Location:Nightmare's Prize, Outer Rim Warzone
POV: Lockdown
Everything is falling apart.
And not in the usual way — not like some backwater client refusing to pay up, or a bounty with too many eyes on it.
This? This is surgical. Precise. Intentional.
I stand alone on the bridge of the Nightmare's Prize, silent save for the low pulse of proximity alarms and the distant hum of subspace interference. Below, Orion's Gate — a Council orbital station — is reduced to drifting slag, its structure peeled open like a crushed pod.
Red-hot wreckage drifts past the viewport like embers in a funeral pyre.
We weren't even assigned to it. Just passing through. That was the trick — there was no pattern.
Scylla Team — off comms mid-transmission. Gone.
Revenant Squad — wiped out in orbit. No survivors.
Tyros, my most reliable field mech, disappeared without even triggering a fallback beacon.
None of this is by chance.
---
Location: Nightshade Pass, Outpost Perimeter
POV: Scylla-5
Thermals were wrong.
Movement in the treeline. Not atmospheric pressure. Not local fauna.
"Something's here," I murmured, raising my null-ray rifle. "Possible cloak flicker. Nine struts to the left."
Scylla-3 adjusted his visors, checking the feed from his sensor cluster.
And then he fell.
No comm ping. No warning. Just a blur — metal on metal — and the sound of servos meeting plating.
A black figure moved through the haze like it was born from it.
Nightburn.
He didn't pause.
One more strike — and Scylla-4 collapsed, his back strut shattered clean through.
The squad scattered. No commands. Just pure, hard-coded survival protocols.
---
Location: Ridge Overwatch, Five Kliks Later
POV: Scylla-6
My chassis aches. Vent systems are cycling irregularly.
No comm-link. Just static bleed.
I trigger the emergency burst on an open band, voice distorted from a cracked vocoder.
"We've been compromised. It's Nightburn. I repeat, it's—"
A whisper threads through the signal line:
"Too slow."
Something pierces the back of my neck strut.
And then—
Nothing.
---
Location:Nightmare's Prize, Outer Rim Warzone
POV: Lockdown
Scylla Team.Revenant.Tyros.
All wiped in ten kliks or less.
No warning shots. No distress calls. No bodies.
That's not a battle. This is pest control.
---
Location: High Orbit over Threxis Minor
POV: Revenant-Lead
"Squad sweep pattern — you know the drill."
Something shifts above us.
A shimmer. A spatial distortion. Then the stars fold inward, and the void itself fractures.
The Decimator breaches the dark, silent, colossal, moving like it commands the stars themselves.
We're not prepared.
Revenant-4's hull plating ruptures beside me — one blink, and he's atomised.
I slam the comm trigger. "Scatter! It's the Decim—"
The beam strikes.
Light consumes everything. Heat surges through my chassis, optics flare—
And somehow, through the chaos, a voice slices into the open frequency:
"Tell Lockdown: next time, I won't miss the bridge."
---
Location:Nightmare's Prize, Outer Rim Warzone
POV: Lockdown
I've tangled with Thunderblast once before.
That voice? Hers. Cold. Efficient. Precise.
She commands the Seekers, and the Decimator was there — Galvatron's shadow watching from orbit.
I didn't survive because she let me.
I hit them when they were distracted — ran them in circles, sensor ghosts, pulse mines, dust storms.
Learned it from a Charr raider — the kind that vanishes between stars and leaves corpses in their wake. They don't fight to win. They fight to survive."
Hit, vanish, bleed them dry. It's not elegant, but it works.
---
Location: Nightshade Ravine
POV: Tyros
I've torn through Wreckers with slag-caked servos. What's one more canyon drop?
Scans show faint distortion near the ravine wall — no thermal trails. No energy signatures.
I take another step—
And the ledge gives way.
He drops like thunder.
Drachen.
Before my targeting systems even lock, my right arm is severed at the shoulder strut.
Then the left.
Sparks erupt. Stabilizers fail.
He towers over me — not with rage, but with calculation. Cold. Clean.
His optics narrow.
No malice. Just... assessment.
"You're inefficient."
He drives his servo forward — piercing straight through my chassis, into my spark casing.
And then—
Darkness.
---
Location: Nightmare's Prize – Outer Orbit Combat Feed
POV: Lockdown
It began in silence.
No orbital warnings. No grand declaration. Just a flicker in the dark above Threxis Minor.
And then… death.
