Chapter 23 - The Battles of The Abyssal System

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In the depths of the Abyssal System, where darkness reigned supreme, a lone ship prowled, its blue lights cutting through the black like a blade through silk. This vessel, a medium-sized battle cruiser, bore the proud colors of Mercury—a hulking behemoth adorned with the insignias of war.

Inside, Marcus's face contorted with discomfort, his features a canvas of shifting hues. Strapped into his orange flight suit, he sat in the cockpit, bathed in the harsh glow of white lights.

"You all good, Marcus?" came a voice from behind.

Marcus grunted, his hand clutching his stomach. "All good, Eric," he replied, his voice strained. "Just... this starlane's got me feeling sick this time around. And this damned mission don’t feel right."

"You go home during the summer, right? That’s probably why you're sick," Eric suggested, his voice echoing through the cockpit. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the mech's interior filled the space. "Hey, you got any smokes? Mind if I bum one off you?"

Marcus shot Eric an irritated glance. "You're busy worrying about smokes while I've checked the thrusters twice," he snapped. "And I hear you've been lazing away."

Their mech, a mid-tier Mercurian design, loomed around them, its humanoid form a testament to the house's military prowess. Through the open cockpit, Marcus could see the familiar colors of Mercury, a symbol of their allegiance and duty.

"You got any smokes?" Eric persisted.

Marcus scoffed. "Can't believe you and Lucas smoke that crap," he remarked.

"So, you’ll get blacked out drunk, but a cigarette near you... you'll be a wuss," Eric teased.

Marcus met his gaze squarely. "I titty-fucked a girl at a party," he deadpanned.

Eric burst into laughter. "Christ, what a thing to say," he replied. "Was it..."

Marcus chuckled darkly, his voice low and rough. "Pressed my rod between Margaret’s big fat melons, she was drooling over it and all. Fucking exploded on them too."

"Jesus Christ," Eric exclaimed, his tone a mix of shock and disgust. "I didn't need to know all that."

"Well, you did," Marcus replied matter-of-factly, his expression unreadable. "I've got a reason to be anxious."

Eric sneered, his features contorted with distaste. "I don't know why they've got me as your spotter," he grumbled.

"Because you're the best of the best, and I am the best sniper," Marcus declared, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice. "So, the best of the best needs to do what needs to be done." He took a swig from his flask before tucking it back into his jacket. "You want some?"

Eric shrugged, his eyes darting between Marcus and the flask. "Damn it all, we're meant to escort them."

Marcus tossed the flask to Eric, who caught it deftly in the cramped cockpit. "Not the craving for a smoke, but it will do," he muttered.

"Don't chug any of that," Marcus warned sternly. "Like I said, I want to get back to sweet good Marge. Drink that for a bit of courage... I have a feeling that this mission is going to be different."

Eric handed the flask back to Marcus, who stowed it away in a drawer within his cockpit. "What are we even escorting?" Eric asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Something important," Marcus replied cryptically. "I don't know much, but the briefing... we've got our secondaries for this mission. Piper would've been here. And we've got that boy from Earth too..."

Eric scowled. "That Earthian needs to stay in his lane."

"Ease up," Marcus snorted. "That Earthian would hurl you through a window if he heard you call him that. He's not just here to help us defend the vessel... I get the feeling that the powers at be, there are bigger things happening here."

"The mockingbird," Eric murmured, his fingers absentmindedly twirling a lock of blackish-grey hair. "I've heard things. Is it true that he fought in..."

"Yep," Marcus confirmed. "He's a veteran. Don't let his age fool you."

"Then..." Eric trailed off, a frown marring his features. "What does Clarissa want with him?"

Marcus's sneer deepened, his eyes flashing with suspicion. "That's the thing. I don't know why she keeps him around. You were at the party, and you saw how he was treated. She practically abused him, and he took it. Like an abused dog. I don't get the feeling that Clarissa keeps Atticus around because she likes him. There is something more here. He's a weapon, a damned good one in a warcasket. This isn't even the one that he utilized to best Piper... this is a new one."

