Tatehan's mind was still trying to wrap itself around the concept of space pirates.

He couldn't help it. The image was too vivid now, too compelling to let go of. It was mind-blowing even.

He found himself imagining what they would actually look like, these renegades of the stellar void. Would they dress like the old pirates from Earth's history? Tricorn hats and long coats, except made from thermal-resistant fabrics and lined with oxygen recyclers?

Or would they look completely different, practical and utilitarian, all jumpsuits and magnetic boots and helmets scarred from a thousand near-misses with debris?

Maybe they'd wear patchwork armor, he thought, scavenged from a dozen different sources. Mismatched plates of hull plating welded together, painted with crude symbols and kill tallies. Maybe they'd have bandoliers not of bullets but of energy cells, tools hanging from their belts instead of cutlasses. And their faces—would they be scarred from vacuum exposure? Tattooed with star charts and coordinates? Or would they just look like regular people who'd chosen an irregular life?

And their ships.

Tatehan's imagination ran wild with that one. The children's book Riven had described painted them as patchwork vessels, cobbled together from salvage and desperation. But realistically, they'd probably look like normal spaceships, wouldn't they? Sleek hulls designed for speed and maneuverability, reinforced with whatever materials could withstand the rigors of space travel. Maybe they'd have hidden weapon bays, concealed beneath false panels. Maybe they'd run dark, with minimal lighting and dampened engine signatures, ghosts drifting through the black.

Or maybe, just maybe, they'd be exactly as Riven imagined them: wild, chaotic things with solar sails catching stellar winds, hulls painted in defiant colors, bristling with mismatched guns and grappling hooks and boarding pods.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized it didn't sound ridiculous anymore.

It sounded possible.

Hell, it sounded amazing.

Tatehan glanced at Riven, who was still gazing up at the sky, with that distant, dreamy look in her eyes.

A question formed in his mind, one that was only sensible he asked.

"How do you plan to buy a spaceship?" he asked.

Riven blinked, pulled from whatever future she'd been imagining, and looked at him.

For a moment, she didn't answer. Then she shrugged, a small, almost sheepish gesture.

"I'm not really sure yet," she admitted. "But who knows? Maybe I'll save up enough to build one."

Tatehan's eyebrows shot up.

"Build?" he repeated, incredulous. "As in... construct a spaceship from scratch?"

Riven realized how absurd that sounded the moment the words left her mouth. She let out a short laugh, shaking her head.

"Okay, yeah, that does sound a little insane," she said, her smile widening. "But I'm serious. I mean, people do it, right? There are shipyards, engineers, fabricators. If you have the credits and the connections, you can commission a custom build. Or at least, that's what I've read."

She paused, her expression becoming more thoughtful.

"Let's see what the future holds," she continued, her tone softening. "There are cities that sell spaceships. I know that much. Big trade hubs, places where freighters and transports dock regularly. They've got dealerships, markets, auctions. Though..." She trailed off, her smile fading slightly. "Acquiring one is the problem."

Tatehan leaned back against the railing, processing her words.

Cities that sold spaceships.

The idea was wild, but also... not that surprising, now that he thought about it. Mars was a colonized planet. Humanity had spread across its surface, terraformed it, built cities and infrastructure. Of course there would be spaceports. Of course there would be commerce in ships designed to travel between worlds.

But what would that even look like?

Tatehan tried to picture it. A massive hangar, maybe, with ships of all sizes lined up like cars in a dealership lot. Sleek passenger vessels for wealthy travelers. Bulky cargo haulers for interplanetary trade. Maybe even military-grade fighters for security forces or private contractors.

And the prices.

God!, the prices had to be astronomical.

Spaceships weren't like cars or bikes. They were complex machines capable of surviving the vacuum of space, of traveling millions of kilometers, of withstanding radiation and micrometeor impacts. The engineering alone would cost a fortune, let alone the materials, the fuel systems, the life support.

Who could even afford something like that?

