The thick canopy overhead cast shifting shadows across their path, the air filled with the distant cries of more mutated horrors lurking just out of sight.

  It’s a shame, really, Hunter thought. Being just far enough from its star, Namor-4 was one of those planets with better climates for life.

  Plants weren’t just plants here in this lush and tropical hell. Some pulsed faintly in a rhythm not too dissimilar from breathing. Some folded inward at the first sign of movement. Others dripped nectar so sweet it could lure prey into a slow, dreamy death.

  Evolution hadn’t just shaped Namor-4’s ecosystem. It had armed it.

  And we just had to swoop in and ruin that beauty.

  Now the lifeforms here were malformed and twisted. Artificially bioluminescent fungi clung to the gnarled trees, casting an eerie glow over the darkened path. Thick vines coiled around ancient trunks, their surfaces slick with an iridescent, almost organic sheen, as though they were more muscle fiber than plant. Somewhere in the distance, something large crashed through the underbrush, but it either hadn’t noticed them or wasn’t interested. Yet.

  They passed a tangle of vines, curling as they moved by. Hunter looked down at the fungi below and ask, “Do you think this mushroom is edible?”

  Gravel replied, “Don’t. Last time you asked if we could breathe in the spores on Carthos-7 . . .”

  “Listen, the spores smelled like citrus, and I—”

  “You hallucinated for six hours, Hunter.”

  “I didn’t. And I’m not reasonable for assuming citrus-smelling things are non-hallucinogenic,” she muttered, stepping over a gnarled root pulsing faintly with bioluminescence, “Not my fault every godforsaken planet we step foot on is always out to kill us.”

  “Not every planet,” Gravel retorted. “Just most of them.”

  Priest, walking ahead with his cybernetic fingers trailing over the interface on his wrist device, spoke without looking up. “Statistically speaking, 83% of unregulated frontier planets contain hazardous ecosystems hostile to human life. So it is not just your luck. It is probability.”

  “Woo-hoo,” Gravel said. “I love being a statistic.” He then nudged Priest with her elbow. “Hey, old man. When’s the kid gonna catch up to us?” The kid she’s referring to was Hua Fang, their pilot. At only seventy-five years old, her inexperience was obvious—if not from her flying, then from the fact that she’d chosen her own name as her codename instead of coming up with something cool and swag, like Hunter.

  As they trudged through the underbrush, Gravel took stock of their situation. His spine was back in working order—thanks to Priest’s ‘miracle hands’, which was less of a miracle and more ‘concentrated energy blast of bioactive compound Regen303’—but the dull ache in his limbs reminded him that he’d probably need a proper visit to the med bay after this job. If they survived.

  Gravel tapped his earpiece. “Fang, you there?”

  A burst of static crackled in his ear before a bright, chipper voice responded. “You rang?”

  “Status?”

  “Circling above, waiting for you slowpokes. Got a bit of turbulence—” A loud thud interrupted her, followed by a string of Mandarin curses. “Okay, more than a bit. Something just latched onto my hull. Not a fan of that.”

  “Do I even want to know what it was?” Gravel asked.

  “I dunno, it had tentacles and a real bad attitude.”

  “Fucking wonderful.” Gravel sighed. “Just stay airborne and be ready for evac.”

  “You caught us at a good time, Flower. Did you know Gravel moaned for an hour straight because he got his back scratched by a kitty cat?” Hunter chimed in.

  “My codename is Fang, Hunter. Fang!” Fang near-shouted over comms.

  “Nobody chooses their real name as their alias, Fang. I’m protecting your identity.”

  “Your full alias is Bounty Hunter, Hunter. I think I can chill with the naming.”

  “Who here’s gonna care what the kid calls herself, Hunter?” Gravel pointed to the glowing mushroom. “Because that thing ain’t.”

  “Right, sure. You two gonna team up on me, huh? You won this round.” Hunter stretched, clearly unbothered. “Let’s get to the damn facility before something with more tentacles decides we look tasty.”

  “I thought you’d like that,” Gravel smirked, only to be met with the most hateful, disdainful glare he’d ever seen in his life. “Sushi, I mean! I thought you liked sushi.”