Eric fell into silence, his gaze drifting upward through the bulletproof windows of the vessel. Above them hovered Atticus's mech, a dark silhouette against the vast expanse of space.

Through those same windows, they caught a glimpse of the massive escort vessel. It was tasked with containing the parts within, crewed by a dozen or more people.

Atticus's mech, a midweight, stood out in the darkness. Its camoed green and grey exterior defied its purpose, its sturdy design contrasting sharply with the void around it. But most striking was the blazing eye and the strange visor, adorned with his signature callsign—a chained mockingbird.

"The name really suits him," Eric remarked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

But before Marcus could respond, there was a blast, distant but audible. Panic rippled through the cockpit as the scanners lit up.

"Explosion!" Eric shouted, his voice tense as he scrambled to his controls.

"Marcus, what are we doing?" he demanded, the urgency evident in his tone.

Marcus's sneer faltered for a moment. "Do not panic. We do not know what that was yet. Wait till—"

"Everything is going to be all right," a voice echoed through the cockpit, cutting through the tension.

Eric and Marcus froze, the voice washing over them. "Sorry, mate," Atticus spoke slowly, his heavy tone tinged with an accent that betrayed his calm demeanor. "But you need to tone it down a notch. We're not in the army. We're private contractors, and we have the luxury to—"

Marcus interrupted, his voice sharp with defiance. "We don't have any luxury on the battlefield," he scoffed. "There's always prepared and not prepared."

Atticus chuckled softly. "And there are those so damned worked up that they can't see rockets coming towards them."

Eric's voice cut through the tension, sharp and urgent. "Gents, do I need to remind you that the transport got hit by something!"

Atticus's calm tone countered the rising panic. "Relax," he said. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. We've stumbled upon the ruins of what looks to be a battle. The corps have their small vessel, and I think they must've picked up some debris."

"A battle?" Marcus repeated, his gaze shifting to the other pilots who had gathered outside the cockpit. Some were already suiting up and arming themselves, preparing for the worst.

"It's a ship graveyard," Atticus explained. "The fires are still burning. This had to be a couple of days ago, at the very least."

Marcus's skepticism was evident. "Enough of this. I don't have eyes to see anything."

"Mate, I'm telling you it's just a battlefield and nothing more," Atticus insisted. "I've been scanning for the last couple of minutes and haven't picked up anything. The corps are going in there."

"Then eject us," Marcus suggested firmly.

Silence followed. Marcus pressed on. "Eject us and send one of us out there. There should be."

Atticus considered Marcus's proposal. "You don't trust an Earthian?" he asked.

Marcus shook his head. "Where you were born is no matter to me. But we need to get out there. Think about it, that's an actual warzone. I know you're good, Atticus, but we're a company of warcaskets. We can back you up."

Eric chimed in, offering his support. "Yeah, Marcus raises a pretty good point. My scanners didn't pick up anything, but if they've powered down their warcaskets, we won't be able to pick up on them. We can get our guys to reinforce and scout the wreckage."

"Tell them," Marcus urged, nodding in agreement with Eric. But Atticus hesitated.

"No," he said finally.

"No," Marcus repeated firmly.

"I'm not going to bother them," Atticus insisted. "We have one-way communication. They tell me or us what to do, and I relay it back."

Marcus's expression hardened. "What sort of mission is this?" he wondered aloud.

Eric shot Marcus a warning glance, but Marcus pressed on regardless. "No, I've never been on a mission like this before," he began. "We're in deep space protecting cargo that we hardly know anything about, and we're being escorted by someone from the academy no less. Now, we've stumbled upon a war zone...this isn't even the bad frontier, we're in..."

