Mr. Bracton
09:24 EST
November 4, 2030
The Crescent Moon,
Knoxville, TN
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Landing the old skycar onto the Crescent Moon’s flight deck, I waited as the deck crew rushed forward, moving with the precision and urgency that only came with working under the Zaraki command structure. They quickly secured the vehicle, their movements rehearsed and efficient. From my seat, I glanced over my shoulder at Celestia and Seren, who sat quietly playing on their tablets. For a pair of four-year-olds, neither batted an eye at flying to the Crescent Moon or landing on its bustling flight deck. This was their home, after all.
As the landing crew tapped the roof to signal all-clear, the girls stowed their tablets in their small backpacks with practiced efficiency and unbuckled their harnesses. Seren climbed out first, her black military-style backpack slung over one shoulder. She had always favored a more practical approach, much like her mother. Even at her age, she had a clear distaste for anything that might be considered overly “girly.”
Celestia, of course, was her complete opposite. She adjusted the bright straps of her pastel bag, its surface covered in glittering stickers of unicorns and rainbows. Her love of color and flair extended to everything she wore, her energy always pulling attention to herself. Watching them side by side was a study in contrasts—wildly different personalities despite being fraternal twins.
Seren’s sharp hazel eyes and dark brown hair made her a miniature version of her mother, her no-nonsense bluntness often catching even adults off guard. Celestia’s emerald green eyes sparkled with perpetual mischief, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as if it too demanded attention. Superficially, with a few tweaks, they could’ve passed for identical twins. But their differences ran much deeper than their personalities or appearances.
Celestia had inherited her Draconian lineage. Her ability to shift and her growing aptitude for magic made her a natural fit within the family. Seren, on the other hand, appeared entirely human—no magic, no Draconian essence. Even their grandfather, Dr. Zaraki, had failed to detect any supernatural traits in her. While we tried not to show it, this discrepancy concerned all of us. We didn’t want her to feel left out or lesser because of it.
Yet Seren, for all her human limitations, had a sharpness that made her more than a match for any challenge—including her ongoing feud with Scuzball. To this day, none of us knew what sparked their animosity, but it was undeniable. Seren had taken to subtly tweaking the Crescent Moon’s systems to drive him up the wall, while Scuzball retaliated with pranks that ranged from irritating to outright terrifying. I still hadn’t forgiven him for the time he forced the twins to watch Alien and then chased them through the corridors as a holographic Big Chap. It was the kind of escalating chaos I pretended to disapprove of but secretly found hilarious.
As I guided the girls toward the entrance of the ship, the door hissed open—and there it was. Big Chap, standing in the doorway, its monstrous teeth gleaming as it let out a guttural hiss. The nearby crew immediately scattered like frightened rabbits, diving behind crates and darting out of sight.
Celestia reacted first, her emerald eyes blazing as she shifted into her Draconian form without hesitation. Her hands crackled with energy as she hurled a glowing orb straight at the creature. The resulting explosion shook the ship, leaving scorch marks along the bulkhead and sending a fine layer of soot cascading over the deck.
Seren, however, didn’t so much as flinch. With the air of someone who’d had enough, she rolled her eyes and marched forward. “Stupid cat…” she muttered, walking straight through the hologram. The image flickered, leaving Celestia standing in her shifted form, visibly irritated.
“Seriously?” Celestia huffed, throwing up her hands. “You’re no fun.”
“And you’re gullible,” Seren shot back from somewhere behind the hologram.
Meanwhile, I stood there, torn between horror and pride. From somewhere in the walls, a faint chuckle echoed—the unmistakable sound of Scuzball basking in his latest triumph.
“You’re a dumb cat!” Seren yelled out from down the hallway. A moment later, the holographic horror fizzled out, leaving the corridor quiet again. Seren reappeared, poking her head back through the doorway. “He’s gone now, Cele.”
Celestia stood frozen for a moment, still half-shifted, before cautiously extending her claws. When nothing else leaped out of the shadows, she turned and carefully took my hand. Together, we walked side by side down the corridor, Seren striding ahead with the unshaken confidence only she could muster.
The quiet didn’t last. A handful of crew members came running to investigate the commotion, their expressions ranging from concerned to wary. Seeing the charred walls and soot-covered floor, they didn’t need long to piece together what had happened. Their eyes shifted to Seren—calm, focused Seren—and then to Celestia, still in her Draconian form, whose faintly glowing claws hinted at the energy ball that had caused the explosion.
“Nothing to see here,” I assured them, waving them off. “Just Scuzball being himself.”
Their relieved nods told me they were used to such chaos. They muttered something about reinforcing the ship’s interior and hurried off to deal with the next crisis. Star and Cayro’s insistence on upgrades to the Crescent Moon’s bulkheads had paid off—Celestia’s magical explosions could rattle the ship but wouldn’t leave anything more than scorch marks. At least here, the repairs wouldn’t bankrupt us. At home? That was another story.
