The storm loomed on the horizon, an endless sprawl of rolling black clouds swallowing the sky. Forked lightning cut through the dark, illuminating the water's restless surface in sharp, fractured glimpses.

  Beneath the Canopy’s reinforced hull, the ocean churned—an expanse of gray and steel-blue stretching endlessly in every direction. The Tempest-class carrier moved steadily through the chaos, its stabilizers countering the pull of the waves, a fortress of steel against nature's fury.

  Scar stood near the edge of the observation deck, hands resting on the cold metal railing. The storm winds howled around them, whipping the waves into white-capped fury, but the Canopy held firm—unshaken, unyielding.

  Lyric leaned beside him, arms crossed, her white and crimson flight jacket damp from the mist that clung to the air. Faint pink accents traced the seams, catching the low light like the last glow of a dying sunset.

  Her usual smirk was absent, replaced by something more measured as she surveyed the restless sea.

  “We stick to water because it’s safer,” she said, voice threading through the wind. “Most Kaiju don’t bother with the ocean—not in the same way they hunt on land.”

  Scar tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

  Lyric exhaled, fingers combing through her windswept ponytail. “Predator hierarchy," she murmured. "Land’s their hunting ground—their stage. They know the choke points, the kill zones. They move like they own it—because they do.” She tapped a finger against the railing. “But the ocean? Different story.”

  Scar watched the waves rise and fall beneath them. “You’re saying they don’t swim?”

  Lyric smirked. “Oh, they can swim—straight to the bottom. The mechs, at least. Most sink. Some fly. Either way, you won’t see ‘em floating."

  Scar narrowed his eyes. “Mechs?”

  Lyric let the question hang between them before finally shrugging. “They're not all machines. No circuits, no off-switch—just hunger.”

  Scar kept his gaze on the churning ocean, the waves crashing against the hull in a restless rhythm. The way Lyric spoke about the Kaiju—it wasn’t just fear. It was experience.

  He frowned. “Kaiju.” The word felt foreign on his tongue, unfamiliar yet heavy. “What are they?”

  Lyric tilted her head, watching him like she was weighing something unseen. Then, with a quiet sigh, fingertips ghosted over her temple as she pushed damp strands from her face.

  Lyric shrugged. “Depends who you ask. Some see ‘em as a resource—something to kill, something to outlast. Others? An extinction event waiting to happen.”

  Scar’s brow furrowed. “And you?”

  Lyric exhaled, gaze drifting toward the storm. “I think labels don’t change reality. You can call a wildfire a campfire all you want—it still burns the same.”

  Lyric let out a short, humorless laugh. “Still won't stop me from stomping out the flames before they spread.” She turned, resting an elbow against the railing. “Some are bigger than a city block. Some are faster than a fighter jet. Some shrug off explosive rounds like they’re nothing.” She tilted her head slightly. “They left their mark on me. Whether I like it or not.”

  Scar frowned. He knew that tone, what it carried. What it meant to fight something that never stopped, never wavered. It was how he spoke about the Ferrex. An enemy that didn’t just test you—it reshaped you. Survival wasn’t a choice. It was the only thing left.

  A distant flash of lightning cut across the sky, its glow flickering in Scar’s narrowed eyes. The ocean surged violently beneath them, the wind howling in his ears. He wasn’t sure if it was the storm or something else settling in his gut, but Lyric’s words felt heavier than they should have.

  Lyric eyed Scar’s silence, then exhaled. “Don’t worry about me. I wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t strong enough.” She met his gaze, the weight of her words settling between them. “We all have something we want to protect."

  The wind howled again, sending a spray of salt against the deck. The Tempest-class carrier pushed forward, its engines humming steadily as it cut through the restless waters. Lightning flared in the distance, illuminating the massive hull briefly before plunging them back into shadow.

  Lyric turned toward Scar, studying him. “You’re quieter than I expected,” she mused. “Not brooding exactly—just… watching.”

  Scar didn’t respond immediately. Long ago, he had learned that silence was often the best way to hear what people didn’t say—much like the thoughts that refused to leave his mind.

  Star.

  He had sworn to keep her safe. Sworn that nothing would happen to her. He had talked big, made promises he had no intention of breaking. And yet, here he was—adrift in the middle of the ocean while she was out there, beyond his reach.

  His fingers curled into fists. He had gone over it a thousand times—every step, every choice. What could he have done differently? Should he have been faster? Fought harder? Been more prepared? Did he hesitate? Was there something—anything—he had missed?

  The worst part wasn’t the guilt. It was the waiting. The helplessness. Every passing second felt like another piece of her slipping away—another moment he failed her.

  “I should be doing more.” His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was impossible to miss.