"The Oceana Sector," Eric interjected dryly. "We're probably closer to its neighboring planet, Oceana II, or how the locals prefer it, Oceana Prime."

Atticus remained silent, prompting Marcus to continue. "Enough of this, we're heading out there," he declared.

"What a real prick," Eric muttered under his breath.

Marcus chuckled and secured himself into his seat. "Let's get on with this," he said, adjusting his radio to a different channel. "Erickson, I want to see green on all channels!" he bellowed.

Eric smirked. "Green across the board!"

"Good," Marcus replied, a sense of determination in his voice.

They felt the great crane connect to the back of their warcasket, causing it to shake slightly as the equilibrium shifted. The mech was attached to a great beam, getting primed for action. Through the viewport, Marcus beheld the silent, fiery ships adrift in the black abyss, a sight that would haunt him for both the best and worst of reasons.

"Let's do this, Eric," Marcus said slowly.

"Aye," Eric nodded, his grip tightening on the controls of the spotter module. "Have no fear, Marcus, the body may die, but the soul lives."

"Gorputza hiltzen da, baina arima bizi da," Marcus responded solemnly. They heard the clinking of their armaments along their chassis.

Though it was a similar model, theirs was heavily modified. Where Piper's helm was basic, theirs was equipped with multiple tools for tracking, surveying, and scanning. The head boasted three telescope-like "eyes" that protruded from the machine, glowing a deep scarlet against the mech's orange plates.

Their main mech was stripped down, bearing light armor but devoid of exterior equipment like rocket payloads or grenades. Instead, they felt the reassuring clamp of their mech-patterned knife against their warcasket's thigh, and within their back, their sniper rifle latched on.

A weapon longer than a school bus gleamed with a black matte finish and a telescope scope, offering an enhanced zoom and tracking capability through the technical portions of their helm.

"How are we looking at thrusters?" Marcus inquired, deftly navigating the cockpit controls.

"Everything is green. Give them a look over... pay attention to the hiss," Eric's voice resonated as Marcus relinquished control, the slight recalibrating of the telescope audible through their helm.

Marcus gripped the handle of his mech, moving it in different directions to ensure the tactile response was precise. He knew this routine well, having executed it over a hundred times before.

"We're good," Marcus declared. "Discharge and follow behind us!" he ordered.

A chorus of affirmations echoed through the cockpit as both young men were ejected from the ship, their mechs streaking through the stars. Marcus took control, activating their thrusters, revealing the full scope of the battlefield.

"Woah..." Eric's voice trailed off as he craned his neck to view Marcus's viewport.

The abyss was ablaze. Three colossal destroyers lay crippled, destroyed, and burning before them. These ships, akin to the size of skyscrapers, were torn in half, while others remained mangled, their wreckage scattered among the stars.

Below them, Oceana II's bright blue orb floated, seemingly distant yet strikingly noticeable. Marcus sneered at the thought.

"What a sight to see, mates," Atticus's voice flooded the radio.

"The corps want us to escort the package through that?" Marcus questioned.

Atticus snickered. "I didn't realize you lacked a taste for danger. We're warcasket pilots; we're expendable."

"True that," Eric retorted from behind.

Marcus groaned audibly. "This battle couldn't have been more than a couple of days old. What do you think we should do?"

Atticus paused, considering Marcus's question carefully. "What exactly do you mean by that?" he asked.

Marcus pressed on. "Are we the first ones to stumble upon this?" he inquired.

Eric fell into a solemn silence at Marcus's words. "Atticus, there are still fires raging here. Three dreadnaught-class ships lie in ruins... We don't even know how many lives were lost aboard those vessels. Isn't it our duty to..." Eric's voice trailed off, heavy with unspoken implications.

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Atticus's sigh weighed heavily in the air. "Marcus, you're a decent man, but the corps made sure nobody else would know. That's why they specifically assigned us."

