Spearhead

“The last place we’ll ever serve…”

“This entire unit is a hangman’s gallows.”

“Every single one of us is gonna die in this shithole.”

The despondent words of the Squadron play on repeat in Gwen’s head, torturing her, reminding her of the hopelessness she’s now faced with. After the call had ended, she’d gone searching for answers, still reeling. It just… it couldn’t be true! There had to be a reason for this- this barbarity!

Unfortunately for her, she did find answers. But they weren’t the ones she was looking for. Thumbing through the archives underneath Palace Staten, Gwen had found countless reports, all with the same key words:

Spearhead Squadron – Version XXX

Special Reconnaissance Mission

A straight thrust into OCTO-Legion territory.

Immediate execution by artillery for cowardice or failure to complete the mission.

Signed,

Lieutenant General Arthur Stacy

Every report was the same, word for word, except for which version of Spearhead Squadron. And each report all mockingly bares the same red stamp:

MISSION COMPLETED

Gwen feels sick to her stomach, barely able to breathe, as she sprints down the streets of New York. People blur past her, their faces indifferent to her urgency. She has only one destination in mind.

She stumbles to a halt in front of Peter’s manor, her hands trembling as she presses the buzzer.

“Oh, uh, hi Gwen?” Peter says, swinging his door open. “What’s going on?”

Gwen doesn’t respond. Her gaze is fixed on the ground, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turn white. Peter frowns, straightening up, his tone sharpening.

“Gwen?” he asks again.

The edge in his voice snaps her out of her stupor. She looks up at him and he wordlessly gestures for her to come inside.

Now, a few minutes later, she finds herself seated on his creamy, white couch, a steaming cup of tea in her trembling hands. A plate of homemade biscuits sits untouched on the coffee table in front of her.

“So…” Peter starts, sinking down next to her as he reaches for a biscuit. “A final mission with a success rate of 0%? Pretty on brand for this country, honestly.”

“Peter, please,” Gwen pleads, desperately. “I really need your help! We’ve gotta do something! Anything!”

“There’s no ‘we’ here, Gwen,” Peter sighs, taking a deliberate bite of his raspberry shortcake. “What could we do, anyway? Go on TV, yell at somebody important? If it were that easy to change minds, things would never be like this to begin with.”

Gwen’s head drops, her fists clenching again. Her body trembles, not just with anger but with the crushing weight of helplessness.

“Just give it up already,” Peter continues, his tone resigned. “Nothing we do matters.”

“Stop it!” Gwen cries, her voice breaking as tears sting her eyes. “Stop pretending you’re a bad person!”

Finally, she is breaking the impasse - addressing it, challenging it.

Peter stands briskly, angrily, letting his biscuit fall to the floor and smash into a hundred pieces. His sudden anger takes her by surprise.

“The only person who needs to stop here is you, Gwen!” he shoots back, his voice rising with a mixture of frustration and pain. “I’ve told you, what, a million times to not get involved? There’s nothing we can do! Not you, not me, there’s NOTHING we can do to save them!”

His voice cracks, and the anger drains from him as quickly as it came, leaving behind something raw and broken. He storms towards the large picture window at the end of his lavish living room, jabbing a finger at the rundown house next door.

“You see that?” he cries, his voice thick with frustration. “Our old neighbours used to be on my parents’ research team, so our families were always close. But that... that all changed…” His voice falters, and his shoulders slump under the weight of the memory.

“What are you…?” Gwen trails off, her heart pounding.

“They… they were always such a close family. But the problem was they were…” Peter’s face twists with a bitter smile as he makes quotation marks with his fingers. “‘Eighty-Six.’ They only had one kid, about my age, and we… we were friends.” His voice cracks, and he turns away, staring out the window.

“Pete…” Gwen whispers, her voice soft and tentative.

“We even went to the same primary school,” Peter continues, growing quieter. “But then… out of the blue, him and anyone not an Alba stopped attending.”

