Gravel exchanged a glance with Hunter, who was still brushing debris from her jacket. “Specify company,” he said, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“Metallic, sprightly, and real bitey,” Fang shot back. “Think mechanical vultures with an attitude problem. I count at least four on me, but there’s probably more. Hey, one of them just waved at me. Hey bestie!”
“No tentacles?”
“No.”
“Tough luck.” Gravel turned to Hunter and grinned, and she gave him a ‘what are you talking about’ look.
Priest swore under his breath, yanking a drive free from its housing. He sprinted toward the makeshift exit, waving the others to follow.
As soon as he stepped out, the Spider mech whirred back to life, servos clicking as it attempted to recalibrate. Its plasma cannon was offline, but its targeting systems were still active. The remaining railguns swung toward him with a mechanical snarl.
As the railguns locked onto him, he pivoted, raising his wrist and firing a concentrated energy blast straight at the mech’s exposed joint. The shot hit dead-on, a crackling burst of blue light slamming into the damaged servos.
The mech lurched, its targeting systems stuttering. Sparks erupted from the wound, the once-fluid movements of its leg turning sluggish and erratic.
Hunter caught on instantly. “Keep hitting it there!”
Priest fired again, this time aiming just below the exposed hydraulics. The impact sent another surge of energy crackling through the mech’s frame. It shuddered like a dying star giving one last, miserable cough before collapsing. The aiming reticles blinked as the railguns twitched and then remained still.
Gravel seized the opening. “Now’s our chance! Move!” He yelled, but his voice was strained mid-sentence. His numbing back pain had returned, and the pain plus the discombobulation still going on in his head wasn’t a good combination.
The team sprinted away as the mech attempted to steady itself, its damaged systems struggling to compensate.
From above, a piercing shriek rang out—the first of the metallic vultures had spotted them.
“What in the hell are those?” Gravel looked up, marveling at the nightmarish shapes cutting through the sky. His vision was quite blurry, and for every one vulture other would normally see, he saw two.
The vultures were an unholy fusion of machine and predator, their skeletal frames a patchwork of corroded steel and exposed wiring. Their wings—jagged, uneven things—flexed with unnatural precision, each beat sending ripples of red energy coursing through the gaps in their plating. Instead of feathers, they were lined with razor-thin alloy blades that caught the sunlight like shattered glass. Gravel had no idea what that alloy was supposed to be, and the alloy itself seemed like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be as well. It coruscated between different colors: one moment it looked like a sickly blend of green and violet, the next, it rippled into a deep, almost translucent black with veins of bright, fluorescent blue running through it.
“Who would create such a thing?” Hunter asked as they kept running. “That vulture-shaped body can’t be a good configuration for a flying machine.”
Gravel glanced at the circling machines. “Someone with more aesthetic sense than engineering sense,” he said. “Or maybe they wanted intimidation over efficiency.” He wanted to say, ‘nothing says ‘stay away’ like a flock of airborne blenders,’ but a sharp pain travelled up his lower back, as if somebody’d just stabbed him with a dozen needles. He wheezed.
“It came from a lab. They don’t do things inefficiently,” she retorted.
A shadow streaked through the smoke. Then came the roar of thrusters, a controlled yet powerful hum that sent leaves and debris scattering across the clearing.
Hua Fang’s craft—a sleek and vicious modified gunship called Black Fang—descended. Its matte-black plating drank in the sunlight, broken only by sharp red markings that shone like embers beneath an active energy shield. But up close, its hodgepodge nature was impossible to miss.
The hull was a Frankenstein’s monster of stolen tech—some panels smooth and pristine, clearly ripped from the latest Republic interceptors, while others were rough, scorched, and uneven, scavenged from downed crafts or bought off the black market. The VTOL engines, mounted on either side, hummed with unsettling efficiency, their polished casings unmistakably belonging to a state-of-the-art Volrak model. They were far too advanced for a ship like this.
Fang was very good at raiding.
The side hatch hissed open mid-hover. A petite young woman sporting a bright red fitted, sleeveless jacket leaned out, wind whipping her short, dark, perpetually windswept hair as she shouted, “Onboard!” That was Hua Fang. Despite her small stature, her features were sharp: keen, striking eyes and an unflinching gaze accentuated by slightly upturned lips.
Gravel gasped. The image of Hua Fang before him was reduced to muzzy streaks of red and black. His legs buckled, and he stumbled.
Someone instantly grabbed his arm and looped it around her neck. It was Hunter, of course. “Not now, Gravel,” she grunted as she pulled him forward. It wasn’t the first time she had dealt with the side-effect of his abilities, and he trusted she knew the signs.
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Then came the sprinting footsteps behind them. Gravel turned back to the general shape of Priest, with his head raising upward, probably scanning the skies. He saw one of the metallic vultures break off from the others, diving towards them like a feathered dart. A nightmare of rusted steel, razor wings, and exposed wiring.
He raised his cybernetic arm. The metallic plating swung, and he fired a rapid series of concentrated plasma blasts. The blue energy bolts streaked through the air, forcing the vulture to veer away at the last second.
“Shit, shit,” Hunter huffed. “You’re so heavy, Gravel.”
“Tell me when to jump onboard,” he replied.
The gunship dipped lower, skimming just above the jungle floor.
“Now!” Hunter yelled. She braced her legs and shoved him. He pushed off the momentum, grabbed the edge of the hatch with both hands, and hauled himself in.
Hunter followed, turning just in time to grab Priest’s wrist and yank him aboard as Fang jerked the controls.