Marcus surveyed the devastation before him. "So, we're just supposed to turn a blind eye?" he questioned, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Atticus lapsed into silence, and Eric remained quiet for a moment before speaking up. "It's not ideal, Marcus. I understand your sentiment—I'd want to help too if I were down there. But these corps, they can nullify the contract in a heartbeat. Heck, I don't even think we were supposed to witness any of this."

Marcus's mind briefly flashed to Margaret, but he shook off the thought, regaining his composure. "Borroka errazagoa da," he muttered to himself, struggling to settle back into his seat. With a sneer, he turned away. This was a mission, he reminded himself. No room for complaints. His duty was to get the job done and return home—no more, no less.

However, Atticus's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at his mech's microphone. A smirk played across his lips, and he chuckled softly. "Hah, you see something new every day," he muttered to himself.

Moments later, voices crackled over the radio. The other warcaskets had been ejected from the chute, identical copies to their own. Those from their house were equipped with basic gear: an assault rifle, an anti-mech blade, and grenades. Five of them.

"Marcus... Eric, what the hell is all this?" Todd's voice pierced the airwaves.

Marcus turned his attention to the other two men, Todd and Jeremiah, both older than the rest. Todd, at twenty-two, and Jeremiah, at twenty-four, guided their mechs toward them, their thrusters assisting in their graceful drift through the vacuum of space.

"Jesus Christ," Jeremiah's voice crackled over the radio. They could hear the tremor in his voice as he muttered a silent prayer to himself. "What in God's name happened here?"

Eric grabbed the mic, his voice cutting through the tension. "We're flying blind here. But the corps and The Mockingbird want us to keep pushing into that wreck."

Atticus opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it, exhaling heavily as he refocused his attention ahead.

Marcus sighed, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. "Enough talk. The mission still holds. We protect the cargo from anything that comes at us. This is high stakes, folks... Zephyr picked us for a reason. He didn't want any screw-ups."

A pregnant pause hung in the air until Todd broke it with a resigned sigh. "Alright, Marcus, you've got a point. What's the plan?"

Marcus hummed thoughtfully, tracing his fingers along the debris as he mulled over his strategy. "The wreckage... it's me and two other snipers. We'll fan out, pick off any threats from a distance," he explained, nodding toward Jeremiah. "Jeremiah, you take the other three. Get in close to the ship. There'll be plenty of hiding spots for snipers, and..."

"They're probably thinking the same thing," Jeremiah interjected, his tone resigned. "Time to face the music."

Marcus paused, considering. "Todd, you hang back. Keep a position where you can support the others," he instructed.

Todd hesitated. "You don't want me covering your backs?" he queried.

Marcus shook his head. "Find a spot where you can provide the best support. The snipers will be hiding. Let's hope this is just a deserted battleground."

"Let's hope," Todd echoed, but Marcus couldn't shake the feeling of impending danger. He flexed his sweaty fingers nervously.

Swiveling his mech toward the others, Marcus saw the subtle differences that set Jeremiah's apart. Though the model was the same, Jeremiah's bore upgrades and modifications, making it distinct.

"Enough talk," Marcus declared, the urgency in his voice palpable as they prepared to venture into the void. "As Jeremiah said, it's time to face the music. Find your positions and move out!"

With streaks of blue and dark orange-black, they navigated the debris field. "No casualties from debris, people," Marcus barked over the radio. "Check those thrusters before you do anything stupid."

Todd's voice pierced through the silence. "Chief, I'm in position."

As Marcus and Eric's mechs descended, their blue thrusters flickered and died out, the rhythmic clunk of their descent echoing within the confines of the destroyed warship.

"Eric, flashlight," Marcus commanded.

"Aye," Eric replied, and the beams of light pierced the darkness.

"Good job, Todd," Marcus acknowledged. "Power down your mech and hang tight out there for a while."

"I-I... H-here you... chief," Todd stuttered.

Marcus winced at Todd's nervousness. "Damn it, Eric, how deep are we?"