  Lyric glanced at him, arms still crossed, but the teasing edge from earlier had faded. “You’re already doing everything you can.”

  Scar shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like it.” He stared at the horizon, the storm swallowing the last traces of starlight. “She’s out there, and I’m stuck here. I should’ve—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

  He should’ve been stronger. Smarter. He should've been more—should've found a way. He should've been anything but too late.

  Lyric didn’t look at him right away. Instead, she watched the storm rolling in and the wind tearing at the sea. “If it were me, I wouldn’t care about the details. Only that you reached me.” She glanced at him. “That’s what you should be asking yourself—not if you’ve done enough, but if you’re going to finish what you've started.”

  Scar’s jaw tensed. “It’s not about finishing. It’s about getting to her in time.” He shook his head slightly. “That's what I'm worried about. That’s the part I can’t control.”

  Lyric was silent for a moment, then sighed. “You think I don’t get it?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to obsess over what you could’ve done better? To run it over and over in your head until it eats you alive?”

  Scar didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Lyric tapped the railing, watching the waves. “Drown yourself in ‘what ifs,’ and you’ll miss the ‘what now.’ That’s what gets people killed.”

  Scar knew she was right, his chest pressing tighter. He just wasn’t sure if that made it any easier.

  The wind howled past, carrying the scent of salt and rain. The ship pressed on through the storm, steady and relentless.

  Scar lifted his gaze to the darkened sky.

  I’m coming, Star.

  No matter what it took. He told himself.

  “You do that a lot?” Lyric asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Just stare at things and think real hard?”

  Scar glanced at her, the flicker of a wry smile barely visible beneath his scarf. “Thinking real hard is better than acting real dumb.”

  Lyric hummed, a frown creeping at the corner of her lips. “Alright, fair. But you're chasing 'her' across the solar system. Some might call that dumb." Lyric smirked. “So, what is she to you? Lost partner? Long-lost sister? Star-crossed lover?

  Scar didn’t flinch. “She’s my responsibility.” He shot Lyric a look. “Don’t know if that answers your question.”

  Lyric smirked, tilting her head. “Huh. ‘Responsibility.’ Think she’d like that answer? A real poetic way to dodge the question.”

  Scar gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk brief but pointed. “You always ask this many questions?” He exhaled, shaking his head.

  Lyric shrugged. "Not really. But hey, it's not every day you run into someone from Saturn."

  Scar huffed, shaking his head. She hadn’t mentioned Saturn once—just Star. No questions about the Ferrex, no curiosity about the moons. Just prodding at the one thing he wasn’t in the mood to unpack.

  Scar looked back out toward the ocean. “So… if we’re avoiding the Kaiju, does that mean those Luna soldiers are the bigger problem?”

  Lyric’s smirk faded. She pushed away from the railing, stretching her arms above her head. “Luna’s always the problem. But no, we’re clear of their eyes for now. They don’t bother much outside their own territories here on Earth. Too much effort, not enough reason.”

  She rolled her shoulders. “Doesn’t mean we can let our guard down, though. We’ll be on Kaiju watch when we reach the Docks. And that’s when the real fun begins.”

  Scar watched, as the first scattered drops of rain hit the deck.

  Mid-journey.

  A storm ahead.

  And the unknown waiting for him at the orbital launch site.

  He had a feeling the storm was only just beginning.

  ☉☉☉

  Once, this land had a name. Now, it is only Starfall—a warzone without end, where steel goliaths clash, adapt, and die, repeating the cycle for eternity.

  It began with The Lighthouse, a towering Mech Kaiju that does not fight, does not move, does not destroy. It only calls.

  And the others obey.

  Across North Texas, the wreckage focused in the former DFW Metroplex, the Lighthouse’s subsonic pulse spreads—a command that overrides, drawing other Kaiju from every corner of the Earth to converge in this forsaken graveyard. Some battle endlessly, locked in a brutal, mindless war. Others stand dormant, waiting to be awakened. A few wander aimlessly, caught in the signal’s pull.

  But none of them leave.

  None of them should leave.

  The Lighthouse did not command.

  It did not control.

  It simply called—an endless pulse reverberating through the ruins, a gravitational pull that some Kaiju could not resist. The cycle had never—until now.

  Tonight, something departed.

  A shadow detaching from the heart of Starfall—a titanic, 85-meter Mech Kaiju with no designation, no heat signature, no known origins. Unlike the others, it does not fight. It does not wait.

  The sky rumbled with distant thunder, but the ground—the ground shook with something else entirely.

  It did not pause, did not deviate, did not question its path. It only moved forward.

  It marches.

  Its destination?

  The Alamo.

  ☉☉☉

  “We lost another drone.”

  The voice broke through the tense silence of The Alamo’s command center, followed by the flickering of dead screens. A tactical operative hunched over a console, eyes darting across failing feeds.