  “Shut up,” Hunter snarled at him.

  “You two stop bickering this instance,” Priest commanded. As boisterous as the two could be when they were together, they knew when to shut up and not get on Priest’s bad side.

  The silhouette of the research facility loomed ahead, barely visible through the thick vegetation. Built decades ago by the Namorian Science Division, it had now been abandoned after their experiments—whatever they were —went catastrophically wrong. The letters had either fallen off, or were ripped off of the sign atop the front entrance by some massive creature looking for a chew toy, leaving only S, C and a reversed D hanging.

  The client, McPherson, the off-world corporate bigwig of all off-world corporate bigwigs, had been particularly vague on the details of the drive Gravel’s team was supposed to retrieve, which meant one thing—whatever was on that drive was valuable enough to kill for. They would also be paid seventy million ducats upon completing the mission, and that was enough for them to take it upon themselves without further question.

  Such was the life of bounty hunters.

  The trio crouched near the tree line, surveying the facility from a safe distance. The place was a mess—rusted security fences overgrown with vines, collapsed watchtowers, and a main entrance half-buried under decades of creeping vegetation. Yet, something still lingered beneath the surface.

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  Faint, flickering red lights lined the perimeter. An old security system? Maybe. But Gravel had been in this business long enough to know that just because a place looked dead didn’t mean it was dead.

  Priest knelt beside him, cybernetic fingers tapping against his wrist device. “Heat signatures. Three, maybe four moving inside. Non-human.”

  “Mutated?” Hunter asked, gripping her gun.

  “Possibly.” Priest’s eyes flickered. “Or automated. Some old versions of mech have unique heat signatures when powered.”

  Gravel clicked his tongue. “Great. Could be feral lab experiments, could be security drones still running on emergency power.”

  “You managed to make it sound boring,” said Hunter.

  “Oh, I know how to make it sound better. They might have tentacles.” He studied her as her dissatisfaction turned into audible growls inside her throat. “You know the teasing gets funnier the more you refuse to deny it, right?”

  “I am not into sushi,” she said.

  A floodlight snapped on from a rusted tower with a clang.

  “Fucking fuck fuck!” Gravel hissed, diving behind the nearest tree.

  The ground trembled. A deep, metallic groan echoed through the facility’s ruins that sent all the birds flying away, followed by the sound of hydraulics whining to life. Then came the thudding—heavy, deliberate footfalls.

  Priest was already moving. “We’ve been made.”

  A section of the facility’s outer wall shifted, revealing a hidden entrance. From the yawning abyss emerged something massive—eight feet tall, humanoid in shape, but unmistakably synthetic. A security mech, its body plated in corroded black armor, worn by time and tropical rot. But despite the decay, its single eye still burned bright red, and the twin rotary cannons mounted on its arms span up with a grizzly whir.

  “Shit—mech!” Hunter snapped, instincts kicking in as she dove for cover. A hail of bullets ripped through the trees, shredding bark and foliage into an explosion of splinters and smoke.

  Gravel’s pulse spiked. He hit the ground, adrenaline drowning out the pain. His fingers twitched—thank fuck, still moving. He gritted his teeth, pushing past the sharp pang in his lower back.

  “This was defo not on the briefing,” he groaned. Their client would have to give them another twenty millions, at least.

  “Move!” Priest barked, already shoving Gravel deeper into the underbrush.

  Hunter sprinted sideways, zigzagging to avoid the incoming fire as she drew her gun. “I don’t suppose that thing’s got an off switch?”

  “Yeah,” Gravel grunted, hitting the dirt as rounds whizzed past his head. “It’s called ‘blow it to fuckin’ pieces!’”

  The mech stomped forward, its metal frame creaking with each step. Its red optics flickered, scanning the jungle for its targets. Then, without warning, a cylindrical compartment on its shoulder hissed open.

  “Missiles. How 2500,” Gravel muttered.

  Twin projectiles shot out, cutting through the dawn sky with eerie precision. The first one spiraled toward Hunter.

  Without breaking stride, she vaulted over a fallen tree and twisted midair. Her gun flared—a single shot—striking the missile’s casing just as it neared her. The explosion sent her rolling across the ground, but she was alive.