Gwen swallows hard, sensing where the story is headed.

“For a while, things went back to normal. We continued having playdates, but then the yellow shirts started making the rounds…” Peter’s voice grows colder, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Gwen feels a bitter taste fill her mouth. The yellow shirts are the secret police charged with hunting down and rounding up anyone without blonde hair and blue eyes by any means necessary.

“My parents and I promised to hide the family, and we did… for a time,” Peter’s voice shakes. “But then… the yellow shirts showed up, held my mum and me at gunpoint, and demanded to know where they were…”

Gwen gasps, the blood draining from her face.

“I spilled immediately,” Peter whispers, clenching his fists in frustration. “Ratted them out, and they were hauled away. I’ll never forget the look of betrayal on their faces. But even then… it didn’t matter. It was all for nothing.”

“What do you mean…?” Gwen asks, voice trembling.

“Come with me,” Peter sighs, his movements heavy as he guides her down the creaking stairs into his basement.

Gwen’s eyes widen as she takes in the space. It’s filled with dusty scientific equipment, bookshelves, whiteboards, photos, childish drawings and what she presumes are neatly organised storage boxes covered by blankets.

“What is this place?” she questions.

Peter pulls a dusty sheet off a stack of boxes, revealing strange-looking Para-RAIDs and other complicated devices. Gwen can only assume they’re early models developed before Parker Industries merged with the R&D department.

“This,” he says, bitterly, “is where it all began.”

Gwen peers at him curiously, tilting her head.

“It was so simple at first,” Peter continues, crouching down and brushing a hand over one of the devices. “My friend… his dad and uncle had this… strange power. They could tell what the other was feeling through their minds. So, they’d attach this device around their necks and then guess what the other was feeling behind a curtain.” He straightens, glancing at Gwen. “It was more like a game than an experiment.”

Gwen watches him closely, the tension in her body growing. She doesn’t move, but her fingers twitch against her sides as if bracing herself for the inevitable.

“But when the military found out there was a new kind of communication device that could replace wireless,” Peter continues, his tone hardening, “they ordered my parents to perfect it.”

Gwen stares at him, her jaw tightening. She can already guess what’s coming next, and dread pools in her stomach like lead.

Peter stands, his expression turning stoic. “The ultimate result was the Para-RAID you’re wearing on your neck. But you already know that part.”

Before she can respond, Peter tilts his head slightly. “So,” he asks, almost casually, though the sadness in his tone betrays him. “How many Eighty-Six do you reckon died to make it?”

“What…?” Gwen whispers, harshly, as her hands flicker to the Para-RAID around her neck.

“Seriously, Gwen?” Peter snaps, stepping forwards with a sudden intensity that makes her flinch. “It shares words with people – it’s not like you can test it on animals.”

“Did they…?” Gwen’s question trails off, but the answer is already clear.

“Yup!” Peter interjects sharply, his face twisting into a manic mask of guilt and fury. “Tested ‘em on humans. Although…” he lets out a hollow laugh. “They aren’t considered human, are they? Convenient loophole, huh?”

Gwen feels the floor tilt beneath her, her knees threatening to give way. Her body feels like stone—frozen and immovable.

“But wait, it gets worse!” Peter exclaims with a manic energy that sends a chill down her spine. “The test subjects were all children! Results first, safety last! They all died suffering.”

“My parents couldn’t take it,” he cackles, crazily, clutching at his hair. “And ate a nice meal of cyanide with lead for dessert!”

A shudder runs through Gwen as she whispers, “Holy fuck, Peter…” Tears well in her eyes, blurring her vision. “It wasn’t an accident?!”

“NOPE!” Peter laughs, though it’s more like a bark of despair. “Do you really think my parents, of all people, would fuck up a Para-RAID’s settings? They told me over and over and over that they had blood on their hands.”

“Jesus… I’m so sorry—” Gwen starts, taking half a step forward to try and console her friend.