Eric sighed. "We're deep inside one of these wrecks. All this debris and the hull around us... it's causing interference."

Frustrated, Marcus tried to adjust the radio, but the static persisted. "Fine, but Atticus better have our backs if things get messy. I've heard stories of pilots being left high and dry on these missions, or worse..."

Eric let out a loud groan. "Marcus, I know you're anxious, but I've got a bad feeling about this too. We need to stay focused."

Marcus's eyes widened. "You feel it too?"

"Of course I do," Eric declared firmly. "This whole mission reeks of trouble. We're out here in the depths of space, navigating through a battlefield. We don't even know which factions were duking it out."

Marcus nodded in agreement. "I didn't see any faction insignias on this ship."

"It's possible," Eric agreed. "These frontier worlds often see themselves as independent entities, controlled by corporations or houses."

"Maybe," Marcus murmured, his gaze fixated on the vast expanse of space. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His eyes scanned the inky blackness like a predator, and he gripped his sniper rifle tightly.

With the rifle aimed ahead, Marcus reached for a pair of binoculars, bringing them to his eyes. He squinted through the lens, and finally, clarity emerged.

The battlefield unfolded beneath Marcus's telescopic gaze, his eyes melding with the view of his sniper mech. Mercurian weapons were functional, but not of Martian caliber. Marcus pondered the state of their homeland, its shining point being only adequate mechs. Frustration laced his words. "We've got the numbers, but look at us—a mere population of adequate mechs. We're vulnerable. Even the Martians, with their laser weapons, could wipe us out."

Eric caught wind of Marcus's discontent. "Marcus, that's our culture," he offered with a strained smile. The melancholy scene played out around them—the lone grey corpo ship streaking through the sky, Atticus's camouflaged mech blending into the cosmic canvas.

Eric continued, "Every house has its uniqueness. Earth is our birthplace, but Mercury is our home. That's where our children will be born, where my family has roots for generations. But I've seen us grow weaker."

Marcus's eyes widened at the revelation. Eric sneered. "We keep letting people in, but we lack the funds for it, Marcus."

Marcus's features saddened. "I know," he admitted, his expression fraught. "I aspired to be a warcasket pilot, to honor my house and follow in my father's footsteps through the military ranks. But we're struggling. People are living in basements now."

Eric's sneer persisted. "Zephyr is a fool. We're starving, barely meeting our tax obligations, and look at Piper—duel after duel, warcasket after warcasket. Some in the mechanic division wanted to strangle that orange-haired woman."

Marcus winced at the harsh words but sighed. "Piper is facing her own struggles," he pointed out.

Eric snickered bitterly. "We're all suffering. This first mission is a nightmare. That girl better think twice before climbing into another warcasket, or I'll..."

Marcus shot him a stern look. "Watch yourself, Eric," he warned. Eric recoiled into his seat. "While you and I are friends, spotter and pilot, I've known Piper for a long time. I've fought alongside her. I understand your frustrations, but I won't condone any disrespect toward her."

Eric turned away, his annoyance palpable as he glared into the electronic hum of his screen. "Fine, then," he muttered, his frustration evident.

Marcus sank into his seat, weary of the drama unfolding. "So much drama," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I just want..."

His words were cut short as a steel-pale ship, deceptively small from a distance, took a direct hit from above. A purple laser pierced the air, sending shockwaves through Todd, Jeremiah, Atticus, Marcus, and Eric, their eyes widening in disbelief as chaos erupted.

"What the hell was that!" Eric's voice rang out.

"I don't..." Marcus began, but his words trailed off.

Atticus's frantic voice crackled through the comms. "Atticus!" Marcus shouted, urgency in his tone. "Reorient yourself!"

"I'm trying!" Atticus's reply was strained as his mech spiraled out of control, a helpless tumble through the vacuum of space.