The moment Priest’s boots hit the floor, the hatch began to close. One of the metallic vultures, enraged at their escape, slammed into it with a screech. Sparks fired as its beak snapped, trying to latch onto the edge of the closing hatch.
Priest raised his hand. A ripple of distorted gravity slammed into the creature. With a screech of metal on metal and a shower of sparks, the vulture was thrown off the ramp. The hatch slammed shut a split second later.
Fang slammed the throttle forward. The engines roared, and the gunship shot skyward in a steep, gut-wrenching ascent. Below, the mech twitched—then steadied, its systems rerouting power in under a second. Its targeting array flared back to life, locking onto them as its railguns swiveled upward.
“Fang.” Gravel called out, gripping the side of the cabin. “It’s still moving.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Fang yanked the controls. The gunship pitched as a burst of railgun fire shredded the air just behind them. “I’d really prefer not to die today, so hang on.”
Priest clenched the overhead bar. “The spider mech is recalibrating fast.”
Hunter grimaced as another warning tone blared through the cockpit. “Yeah? Well, so should we. Get us out of here!”
“Working on it,” Fang snapped, slamming the throttle to full burn. The VTOL engines roared, and the ship jolted as it accelerated. Below, the Spider mech took another lumbering step, servos shrieking as its plasma cannon began charging again.
A shrill screech cut through the air—one of the metallic vultures diving toward them. Fang swore and twisted the stick, sending the ship into a stomach-churning roll just as the creature’s claws scraped against the hull. Sparks flew, but the gunship powered through, climbing higher.
“We’re not sticking around for round two,” Fang growled, punching a set of mismatched switches. A brief pulse rippled from the ship’s tail—a countermeasure burst scrambling enemy targeting for a few precious seconds.
Hunter exhaled, keeping his eyes on the rapidly shrinking battlefield below. “Let’s hope that buys us enough time.”
The gunship rocketed through the sky as Fang pushed them past safe limits. Below, the jungle blurred into a mass of green, and the bunker—along with the Spider mech still struggling to regain full function—shrank rapidly from view.
Another piercing screech. One of the metallic vultures streaked toward them, its razor-lined wings slicing through the air, but Fang twisted the stick hard. The ship veered sharply to the side, sending the creature spiraling past them before it could adjust course.
“Almost clear,” Priest called, checking his scanner. “But they are still on us.”
“Not for long,” Fang muttered, fingers flying across the console. “Switching to high burn.”
A warning light flared red on the dash—engine strain. Fang ignored it. She flicked a mismatched toggle near the throttle, and the ship’s patched-together drive system flared to life, its mix of Republic-grade propulsion and black-market enhancements forcing raw power into the engines.
The ship lurched forward, inertia pressing them into their seats. The vultures screeched as their speed was suddenly insufficient against the gunship’s acceleration. Within seconds, the atmosphere began to thin, and the sky deepened into a dark void speckled with stars.
Gravel let out a slow breath as the shaking eased. “We clear?”
Priest checked his readouts. “Tracking signatures are fading. They cannot chase us this high.”
Gravel let himself collapse against the nearest bulkhead, sucking in a deeper breath. His arms burned from exertion, his back ached from the earlier impact with the tiger, and there was a nasty tear in his jacket where a piece of shrapnel had grazed him.
Priest walked up to him, a proper medkit in hand. This one contained various vials of colored liquids, small devices with glowing tips, and patches that shimmered with embedded circuitry. He pulled out a small spray bottle filled with a pale blue liquid. “This is a dermal anesthetic,” he explained. “It should numb the area and reduce the inflammation.”
Gravel noticed Priest had swapped from his pointed fingers to human fingers. They were finally safe.
The cybernetic man carefully sprayed the blue liquid onto the tear in Gravel’s jacket, the liquid quickly soaking through the fabric and onto his skin. “You should heal naturally in a few days.”
Hunter leaned over him, hands on her knees, still catching her breath. Then she spotted the rip in his coat and let out a low whistle. “Your fashion sense finally gave up, huh?”
Gravel peeled the fabric back, wincing at the smear of blood underneath. “Pretty sure that was my favorite jacket.”
Hunter clicked her tongue. “Tragic. Guess you’ll just have to wear one of your other five identical jackets.”
Gravel grunted, poking at the wound with two fingers. “It’s not identical. This one had sentimental value.”
Priest, kneeling nearby as he checked over his wrist scanner, spoke without looking up. “I scanned your wardrobe last month. You own seven identical jackets.” Then he stood and walked away.
Gravel gave him a flat look. “You scanned my wardrobe?”
But he had already gone to his designated seat on the sofa in the common room.
Hunter slid down beside Gravel, letting out a breath as she leaned against the bulkhead. Without a word, she reached for his arm. Firm and cautious, her fingers pressed against the fabric of his jacket, then his side, checking where the shrapnel had grazed him earlier.
“If Priest says you’re good, you’re good,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Gravel flexed his fingers experimentally, rolling his shoulder. The ache was still there, but the pain was already fading—Priest’s work had always been unsettlingly efficient.
Hunter let her head rest back against the wall. “That was too close. I was worried for you earlier.”
Gravel glanced at her for a good second. Then he smirked. “Funny hearing you say that out loud.”
She made him wait for her answer. Not a word was spoken on the Black Fang for another minute, only for Hunter to again cut through the engine noise with a soft murmur, “One day, we’re not walking away.”
Outside the viewport, Namor-4 had already shrunk into a distant, swirling green-blue storm.
What's most likely to be the content of the drive?