He quickly moves away from her. “But oh hoh hoh!” he continues, his eyes glinting with a wild desperation. “It gets so much worse.” He takes a stumbling step back, clutching his head like it’s physically hurting him. “They told me they deserved to suffer and die more than anyone. And if that’s the case…” He gestures broadly at the lab. “Then what exactly do I deserve? I bear the same sin, don’t I? This is my punishment for ratting them out.”

Gwen stares at him, her eyes wide and filled with a mix of pity and horror.

“So,” Peter continues, his voice dropping, almost conversational now, “I decided I may as well wear it. Took over my parents’ research, victims and all.”

Gwen shakes her head in disbelief. “N- no, Peter, you—”

“That Undertaker of yours?” Peter asks, gesturing towards her. “We got the request to investigate him because of the dead handlers, remember?”

“Yeah…” Gwen nods, unsure of where this is going.

“I thought that if I could bring in the Processor at the root of it all, I might have somehow been able to save him, if nobody else. But that’s pure fucking hypocrisy,” Peter says with self-loathing. “I’m so glad those shitheads at transport refused to bring him in. We don’t have the capacity to save anyone.”

“But, Peter, we could still—” Gwen begins, trying to find a sliver of hope.

“And you,” Peter snarls, cutting her off as his eyes lock onto hers. “With all your hope, you’re no different. In fact, you’re even worse! You were so determined to interfere and keep them all alive that they’re now looking down the barrel of a suicide order!”

“That… that can’t be—" Gwen stammers, taking two steps back, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

“If you had just slacked off like everyone else,” Peter spits, his voice filled with venom. “They might’ve had a chance to escape!”

Gwen gasps, the tears finally spilling over as the full weight of his words crashes down on her. Peter lets out a shaky sigh, his anger deflating as he collapses against the lab bench, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Just leave,” he whispers, hollow and broken. “Please, Gwen. Just leave.”

*****

10 – 9 – 2048

Gwen storms into the grand cathedral, throwing the double doors open with a bang. At the end of the central aisle, standing at the pulpit, scrutinising a grand statue of Saint Atlantica, Lieutenant General Arthur Stacy waits patiently with his hands behind his back.

That morning, Gwen had received the mission order she’d been waiting for. She had entered her command-and-control room to find an unassuming, maroon folder sitting on her desk alongside a creamy, white note. Dread had filled her stomach. She didn’t even have to open the folder to know what it contained. Briskly grabbing the folder and reading the note, she’d stormed out of the room and made her way to the instructed location on the note.

Now, inside the chapel, her uncle slowly turns as the resounding bang of the doors echoes through the space. He watches his niece striding down the aisle, her body rigid with determination. She stops at the marble steps and stands with her head held high.

“I formally request the cancellation of the special recon orders given to the Spearhead Squadron,” Gwen says, her voice strong as she holds up the maroon folder for Arthur to read.

“Do you remember that I told you to not get too involved?” Arthur growls, turning back to the statue with his head downcast.

“Yeah, and I’m kinda sick of hearing it,” Gwen snaps, her voice rising and echoing through the empty space. “This is insane, Uncle, and you know it!”

Arthur sighs once again but doesn’t respond immediately. Gwen pushes forwards, marching up the steps.

“The Eighty-Six must be wiped out,” Arthur states, coldly, after a moment of deliberation.

He is refusing to meet her eye. Gwen stops in her tracks, pausing half-way up.

“That is the safest option for this country according to its government, and by extension, its people.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a total sell-out!” Gwen yells.

“I’m a realist,” Arthur snaps. “Can you imagine what would happen if the international community found out? We’d become a pariah state. History will never look at us the same again.”

“So, our national ego is why we’re denying them even basic human rights?!”

“When the last of the Eighty-Six die, it will be as if they never existed at all, and the Republic will retain its dignity,” Arthur says matter-of-factly.

Gwen grimaces. “Stop repeating our government’s delusional talking-points! You know as well as I do that other countries will notice regardless of whether they die or not!”