Eric's machines blazed to life, casting his features in a yellow glow—a familiar sight, but one that spelled trouble. "Trouble, Marcus!" he shouted.

"Tell me what you're seeing!" Marcus's grip tightened on the controls. He had a clear line of sight through the hangar. Darting towards the edge, he prepared to take pot shots—they had no time to waste after the cargo craft's destruction. Their thrusters roared as they sped through the desolate, debris-strewn hangar.

"We've got three reds approaching the craft from below!" Eric's urgent voice crackled over the comms.

"You hear that, Jeremiah?" Marcus barked.

Jeremiah readied himself, gripping his AK-style mech assault rifle with practiced ease. "I was born ready," he affirmed, his gaze fixed on the approaching threat. As three menacing warcaskets burst into view, he wasted no time. "Fuck them and shoot them!" he commanded, gunfire echoing through the confines of space as they fought for their lives.

Atticus felt the searing heat of the laser blast, a violent force hurling him downwards. Yet, his instincts kicked in, and with a swift recovery, he retaliated. Growling, he seized his controls, his mid-tier weight descending upon the mech furthest from the group of three. With a powerful kick, he sent the opposing pilot scrambling, reducing their mech to a molten mess of grinding metal.

Jermiah and the other Mercurian pilots erupted into triumphant whoops as they exchanged machine gun fire with the remaining two mechs. As Atticus descended, he joined the fray, his own machine gun blazing. But amidst the chaos, he spotted more threats below.

"Marcus!" he bellowed into his mic. "There are more underneath us!"

Marcus, his eye narrowed with determination, took aim and fired. His bullet found its mark, piercing through the brain of the middle black mech, sending it spiraling into oblivion. Jermiah and the others swiftly added to the onslaught, their bullets sealing the fate of the enemy mech and its pilot.

Recalibrating himself, Atticus streaked upwards, his gaze drawn to the Corpo ship reduced to slag, hurtling towards Oceana II. "Oh my god," he muttered, anticipating the wrath of Clarissa and Makena. Yet, he couldn't abandon his struggling Mercurian allies. With a resigned sigh, he plunged back into the fray.

Meanwhile, Eric's urgent cry shattered the tense atmosphere. "Marcus, fucking move!" Marcus's widened eyes caught sight of the impending danger, narrowly dodging a rocket hurtling towards them. Before he could fully comprehend the situation, they were plummeting out of the hangar, a mech bearing down on them, its machine gun firing.

A shell crashed through the cockpit, sending the enemy mech adrift in space. Marcus and Eric, adrenaline coursing through their veins, exchanged breathless glances. "Good job, Machenzie!" Marcus cheered, relief evident in his voice.

"Fucker nearly got the drop on us," Eric muttered, still grappling with the shock of the near miss. Then, realization dawned on Marcus. "They're picking up on our sniper positions," he mumbled to himself, swiftly issuing orders over the radio. "Reporting to every sniper, scatter, scatter!" he commanded, their survival now dependent on their ability to adapt and outmaneuver the enemy.

And then, Machenzie's voice, vibrant and alive, was silenced in an instant. A shroud of silence enveloped them, broken only by the echoing boom of an explosion, a grim punctuation mark to her existence.

"They got Mackenzie…they got Mackenzie!" The words tumbled from the lips of one of their junior pilots, the shock reverberating through the cockpit. But Marcus remained motionless, his mind racing. Piper wouldn't have frozen.

Eric sprang into action, his fingers flying over the controls as he activated the communication system. "Todd…Jermiah!" His voice cracked with urgency. "To hell with the mission. We're flying blind here, and that craft's a lost cause."

Marcus's eyes locked onto the approaching wreckage, his gaze tracing the emblem emblazoned on the mech's chassis. "They're Jacen's pirates," he muttered grimly.

"Jacen's pirates?" Eric echoed, his confusion palpable. "Who the hell is—"

"They're a ruthless band of raiders," Marcus interrupted, his voice edged with contempt. "They must have known we were coming."