  “Alpha-Two’s telemetry just went dark. No impact detected. No known Kaiju in range.”

  The operatives in the room exchanged uneasy glances. Mech Kaiju didn’t simply disable recon drones—they destroyed them.

  Commander Vaughn, the highest-ranking operative present, exhaled sharply. “Replay the last feed.”

  The final image blinked onto the screen—a grainy, dust-covered shot of something massive in the ruins outside Starfall.

  A blackened exo-frame, plated in Phantom-Class armor. No heat signature. No visible power source. Yet it moved.

  And worse—it had turned toward the drone before the feed cut out.

  It shouldn’t have been invisible, but it was. The Mech Kaiju had vanished from radar before it even left Starfall, its towering frame absorbed into the darkness between lightning flashes.

  But it was not mindless.

  As another Alamo recon drone attempted a high-altitude scan, its feed cut out.

  Not destroyed.

  Not shot down.

  Simply… disconnected.

  As if the unidentified Kaiju had reached into the network and pulled the plug itself.

  “Sir!” An intelligence officer’s voice cracked through the air. “We’re losing visual across multiple drone paths—it’s cutting our feeds before we even get a full scan!”

  “Tell me, is that another aimless Stray?” Vaughn’s voice was hard, but there was an edge of unease beneath it.

  “Negative, sir.” The recon operative hesitated. “It’s maintaining a direct course for The Alamo. No deviations. No unnecessary movements.”

  A long silence followed. That wasn’t normal. Strays were erratic, damaged, and malfunctioning. Not this.

  Vaughn leaned over the tactical display. “Time to perimeter breach?”

  "Four hours."

  The answer settled over the command center like a suffocating fog.

  That was too fast.

  The air in the command center thickened—not with smoke or heat, but with something heftier. The kind of dread that settled behind the ribs, that stole the breath before anyone dared to speak. Vaughn knew that kind of silence. It was the kind that came before cities fell.

  He exhaled sharply. No time for fear. Only solutions.

  “Scramble a countermeasure package—now.” His voice cut through the tension, but his operatives hesitated. There was nothing to counter it with.

  A strategist at the data terminal flicked through possible attack vectors, his hands moving in quick, restless motions. Every projected engagement ran the same result—failure.

  Railguns? No viable targeting window. Jamming interference made it like shooting a ghost in a blackout.

  Orbital strike? EMP discharge could knock the projectile off-course before impact. Risk assessment: High.

  Titans? …Maybe. But only if the pilots could resist the sync-disruptor long enough to engage.

  The data screens scrolled through alternate defenses, but nothing changed the fundamental problem.

  Black August. Designation: The Phantom Stray. Its unique traits and abilities, from stealth to EMP, made it nearly impossible to stop or target.

  That was the worst part. It wasn’t lost. It wasn’t malfunctioning. It had made the decision to leave Starfall, and it had made the decision to march on The Alamo.

  “We can’t assume this is a lone anomaly,” Vaughn said. “If this is a prelude to something bigger, we need to respond now.”

  Another operative, a younger tactician, turned toward him, face tight with controlled panic. “Sir, if that thing reaches the city, it won’t just breach our perimeter—it might override our systems. If it’s carrying a signal, we’re looking at a total blackout—with a potential swarm event.”

  Vaughn already knew that.

  They needed outside confirmation.

  Answers.

  “Send the info and a request for support to Mars Command.” He glanced at the intelligence panel. “And send a ping to the Belt—Director Vale.”

  That turned heads.The Belt?

  No one called the Belt unless they were desperate.

  A hesitation filled the room, but Vaughn didn't care. If the Luna Empire already knew about this thing and weren’t sharing intel, then The Alamo needed every rogue, smuggler, and backdoor analyst the Belt had to offer.

  “Do it,” Vaughn ordered.

  The command center was unraveling—tension breaking into outright panic. Vaughn silenced them with a single command:

  “Get me Commander Gaia. Now.”

  One of the operatives hesitated. “Sir, she’s en route to Lone Star Docks—”

  “I don’t care—contact the Canopy,” Vaughn snapped. “Commander Gaia is the only one who can coordinate extreme measures. If we don’t act before that thing reaches the city, The Alamo won't survive.”

  The communications operative nodded, fingers flying across the console.

  Static. A delay. Interference.

  The Kaiju’s signal was already affecting long-range comms.

  For a moment, they thought the call wouldn’t go through.

  Then—

  A faint, flickering transmission. A voice barely breaking through the distortion.

  “—Gaia. Come in. We have a problem.”

  The screen wavered.

  And then—one final warning before chaos would descend upon The Alamo.

  “The Phantom Stray is coming.”