Arthur continues on, trying to drill his message into Gwen’s stubborn mind. “Some people will know the truth, but most won’t care. And it’s our role as servicemen to enact the will of the people, no matter how horrible it may be.”

He brushes past her and descends the steps, making his way up the aisle and towards the grand doors.

“But they’re a part of the Republic, too!” Gwen protests, ascending the rest of the steps. She points towards the statue desperately. “So, shouldn’t the ideals preached by Saint Atlantica herself apply to them too? And if not, how is this the will of the fucking people?!”

Arthur spins around, glaring at Gwen. “This is a country overrun with fools and villains, the very same sort who had her executed! READ THE HISTORY, GWENDOLYN! WHAT MORE CAN YOU EXPECT FROM THEM?”

A tense silence fills the space as Gwen and her uncle glare at each other, neither willing to budge.

“Humankind has never been ready to have freedom and equality,” Arthur says, sadly, breaking the tense stalemate. “Fear of the other, the different, will always override decency. Which is why I personally think we never will be ready. This is just yet another brick in the wall.”

“That’s such a weak excuse! Stop trying to justify your despair!” Gwen pleads. “You know this is wrong, I know you do!”

“You’re welcome to dream all you want, but you’re not going to persuade anyone.” Arthur turns away, reaching for the door handles. “It’s why you came to me, right?”

Gwen opens her mouth to protest, but words don’t come out. He’s right. There’s probably no-one above the rank of Major who’d listen to her. They’re all to apathetic and complacent. If it isn’t them suffering, why should they care?

“Hope and despair are one and the same,” Arthur says, pulling the well-oiled doors open. “You want something you can’t have. They’re two sides of the same coin.”

With a final glance at his niece, Arthur slams the doors shut behind him, leaving Gwen and Saint Atlantica all alone.

*****

“Captain Morales,” Gwen says, quietly, her voice heavy with hesitation. “I’ve been given special recon orders.”

She sits at her desk, her shoulders slumped, head buried in her hands. The dim light of the room casts long shadows on the walls, and the relentless rain outside beats against the window in a steady, rhythmic tapping whilst thunder rumbles faintly in the distance.

“I received them,” Miles responds plainly, his tone unreadable.

Gwen grimaces, her fingers tightening into a fist. Her knuckles turn white as she bites her lip. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, barely able to force the words out. “I tried as hard as I could.”

“I can imagine,” Miles replies calmly.

“You don’t have to listen to them, there’s no point,” Gwen says, her voice trembling with urgency. She lifts her head slightly, eyes darting to the rain-soaked window, searching for answers. “Just run away.”

“Where is there to run?” Miles asks, softly, the weight of his words sinking into the silence between them. “Everybody dies someday. Can’t really blame someone if it comes a little earlier than you expect.”

“But— but why?” Gwen cries, her voice rising in frustration and despair. Her chair creaks as she leans forward, gripping the edge of the desk tightly. “Why do you just accept it?”

Miles doesn’t answer immediately. The pause stretches out, filled only by the steady downpour outside. Finally, he speaks, his voice so soft it almost blends with the rain.

“Major… for us, we aren’t just walkin’ to our deaths. I guess we’re finally following the path we want, going to the place we wanna go.”

Gwen’s chest tightens at his words, the resignation in them like a knife twisting in her heart. She clenches her jaw, trying to push back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “Then at least don’t fight anymore!” she begs, her voice breaking.

“We’ve gotta if we want to move forward,” Miles explains sadly. “We’ve known that from the start.”

Gwen suddenly jolts in her chair, her breath hitching as a strange, fleeting vision flashes across the Para-RAID. It’s brief—just a split-second flicker—but it’s enough. She sees the moonlit memorial where she first learned about Miles’ past, the memories surfacing with startling clarity. Her eyes widen as everything falls into place. Finally, FINALLY, she understands him.