Eric's gaze swept the horizon. "What about salvage?"

Marcus shook his head. "Forget the salvage. That ship's going down, heading straight for Oceana II. We need to worry about the warcaskets hunting us down."

With grim determination, Marcus seized the controls, guiding them along the fringes of the battlefield. "We need to break free," he commanded. "Jacen's Pirates won't hesitate to tear us apart."

But amidst the chaos, Jermiah's laughter rang out, a discordant symphony of bloodlust. His mech danced and darted, a deadly waltz among the fray. "What's the matter, Marcus?" he taunted. "Aren't you ready to do the Lord's work and rid the world of these heathens?" With a flourish, he brandished his mech axe, cleaving through enemy mechs with ruthless efficiency.

Meanwhile, Todd's shots rang out, each one finding its mark with deadly precision. "Marcus is right," he called out. "They're weak, but they're swarming us. Mockingbird, how's it looking?"

In the heart of the maelstrom, Atticus spiraled, locked in a deadly dance with three enemy mechs. His movements were fluid, his guns blazing, each bullet finding its target with deadly accuracy.

"Everyone, fall back!" Marcus's voice cut through the chaos, a beacon of command in the swirling madness of battle. With a chorus of thrusters roaring to life, they kicked themselves away, streaking through the star-strewn void like comets on a collision course with destiny. But amidst the brilliant blue trails they left behind, the ominous orange flames of their pursuers left a grim smog of death in their wake.

Below them, Todd watched with a grim satisfaction as the enemy warcaskets closed in. His sniper rifle was stowed away, replaced by a close-ranged marksman rifle. Each shot was a precision strike, nicking their armor before delivering the final blow—a symphony of destruction orchestrated by Todd's steady hand.

Meanwhile, Atticus danced through the skies, his movements a lethal ballet of evasion and retaliation.

Marcus, his eyes fixed on the looming ship at the battlefield's edge, seized the moment to request emergency evacuation. "Riskara, we need emergency evacuation on the double!"

A gunshot shattered the airwaves, silencing Marcus. Eric, glancing up from his console, received the grim revelation. "Riskara is dead."

The voice on the other end, belonging to an unknown interloper, spoke with a chilling nonchalance. "I am a sergeant, part of Jacen's Pirates. We were curious about that nice cargo of yours. If you had just backed off, things wouldn't have to get that messy."

"Messy," Marcus ground his teeth together, a feral growl beneath his words. "You murdered our captain!"

The voice chuckled, unsettlingly calm. "...if you do not cease your hostility. Riskara will not be the only one that dies. Well, I suppose that’s wrong…many people have already died today.."

Marcus fell silent, the weight of the threat sinking in. The man continued, revealing the leverage he held. "I have all of your mechanics, engineers, and anyone that stayed behind at me and my men's mercy. Give up, and I'll be cordial...if you don't."

Eric, unimpressed, challenged the mysterious speaker. "How do we know that, you bastard? I'm talking to you. You think we're going to believe a word some pirate's got to say."

"How did you get in our ship?" Marcus probed, seeking answers amid the chaos.

Eric sneered, his defiance unyielding. "Don't even bother, Marcus. I'd sooner blow up the ship than—"

"You'd rather blow up the ship and let dozens of our guys die, let them not return back to their families, you do realize that Riskara and—"

"Todd!" Jermiah's shout cut through the chaos, the urgency of the moment palpable.

A different mech emerged from the fray, distinctive with its formidable backpack of missiles. It locked onto Todd, and with a deafening roar, it unleashed its deadly payload.

"Shit!" Todd's voice echoed, frantic amidst the turmoil. His mech maneuvered with desperate agility, the blue vapors of the missiles colliding with the fiery orange of his rocket flame. The explosion consumed his mech, leaving nothing but molten wreckage in its wake.