Tatehan doubted commoners could just walk up and buy a ship. Maybe only the heads of cities had the resources. Maybe it was restricted to governments, corporations, the ultra-wealthy. Or maybe there was a black market, places where you could get a ship if you knew the right people and had the right amount of credits: no questions asked.

Riven probably knew more about it than she was letting on. She'd clearly researched this dream of hers extensively. But even so, the barrier between wanting a spaceship and actually getting one seemed impossibly high.

Still, Tatehan thought, if anyone could pull it off, it was probably Riven?

Maybe she had the determination and the stubbornness. The refusal to let go of something once she'd set her mind to it.

And hell, if she ever did get a ship and go full space pirate, Tatehan had no doubt she'd be damn good at it.

It was crazy how he had a spaceship for free! And he had the most powerful one in all the galaxies— probably (definitely).

He would he able to explore and do all this stuffs…

He was about to say something—maybe crack a joke, maybe wish her luck—when the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairwell behind them.

Both of them turned.

A guard emerged onto the roof, slightly out of breath, his expression urgent.

"Commander Tatehan!" the guard called out, jogging over. "The commander needs you in her office. Now. It's urgent."

Tatehan straightened, his relaxed posture shifting immediately into something more alert.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know all the details, sir," the guard said, shaking his head. "But she said to bring you immediately.

Riven and Tatehan exchanged a glance.

Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

"Let's go," Tatehan said.

They followed the guard back down through the base, moving quickly through the corridors. Soldiers and personnel stepped aside as they passed, some offering quick salutes, others just watching with curious or concerned expressions.

When they reached the commander's office, the door was already open.

The commander stood behind her desk, her arms crossed, her face set in a grim expression that Tatehan had come to recognize as bad news incoming.

But it was the screen behind her that made Tatehan almost sigh.

The massive holographic display dominated the wall, showing a live feed from somewhere in Waython Hollow.

And on that feed, towering over buildings, smashing through streets, was a mech.

Not a small one. Not some maintenance bot or construction rig.

This was a full-scale combat mech, easily twenty meters tall, bristling with weapons and armor plating. Its design was angular, brutal, all hard edges and reinforced joints. One arm ended in a massive rotary cannon that was currently tearing through a building, sending chunks of concrete and steel flying. The other arm wielded some kind of plasma cutter, glowing white-hot as it sliced through vehicles and infrastructure like they were made of paper.

The mech's cockpit was a dark, reinforced (surely) dome near the top, its sensors glowing red as it scanned the streets below.

And everywhere it moved, destruction followed.

Tatehan stared at the screen, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.

A mech.

A goddamn mech!

In the middle of Waython Hollow.

'How was this possible!'

Didn't they just fight some monsters that killed lots of waython hollow citizens some days ago?

The commander's voice cut through the stunned silence.

"It appeared fifteen minutes ago," she said, her tone clipped and professional but laced with barely restrained fury. She must be fuming with anger and it was obvious she was barely holding it in.

"No warning. No transmission. It.. it…It just... arrived. And it's been tearing through the eastern district ever since."

She pulled up additional feeds, showing different angles of the destruction. Civilians fleeing, buildings collapsing, emergency services scrambling to respond.

"We've tried engaging it," the commander continued. " I mean, I didn't want to disturb you after all you've been through recently. So I sent security forces, Red Crest soldiers. Nothing's working. Small arms fire bounces off the armor. Energy weapons barely scratch it. And every time we get close, it just..." She gestured to the screen, where the mech's rotary cannon spun up and unleashed a barrage that vaporized an entire squad. "...does that."

Tatehan's hands clenched into fists.

'What the fuck is happening to this city.'

What angered him was that more people were going to lose their lives again.

Innocent citizens were going to die again. He could bet they already doing so now.

"Where did it come from?" he asked, his voice low.

The commander's expression darkened further.

"We don't know," she said. "But I'd bet everything I have that the Obscuron sent it."

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