“Because you can’t move forwards without killing your uncle,” Gwen states, sitting up straight, eyes wide in realisation.

Miles, normally so measured and calm, lets out a shocked gasp. The sound hangs in the air before the resonance falls into silence, broken only by the violent patter of rain against the window.

“Why’d you have to realise that?” he asks, his voice filled with pain and something resembling regret.

Gwen grimaces. “Of course I did. Whenever you laugh… it’s to hide the pain, isn’t it?”

Miles doesn’t respond. His silence is answer enough.

“Especially when you talk about Aaron,” Gwen whispers, her gaze shifting to the board on the wall. It’s almost bare now, with only six sticky notes left. Her eyes settle on the one in the top-left corner: Aaron’s note, with a simplistic drawing of his face. Just like the others that remain.

“You don’t have to do this,” she pleads, her voice cracking. “He might be part of the Legion, but he’s still your uncle.”

“He’s a shepherd,” Miles states bluntly. The cold finality in his voice makes Gwen’s stomach churn. “I can’t go anywhere without killing him.”

“Captain!”

“Major,” Miles sighs, his tone softening again, though it’s laced with exhaustion. “You don’t have to monitor us anymore. I don’t… I don’t want you to hear his last words.”

Gwen abruptly stands, her movements sudden and forceful. Her chair crashes to the floor with a clatter, once again, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I—” she starts, but her voice falters.

“Please don’t contact us again,” Miles says, his voice carrying an air of finality.

Gwen’s legs buckle, and she slumps to the floor, her head bowing as waves of helplessness wash over her, the reality of the situation crushing her.

Then, softly, for perhaps what will be the last time, Miles’ voice floats through the resonance.

“If you go past the southwestern border,” he says, his tone almost pleading. “You won’t hear the voices of the Legion anymore. If anyone is left alive, that’s where help might show up.”

“What are you—” Gwen begins, her voice thick with emotion.

“When a shepherd dies, the Legion are thrown into chaos,” Miles explains. “Well, at least for a little while. That’s your window. From then on… it’s only a matter of time until the Republic falls. They’re coming for it all.”

“Miles…” Gwen whispers, the word barely audible.

“Please just survive, Gwen,” Miles says, his voice bordering on a desperate plea. “Until then at least. Please.”

Moments later, perhaps unable to bear the pain, Miles shuts off the Para-RAID and the resonance goes dead.

Gwen stands frozen in her room, her body trembling as the reality of the situation sinks in. The rain outside seems to grow louder, a relentless drumbeat against the window. She stares blankly ahead, unsure of what to do, the silence in the room deafening.

Gwen looks to her left, towards the glass box commemorating the fallen processors under her command. After a brief moment, she takes a deep, long breath, blinking away tears.

A long idle rage burns deep in her core, rearing violently to the surface.

Her face hardens.

Her fists clench.

“Fuck it,” she says, coldly.

She’s done being stomped on. Done with this system. Done with life. Done with this hopeless situation.

“Imma do my own thing.”

And dashes out of her room without a second thought.

*****

Miles trudges towards the hangars, battling the biting, icy rain. Ominous, grey clouds loom overhead as rain pelts down relentlessly, clattering noisily on the steel roof as night sets in.

“Well?” Miles asks, walking up behind Peni.

“You’re packed up with all the provisions,” she says, sadly, looking over the loaded-up trailers attached to Spi-do. “You’ve got all the fuel, ammo, food and spare parts we could muster.”

“Thanks,” Miles says, a hint of guilt in his voice.

Knowing the suicide orders were coming soon, he’d asked Peni and the maintenance crew to load up everything they possibly could in preparation as soon as possible. They’d worked tirelessly, day and night, ensuring everything was ready, as evidenced now by them dozing in the middle of the hangar, catching up on some well-deserved rest.

“Don’t mention it,” Peni yawns, rubbing her tired eyes. “By the way, I packed a bunch of spare legs for a certain someone. You do know how to do your own minor repairs and changes right?”