Seren had already marched ahead, completely unphased, and found their quarters. She opened the door, dropped her bag by her favorite beanbag chair, and immediately dug out her tablet. Within moments, she was lost in whatever mysterious, possibly mischievous project she had lined up for the day.
Celestia lingered by the doorway, her sharp emerald eyes scanning the room as though waiting for another ambush. Then, seemingly satisfied that Big Chap wouldn’t reappear, she dropped her bag, ran over, and threw her arms around me in a tight hug.
“You’re so brave,” I whispered to her with a smile, patting her shoulder before she darted off to her massive dollhouse, a gift from Cayro that dominated the room.
A sergeant appeared in the hallway as I stepped back, offering a sharp salute before speaking. “I’ll keep an eye on them, sir. Colonel Zaraki is off-board, and General Zaraki is in his office.”
I nodded politely. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
With the girls safe and accounted for, I turned toward the bridge.
The Crescent Moon was a masterpiece of engineering, its design reminiscent of the Autumn—a ship with its own storied past—but with significant upgrades. The Autumn, originally built for Project Cayro, had never been officially classified due to its status as a top-secret experimental vessel. After its destruction during the Twilight Battle, Scuzball, ever resourceful, recovered the ship’s old designs. SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation rebuilt the vessel at the behest of President Clark, funding the project with resources he and Team SAF had acquired during their fugitive years.
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The Autumn had once been intended as a Reaper Class ship, though the classification had been reassigned when the ship’s existence was wiped from the records. With the completion of the Crescent Moon, it was officially designated as a Hellion Class Heavy Cruiser—a fitting legacy for its predecessor. The Hellion Class was now a cornerstone of airship design, marking its place in history alongside the Autumn.
The bridge buzzed with activity as I stepped onto the deck. Officers moved with purpose, their crisp uniforms blending into the controlled chaos as they worked through the endless demands of the upcoming event. President Clark’s grand Thanksgiving spectacle had thrown everyone into crisis mode. Charts, schedules, and data feeds filled every console, and the tension in the air was thick.
As I began to make my way toward the lower deck, a guttural roar erupted from Cayro’s office, cutting through the noise like a thunderclap. It was followed immediately by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting the floor—or, more accurately, being hurled into it.
The bridge crew froze for half a beat before quietly resuming their tasks, their faces a perfect blend of stoicism and practiced ignorance. Moments later, the door to Cayro’s office slid open, and a junior officer stumbled out, his face pale and his expression one of sheer terror.
I sighed. “Here we go again.”
I arched an eyebrow at the young officer as he stumbled past me, his face pale and his stride quick—clearly in a hurry to escape whatever storm had just erupted inside the office. Without a word, I turned and stepped inside. The scene was… predictable. Cayro stood hunched over his desk, his hands gripping the edge, a mess of paperwork scattered in front of him. At the far end of the room, a bookshelf lay in ruins, shattered into jagged splinters, with papers still drifting lazily to the floor like snow.
I didn’t bother knocking. Instead, I walked in and dropped into one of the chairs in front of his desk, letting out a small chuckle. “Channeling your inner Star today, I see.”
Cayro closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping as he sank into his chair with a heavy sigh. His entire body seemed to deflate, releasing a wave of pent-up energy in one exhausted motion. Judging by the bookshelf, he’d already let loose once today.
“Unfortunately,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Nothing is going as planned. This was supposed to be a simple, straightforward task. Easy. Instead, everything is falling apart.”
“Want to talk about it?” I asked, leaning back with a patience honed by years of dealing with Zaraki-level dramatics.
Cayro didn’t hesitate, launching straight into the litany of disasters. “The Chaos Reckoning was rerouted from Missouri to Minnesota because of some idiotic logistical mix-up, and now its environmental system is malfunctioning. SkyTeam was invited to handle desserts—they’re delayed because they’re stuck dealing with the Reckoning. Dragon Fleet is tangled up in DOT inspections and failing trailers. Zak and Aura won’t stop badgering me about the music I requested for the event, and the 77th Armor Regiment is struggling to get their tanks shipped here. Oh, and the turkeys? Missing. Completely AWOL. The whole damn thing is one disaster after another!”
I let out a low whistle. “Sounds like one hell of a headache. I haven’t seen you this stressed out since the early days when your augmentation started kicking in.”
He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk and gripping his hair in frustration. “Grandpa, I’ve planned and executed high-risk operations with near-perfect precision. This? This is a Thanksgiving dinner. It shouldn’t be so star-damned difficult! It’s like the stars are laughing at me while they turn this whole thing into a living nightmare.”
“Oh?” I said, quirking an eyebrow. “Have the stars been speaking to you again?”
