t subtle, but I didn’t care. "He’s helping with logistics and security," I said, keeping my tone firm. "The details don’t matter as long as he delivers."

The room went quiet for a beat, tension filling the air like static. Nathan and John exchanged a glance, the kind that said they had a dozen questions but didn’t think they’d get answers. They were right.

John finally broke the silence, his voice measured. "So, if Star and Cayro are leading this thing, what’s the backup plan if something goes wrong?"

"We don’t have one," I admitted, turning back to face them. The words felt heavier than they should have, but they were the truth. "But that’s why we’re locking everything down now—paperwork, rosters, schedules. If we don’t get this right, it’s not just their reputations on the line. It’s ours."

Nathan studied me, his arms crossed and his expression unusually serious. "You think they’re ready for this? Star and Cayro? Fame, pressure, putting together a team for Seoul—that’s a lot to drop on two kids."

"They’re not ready," I said honestly. The admission hung in the air for a moment, sharper than I intended. "But hiding them isn’t an option anymore. Not after everything that’s happened."

John leaned back against the desk, his arms folded now. "So what’s the plan? Throw them into the deep end and hope they swim?"

"No," I said firmly, stepping closer to the desk and setting the datapad down with a quiet thud. "The plan is to give them everything they need to succeed. That means building the team, finalizing the details, and making sure they know we’ve got their backs."

Nathan nodded slowly, his skepticism easing into something that resembled reluctant trust. "Fair enough. But this Lord Lyconotu guy better know what he’s doing. Because if this goes south, it’s not just them taking the hit."

"Trust me, Nathan," I said, gripping the edge of the desk tightly for a moment before letting go. "I know exactly what’s at stake."

I sat down again, facing the stack of forms like they were an opponent I needed to outwit. The pile felt less like paperwork and more like a fortress designed to keep me from accomplishing anything useful. Nathan and John hovered nearby, chiming in with commentary that was about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, flipping through a section labeled Team Eligibility Requirements. "Do they seriously need a notarized statement for every rider’s medical clearance? Star and Cayro have been cleared for months."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of international sports bureaucracy," Nathan said, lounging against the wall with an exaggerated yawn. "It’s like they’re allergic to efficiency."

John leaned over my shoulder, scanning the form. "What about the new team members? Lyra and Cameron? Have their clearances come through yet?"

"Not yet," I said, shaking my head. "I’ve got Star following up with Director Staroko on Cameron’s paperwork, and Lyra’s still getting her onboarding medical done. We’ll need their full profiles before I can submit this."

Nathan grinned like he’d just found a new way to annoy me. "So basically, you’re stuck until other people get their act together. That’s gotta be driving you nuts."

I shot him a glare that could’ve cut through reinforced steel. "You’re not wrong."

John pulled up a chair across from me, his movements slower now, more deliberate. "You really think this is going to work? I mean, Star and Cayro leading a new team for Seoul—it’s not exactly what they signed up for."

"They’ll make it work," I said, my voice steady even as my thoughts churned. "They don’t have a choice."

Nathan raised an eyebrow, his grin fading into something more serious. "Doesn’t mean it’s fair to dump this on them. They’re still kids, Andrew. Kids who just got shoved into the spotlight thanks to—what’s his name? Lyconotu?"

I stiffened at the name. "Lord Lyconotu," I corrected, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

Nathan tilted his head, watching me carefully. "Right. And you trust him."

"I do," I said simply.

"Then I’ll trust you," Nathan replied after a moment, the tension easing slightly. "But this better be one hell of a plan."

The silence that followed was thick, stretching longer than I liked. But they didn’t push further. I could feel their unease, their unspoken questions hanging in the air, but I didn’t have the time—or the inclination—to explain things they weren’t ready to hear.

Nathan broke the tension with a low whistle as he grabbed one of the forms from the stack. "They really expect you to fill all this out before Seoul? You might as well chain yourself to the desk."

"Trust me," I said dryly, not looking up, "I’ve thought about it."

John leaned forward, his expression softening, the voice of reason slipping through. "Look, Andrew, we’ll handle what we can. Medical clearances, travel logistics—just tell us what you need, and we’ll make it happen."

Nathan nodded, his grin returning. "Yeah, leave the grunt work to us. You’ve got enough on your plate without drowning in forms."

I hesitated, just for a moment, before giving a nod. "Alright. Lyra’s onboarding needs to be finalized, and I need an update on Cameron’s paperwork from Star. If you two can handle those, I’ll focus on the rest of this mess."

Nathan saluted with mock enthusiasm. "Consider it done. Anything to keep you from losing your mind."

As they left the office, I leaned back in the chair, letting the relative quiet settle around me. Somewhere out there, Star and Cayro were trying to piece together a team while juggling the fallout of their sudden fame. And here I was, tethered to a desk, buried under the weight of logistics.

The silence after Nathan and John left was… jarring. It wasn’t the absence of sound—I still had the faint hum of the hydrogen power plant and the muffled clatter of work being done on the lower decks. It was the absence of their voices. Their banter, their questions, their presence. With them gone, I was left alone with the pink monstrosity of a chair, a mountain of paperwork, and too much space in my own head.

I leaned back, the chair creaking slightly under me. Its neon pink cushions had stopped screaming for my attention and were now whispering—whispering questions I didn’t want to ask. This wasn’t a random shipping error. It felt too deliberate.

The original order had been clear. And no one else on this ship had the audacity—or the twisted sense of humor—to swap my chair out for something like this.

No one except… Star.

The thought stuck in my mind, like a thread that refused to unravel. Tennessee was a long way from here, and she had more than enough on her plate. But if anyone could have pulled this off—planned it in advance, set it in motion—it was Star. The idea was absurd, but there was something comforting about it too. Like a reminder that even in the middle of chaos, she hadn’t lost her knack for keeping me on my toes.

I shook my head, forcing the thought away. There were bigger things to worry about than a neon pink chair.

The pile of forms stared back at me, unrelenting. I grabbed one from the top, skimming the text, but the words blurred together almost immediately. My thoughts strayed, as they always did, to Star and Cayro.

Nineteen. Barely adults. And yet, here they were, carrying the weight of Team SAF on their shoulders. Not just the team—our entire operation. They hadn’t asked for any of it. They hadn’t chosen this.

It had been thrust on them. By circumstance. By the decisions of others.

By me.

I set the form down and rubbed my temples, the pressure building behind my eyes. They’d stepped up every time they were needed, but this… this was different. Seoul wasn’t just another competition. It was a global stage, and the spotlight shining on them wouldn’t forgive missteps. Every move they made would be scrutinized. Every stumble magnified.

"They’ll be fine," I muttered to the empty room, the words falling flat. More of a prayer than a statement. Star and Cayro had faced worse. They’d get through this too. They had to.

I glanced at the wall of monitors. Most of the feeds were still down, the screens black and unhelpful. The ones that worked showed fragmented glimpses of the Autumn—the battered hull, the shadows of scaffolding. One monitor displayed the prow of the ship, bathed in the soft light of a setting sun.

It was calm. Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

The feeling gnawed at the edges of my mind, a quiet unease that refused to settle. I leaned forward, staring at the monitor as though it might reveal something just out of sight. Some hidden threat.

But there was nothing. Just the horizon, stretching endlessly.

Shaking my head, I forced myself to look away, grabbing another form from the stack. "One thing at a time," I muttered, trying to focus. "One step at a time."

But the unease lingered, threading itself into my thoughts, refusing to be ignored.