"Todd!" Jermiah's cry was drowned out by the thunderous onslaught of enemy fire. Undeterred, he plunged into the maelstrom, fueled by righteous fury. "By the Lord's wrath, I'll deliver judgment for you, Todd!" His movements became a frenzied dance of destruction, cleaving through the horde of warcaskets with relentless determination.

"You're obviously not working with me," the voice declared once more, its tone dripping with malice. Marcus listened intently, his heart pounding in his chest. "Get me another one this time…make it a girl, yeah, again…"

"Wait, stop, hold on…" Marcus interjected, his voice strained with urgency.

"No, you think we're playing games," the voice retorted, the threat tangible. Marcus tensed as he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. A shot rang out, followed by the sickening thud of a body hitting the ground. "You still fancy that your impenetrable vessel was conquered. You little fuckers want to start playing nice before we overpower you all and rape your corpses."

Marcus struggled to control his breathing, his mind racing with the grim reality of their predicament.

"I can hear your breathing…what's your name, boy?" the voice taunted.

"Marcus," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him.

"Well, Marcus, nice to meet you. I guess you're the one pulling the strings on this assault, but I've got to tell you, you're killing a bunch of our guys and while I don't care about our guys. You're starting to be a hassle on me due to the number your killing."

Marcus fixed a stern glare at the screen. "You're one to talk, fucker," he shot back, his words laced with defiance. "You murdered some of my underlings and one of our aces. I won't forget this."

The man's laughter echoed loudly through the comm. "...and I am willing to parlay with you. Even though, you know, that you murdered a good chunk of my guys…how many, a good twenty…"

"Five!" Jermiah's voice boomed over the comm. "Twenty-five! We murdered you sons of bitches…and I'll keep coming down on you till."

"Jermiah!" Marcus's voice pierced the tense silence, commanding attention.

"M-Marcus," Jermiah stuttered breathlessly. "What are you…"

"What are your terms if we surrender?" Marcus interjected, his tone urgent.

"Marcus," Eric's voice interjected, but Marcus silenced him with a glare.

"What do you want, Eric…what do both of you want?" Marcus demanded, his frustration palpable. "We're surrounded in front of us, and behind us. They took the escape vessel and we don't have any proper way to enter the planet."

Jermiah's teeth ground together in frustration. "There has to be a way, there has to be a better way!" he exclaimed. "I won't be someone's slave or prisoner or—"

"Get used to it!" Marcus's words cut through the air with grim finality. "Because that man already executed two of our own…girls too."

The mention of their fallen comrades brought a swift silence to the group. "I won't forget, I won't forgive," Jermiah spoke harshly, his resolve hardening.

"I am not asking for that," Marcus replied calmly. "But right now, if we continue, we are all going to die."

Marcus's thoughts drifted to Margaret and the others back at the academy, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "Really, this is how my semester starts?"

They surrendered, their mechs collected, and Jacen's pirates took them aboard. Bound with cables around their hands and feet, they were herded like cattle into their uncertain fate.

"Welcome to your new lives," one of the pirates sneered, his tone dripping with malice.

Another added with a twisted grin, "I would say to pretty yourself up the best you could. We like to go into the deep frontier and sometimes sell pretty ladies." His gaze shifted towards Marcus, Jermiah, and Eric, the flashlight beam casting shadows across their faces.

The three young men bore bruises from the scuffle, reminders of the friends they had lost in the skirmish. But the pirate's laughter echoed hollowly in the confined space, sending shivers down their spines.

"Sometimes…we also like to sell the pretty lads," the pirate jeered, his words dripping with cruelty. "Have a good night, gentlemen. Sleep tight, knowing of the future you are going to have."

As the rusted door slammed shut, they were enveloped by darkness, consumed by a sense of hopelessness. Unbeknownst to them, the Sons of a Dead World may hold the key to their salvation in their darkest hour—or perhaps, an even greater and harsher fate awaits.