His eyes narrowed, his frustration momentarily giving way to something more thoughtful. “Yes,” he admitted. “They keep telling me to be mindful of my own shadow. That it has the ability to bite when I least expect it.”
“That’s rather vague,” I said with a chuckle.
“You’re telling me,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “Not even Dr. Zaraki can make sense of it.”
“Well,” I said, leaning back with a smirk, “in the meantime, your grandmother has taken charge of getting the food for the celebration ready.”
Cayro’s head shot up, and the look he gave me was priceless—half disbelief, half pure dread. “How in the world did she get roped into this chaos that the President created?”
I let out a deep, satisfied laugh. “Your grandmother marched right into President Clark’s office, pointed a finger at him, and told him in no uncertain terms that she was taking over the food prep. Said she wasn’t about to let this Thanksgiving turn into a disaster.”
He blinked, trying to process the image. “And the Secret Service didn’t try to stop her?”
“Are you nuts? Of course they tried. But you know your grandmother. It didn’t work.” I said, arching an eyebrow as I leaned forward in my chair. “You do realize we, as a family, have an open pass into the National Capital because of you and Star. Not even the Secret Service can interfere with that. Plus, you’ve met your grandmother. She’s a force to be reckoned with when it comes to getting what she wants—and cooking.”
Cayro let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good point. I feel sorry for anyone who ends up under her command. She makes Gordon Ramsay look nice.”
Grinning, I leaned back as he handed me a bottle of water. Twisting the cap off, I took a sip before cutting straight to the point. “You mentioned you’re having issues with the turkeys?”
He groaned, the humor evaporating from his face. “Yeah… for some reason, no matter what we try, the logistics keep falling apart. Scuzball stepped in to help, but even he’s having trouble. It’s like the stars are actively conspiring against us. I’ve got a million other things to juggle, and this damn bird situation is turning into a nightmare.”
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Does it have to be turkeys?”
The incredulous look he gave me was worth every second of his misery. “Seriously? Grandpa, it’s Thanksgiving. It’s all about the turkey!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Grandson, let me tell you something. Thanksgiving isn’t about the gobbling bird. It’s about spending time with the people you care about and being thankful for what you’ve got.”
He let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I know. But this isn’t just about us. It’s supposed to be a national event. The President wants it to be perfect.”
“Well,” I said with a sly grin, “how about you let your grandmother and me handle the bird issue and the President? In the meantime, you focus on everything else you’ve got going on.”
Cayro blinked, trying to process what I’d just said. “Uh… uh… are you sure? We’re talking twenty-five hundred birds here. Even Scuzball couldn’t—”
“Scuzball doesn’t have what I have,” I interrupted, my grin widening. “Your grandmother and I have been living on apex predator land for a while now, and let’s just say… the cackling flock has gotten a bit out of control.”
“No,” Cayro said, his voice full of dawning horror.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, my grin stretching wider.
“Grandma is going to kill you,” he stated flatly.
“Nah,” I said with a shrug. “The flock’s too big for us to manage as it is. This is the perfect opportunity to downsize.”
“But—” he started, and I cut him off with a raised hand.
“No buts. We’ve got this handled. You just make sure the rest of the meal gets here on time,” I said, standing and brushing off my hands.
As I turned to leave, the door to Cayro’s office opened again, and in walked Major Knox, looking like he’d just pulled the short straw for bad-news delivery duty.
“What!” Cayro barked, making the Major flinch.
Knox swallowed hard, standing at attention. “Uh… sir, the Star Lancer just reported they’re having issues.”
Cayro clenched his fists, looking seconds away from combusting. Before he could unleash the firestorm, I stepped in, clapping a hand on Knox’s shoulder. “Let’s take this outside before the General turns you into a roast.”
Knox nodded quickly, and I guided him out of the office. “What’s going on with the Star Lancer?” I asked, my tone slipping into the no-nonsense authority of a Senior Master Sergeant.
“The ship’s experiencing power surges in non-essential systems,” Knox explained. “It’s causing havoc for the crew, but it’s not affecting their ability to travel.”
“So, it’s annoying but not critical?” I asked.
Knox nodded. “Yes, sir. But the captain insisted the General clarify how to proceed.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “Tell the captain to suck it up and drive on. The surges can be dealt with once the ship and crew arrive.”
Knox hesitated, his back stiffening. “Uh, sir… the General needs to approve—”
“For fuck’s sake, Major Knox!” Cayro’s voice bellowed from the office. “You heard the Senior Master Sergeant. Get it done!”
Knox paled and practically sprinted down the corridor, his bravado vanishing in an instant. Shaking my head, I turned and headed for the flight deck. My skycar was waiting, and so was the flock that had been driving me batshit crazy for months.
Three thousand honking, cackling feathered maniacs were about to take center stage for the most chaotic Thanksgiving this nation had ever seen.
It was time to prune the flock.