  The second missile screamed toward Gravel and Priest.

  Priest raised his other cybernetic hand. Blue energy crackled to life. With a sweep of his fingers, the missile’s trajectory warped. It veered off course and smashed into the facility’s outer wall. The impact shook the ground, sending debris raining down.

  “Gravel?” Hunter crawled from the ground. “Now’s the time for a tanker.”

  A chunk the size of a motorcycle hurtled toward Gravel. He raised an arm and swiped it aside like a thrown can.

  “Okay, I felt that one,” he admitted, shaking his hand loose.

  The mech, struggling against its damaged servos, whirred back to life. Despite its battered frame, its eye flared red again, and a low, synthetic growl rumbled from its speakers. It wasn’t done yet.

  Neither was Gravel.

  “Alright, you tin-plated shitstain,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “You wanna go? Let’s go.”

  Before Hunter or Priest could react, Gravel charged.

  The mech swung a massive arm at him—fast, but not fast enough. Gravel ducked low, shoulder-checking its rusted knee joint with enough force to dent the armor. The machine staggered, red lights flickering.

  It tried to counter, raising one of its rotary cannons point-blank. Too late. Gravel seized the entire arm, his bulging muscles hardening into pitch-black as he ripped it clean off with a metallic screech. Morkanium was the name. Nobody else in this galaxy could control this material the way Gravel could. Ten times harder than diamond with only a fraction of the weight, he claimed. If only he was able to coat it around his skin faster than the sabertooth tiger’s pounce earlier.

  “Mind lending me an arm?” He grunted, flipping the severed limb in his hands like a club.

  The mech reeled, sparks spraying from its damaged joint. It lunged, swinging wildly. Gravel caught the punch with one hand, fingers crushing the metal as if it were wet clay. His Morkanium-infused muscles tensed like coiled steel cables, and when his fist connected, the kinetic energy traveled up his arm like a hammer striking an anvil.

  With a grunt of effort, he twisted—snapping the mech’s remaining arm at the elbow.

  Hunter whistled. “Damn, boulder boy. That is not how physics works.”

  Gravel took a step back, wound up, and swung the severed cannon arm like a baseball bat. The hit sent the mech airborne.

  The eight-foot war machine crashed into a nearby tree, embedding itself in the trunk with a deafening crunch. For a second, it twitched, motors whirring in protest. Then its eye spasmed one last time before going dark.

  Gravel exhaled. “Alright.” He tossed the broken cannon aside, dusting off his hands. “That’s handled.”

  Hunter and Priest just stared.

  “What?” Gravel frowned. “You saw the size of those rounds—it wasn’t gonna run out of ammo. Figured I’d just take the whole damn thing apart.”

  “At least tell us what you’re gonna do, Captain,” Hunter exhaled. “You always do this. You never remember my birthday, but I do expect you to remember we’re a team.”

  Gravel was the Captain of the Black Fang, at least in name. He enjoyed being the public face of the crew—soaking up the attention, the occasional compliments, and the hassle that came with it. But out on the ground, formal titles melted away. Authority here wasn’t handed down from some chain of command; it was claimed by whoever could best read the situation. As the old saying went, a sergeant in motion outranks a captain who’s still figuring out the plan. And Gravel? He was always in motion.

  They were more like a group of crewmates rather than a rigid hierarchy. Or, in other words, a bunch of chaotic, self-destructive goofballs.

  Before Gravel could respond, the ground trembled beneath them—faint at first, then growing stronger. The trees rustled as something heavy moved in the distance.

  Hunter snapped her gun up, eyes narrowing. “Tell me that thing didn’t just call for backup.”

  Priest adjusted his wrist device, scanning the area. His glowing eyes flickered with something close to concern. A stark contrast to his resting face. “More heat signatures. Larger.”

  “Fantastic,” Gravel muttered. He rolled his shoulders, still feeling the residual heat from his fight with the mech, then let out a hiss after a pang to his lower back. “How much larger?”

  A deep, guttural bellow cut through the jungle, sending a pack of mutated deer stampeding away. Then, through the vines and glowing fungi, they saw it.