Shardfang vanished from the tactical grid — not disabled. Erased. One moment she held formation. The next, scattered debris.
Then Breaker's Crown — breached through her engine block mid-broadcast. Her captain's signal cut off mid-curse, swallowed by fire and static.
I issued orders.
"Reinforce the outer flank. Prowler units to inter-ship defense corridors. Shift shield lattice to accommodate—"
The stars screamed.
They fell like razors.
Red-winged Seekers tore through the defensive ring in diamond-formation, vaporizing automated flak and peeling hull layers like chitin.
No strafing. No errant fire.
Precision.
I knew that flight pattern.
Thunderblast.
She didn't have to announce herself. The elegance of the assault did it for her.
Deadspire's autocannons spun up, trying to return fire.
They never got the chance.
A pulse echoed across the comm grid — deep, harmonic, almost felt more than heard.
From the void, the Decimator emerged.
No propulsion trail. No flare. Just presence.
Its main cannon fired once.
Deadspire collapsed inward — not exploding, but imploding, like space itself rejected her.
Only two ships remained.
Carrion Blade. And mine.
Then came the next signature.
Drachen.
His Prowlers and Disruptors breached Carrion Blade's hull at four points simultaneously. Internal sensors flickered with alarm beacons — one by one, her
corridors went dark.
They were methodical.
Sweep. Clear. Silence.
By the time I flipped to her bridge feed, it was static.
And then there was one.
My optics narrowed.
Let them come.
But they already had.
"Multiple impact signatures inbound! They're triangulating on the bridge!"
Too late.
A flash outside the viewport — red contrails diving in formation.
The Seekers again. This time, faster. Closer. Focused on me.
I lunged for the command rail—
The blast hit. Direct.
The bridge erupted. Console sparks. Ceiling struts gave way.
Smoke flooded the chamber. The tactical grid burned out. Warning glyphs flared red.
The Nightmare's Prize screamed.
I slammed into the starboard bulkhead — shoulder servos grinding, optics flickering from overload.
I rose through the sparks and the smoke.
Alone.
Let them come.
---
Location:Nightmare's Prize, Main Bridge
POV: Lockdown
The hull groans like a wounded beast.
Plating tears. Systems scream. The fusion core pulses erratically beneath my pedes — a slow, ticking heart ready to burst.
This ship was my spine, my fortress, my name.
Now it's a grave.
"Tarnac," I rasp into the comms.
He appears through the smoke, dragging two wounded behind him. A dying Prowler. A Disruptor missing half its faceplate.
"We've found a secondary launch tube. I can get six, maybe seven through—"
"Then go."
He falters. "My lord—"
"Don't waste it."
I eject a memory shard. "Transmit this to the Council. If you're caught, burn it."
Tarnac salutes — then vanishes into the dark.
Footsteps.
Rhythmic. Pacing.
Drachen.
He doesn't speak right away. Doesn't gloat. Just watches.
I activate my blade.
Burnt. Cracked. But still mine.
"Galvatron's sending his pet now?" I ask.
Drachen tilts his helm.
"No. My creator requires no words."
We clash.
Blade to claw. Fist to steel. Sparks fly. Fire roars down the hallway. The ship moans.
I outthink him. Cut him once. Harpoon to the chest. He bleeds.
I grin.
He responds.
Faster. Smarter.
Stronger.
Final strike.
I lunge for the spark.
He counters.
Grips my arm.
Drives his talon into my chest.
Straight through the spark casing.
No hesitation.
"You fought well," he says.
I grin through the energon.
"You'll remember me."
"I already do."
---
Location: Wreckage Site – Orbit over Threxis Minor
POV: Drachen
Smoke curls from Lockdown's broken frame.
His blade lies beside him, scorched, notched from combat.
Drachen kneels and retrieves it.
Behind him, Seekers sweep the wreckage.
Thunderblast surveys the chaos, visor flickering.
"A waste of good plating," she mutters.
Drachen transmits the order:
{Trophy Protocol – Execution Confirmed. Artifact Alpha secured.}
---
Location:The Decimator – Trophy Vault
POV: [Internal Camera Feed]
A suspension rig lowers the blade into its display mount beside other relics — weapons, helms, symbols of conquest.
His optics narrow by a fraction. Enough to log the moment. Enough to remember it.
He does not speak.
He does not smile.
He simply turns.
And disappears into the dark.
The feed lingers.
On the blade.
On the stillness.
One by one, the vault lights dim until only the weapon remains illuminated.
Then darkness.