“I appreciate it,” Miles replies. “And yeah, I can, given how much I break ‘em.”

“At least try to sound sorry, you asshole!” Peni chides, leaning in to poke his chest angrily. “Just don’t fight like you normally do, ok?”

“That’s a promise I ain’t gonna be able to keep.”

“Eugh…” Peni rolls her eyes, then sighs deeply and looks to the floor. “You could at least lie to me given this is the last time.”

“Sorry…”

“You’re a real piece of work,” Peni grumbles, patting him on the back. Then, wordlessly, she walks away, heading to her crew.

Miles turns to look at their SP/DR’s, all neatly parked next to each other. He spots Hobie and the others inspecting them one by one. Silently, he pads over towards them to inspect Undertaker and retrieve the green ammo crate from inside its cockpit.

He clambers up the SP/DR’s lean frame and fishes around for the box. Hands grasping the cool metal handle, he yanks it out and sets it down on the console with a soft chink. Hobie watches him curiously, as Miles retrieves a piece of scrap metal from his pocket, engraved with the word: Heavy.

“Feels bad, man,” Hobie states, leaning in to look at the scrap. “He would’ve loved this mission.”

“Yeah,” Miles sighs, placing the piece of Punisher’s insignia into the box, next to Cam’s. Spi-do had found Heavy’s unit, Punisher, earlier that morning. Or at least, what was left of it. He’d kamikazed himself into the Legion, intentionally detonating his spare ammunition, taking at least a twenty with him in the resulting blast.

“Reckon this rain’s gonna stop?” Ganke asks, walking over with Pav and Phin trailing behind.

“Having clear skies would be wonderful,” Pav gushes, looking wistfully outside and placing his hand on his heart.

“We’re gonna get some chow,” Phin states, gesturing in the direction of the mess hall. “You guys gonna join us?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Hobie says, looking towards Miles, searching for… something on his face. Miles subconsciously touches the raid device on his ear.

“I’ll join you guys a bit later,” he says softly. “I’ve… I’ve got a call to make, one last time.”

*****

“Please just survive, Gwen,” Miles says, his voice bordering on a desperate plea. “Until then at least. Please.” As soon as the words leave his lips, painfully, reluctantly, Miles flicks the Para-RAID off, plunging his room into heavy silence. He exhales a deep, weary sigh, the weight of resignation pressing on his chest. Why was it so difficult…?

His hands find his combat knife, fidgeting with it aimlessly, the blade catching faint glimmers of light in the dim room. From across the base, cheerful shouts and laughter echo—Spearhead must be mucking around, playing one of their games after dinner. Normally, he’d wander over, a book in hand, just to sit with them and quietly read.

But not tonight.

His fingers itch, his grip tightening around the knife, as the silvery voice plays on repeat in his head.

That’s the last time he’ll hear her voice. And… he doesn’t want to forget it…

The realisation strikes him swiftly, like a flash of lightning.

His head snaps towards the makeshift bookshelf in the corner. He stares for a moment, his breath uneven, before forcing himself to stand. Each step feels heavier than the last as he approaches the small fridge tucked beneath the shelves. Reaching inside, his hand plunges deep inside until his fingers brush against something familiar. Slowly, he pulls it out—his long-abandoned sketchbook, its once-pristine cover now scratched and faded.

He stares at it for what feels like an eternity, his heart hammering in his chest. The edges are frayed, the surface smudged with faint stains and years of neglect. It feels like he’s holding a piece of himself he’s long since buried. It is, honestly. He hasn’t drawn since… Aaron… With trembling hands, he brushes away the thin layer of dust and cobwebs clinging to it.

Finally, he returns to his desk, lowering himself into the chair with a shuddering breath. The room feels smaller, heavier, as he flips open the sketchbook. Chaos greets him—cluttered pages filled with drawings, some finished, others in various stages of completion, rough lines, and faint smudges. They’re all heart-wrenchingly familiar. Miles swiftly flicks to the back, finding one lonely blank page at the very end.

Picking up a pencil, Miles hesitates, the silence around him almost deafening. Then, with a cautious, almost fearful touch, he begins to draw.

Emerging from his room an incomprehensible amount of time later, Miles silently moves through the empty halls. Reaching the rec room, he slips inside and makes his way to the old desk sitting by the left wall. Clutching his artbook and a few other important keepsakes, he pulls open the top drawer and gently places the mementos inside with a soft, fulfilled smile.

*****

11 – 9 – 2048

The next morning, the Autumn sun beams brightly over the FOB, its golden rays glinting off the fresh morning dew. The light makes the entire compound gleam as though it has been scrubbed clean, like all its past scars and blemishes have been washed away, starting anew. The air is crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and wet grass, as if nature itself has taken a deep breath of renewal.

“I guess the Major really is leaving us alone,” Ganke states as the final five Processors of Spearhead Squadron make their way down the hallway, their footsteps echoing softly against the floor.

“What’s wrong, bruv?” Hobie teases with a sly grin. “You miss her or somethin’?”

“Not even close,” Ganke replies with a yawn, stretching his arms above his head. “Feels a bit strange, though.”

Pav leans in to join the conversation. “After all the time we spent together, I would’ve thought she’d at least say goodbye,” he says, his brows furrowing in sadness and disappointment.

“Basically that,” Ganke mutters, looking at Hobie.

“Can’t believe it finally sunk in,” Phin mumbles, walking a step behind the group. “I don’t think it’s something to be upset about.”

Miles remains silent, his expression stoic as he strides ahead of the others. Without a word, he pushes open the double doors and steps outside into the crisp morning air.

“Damn, the rain finally stopped,” Phin notes, shielding her eyes from the sunlight as she peers up at the clear, unblemished sky. The sight of it feels like a blessing as they go into the beyond.

The group walks briskly across the courtyard, deftly dodging large puddles more akin to landmines than bodies of water. Ahead of them, their SP/DR’s stand neatly lined up in front of the hangar, metallic frames glinting in the sunlight.

“Holy,” Hobie exclaims, his eyes widening. “Never seen ‘em so clean before.”

“I touched up the emblems,” Ganke adds, his voice tinged with pride. While he knows he isn’t quite the artist Miles is, he takes satisfaction in painting the group’s insignias.

The team clambers into their respective units, the mechanical frames welcoming them like old friends. Inside, they adjust the controls and strap on their seatbelts with practiced efficiency.

“What’s this?” Hobie asks, holding up a bright box of candy he finds tucked in the Anarchist’s seat. The others quickly search their SP/DR’s and uncover small packages of lollies as well.

They all turn to the maintenance crew, who stand a short distance away, grinning and waving.

“Even to the end, Peni’s still giving us small gifts,” Hobie sighs, his voice soft with appreciation as he waves back in thanks.

The other Processors mimic the gesture, thankful for the maintenance crew who truly are the unsung heroes of the unit. Soon, they settle back into their SP/DR’s, fingers gliding over switches and buttons as the engines roar to life. Cockpits close with a hiss, sealing them into their mechanical coffins.

“We all set?” Hobie’s voice crackles through the Resonance, cutting through the faint hum of their SP/DR’s.

A chorus of affirmations echoes back, all except for Miles, who remains characteristically silent.

“Miles?” Hobie presses after a beat.

“Aight,” Miles finally responds, his voice commanding. “Let’s go.”

With a swift motion, Miles spurs Undertaker forwards, the metallic legs moving in perfect synchrony. The others follow his lead, forming a tight formation behind him, with Spi-do dutifully bringing up the rear.

“Distance unknown, direction due North,” Miles announces through the Resonance, his tone steady and resolute. “Let’s do work.”

He smirks to himself, his expression fierce.

Come get some, uncle.