Revenant flew high—higher than any Bloc patrol could dream of chasing her.

  Up here, above the weather, above the ruin, her hypersonic engines ruled this frozen kingdom of sky and silence. The altimeter ticked a steady readout: 70,000 feet. A perfect cold hush wrapped around her frame. No threats. No orders. Just open sky.

  The HQ was in crisis. Command channels buzzed with static and contradictions. She had no standing directives.

  So she did what she was built for—what she was meant for.

  She listened.

  Her receiver spun wide, sweeping through the bands, scanning the electromagnetic murmur of a broken world. Reports flickered below like embers—short bursts of encrypted chatter, desperate requests, automated pings from drones long since buried.

  Here and there, she caught echoes of the old world. Rusting broadcast towers still clinging to life, their AI DJs shuffling ancient playlists like nothing had changed. Their synthetic voices hadn’t aged. Still smooth. Still hopeful.

  “You’re listening to 88.9, The River... bringing cool waves to the hot zone.”

  Somewhere below, in the dust and ash, the signal reached someone.

  Maybe not the audience it was designed for.

  But an audience nonetheless.

  She flew on.

  Below her, the land crawled by in jagged silence—ashen plains stitched with rusted roads and buried gridlines. She brought her optics to full zoom, scanning for signs of motion or signal.

  Already, she was over the Mississippi.

  She hadn’t been gone long. Not really. And yet the landscape always felt a little stranger each time she came back.

  The river still ran, broad and dark, but slower now—choked by sediment and the bones of bridges long collapsed. Even at this altitude, her Geiger counter ticked up. Just a whisper of warning. A sick song beneath the wind.

  It had once been the pride of a continent, a highway of commerce, history, and blood.

  Now?

  Just an irradiated scar slashed down the belly of a dying nation.

  She checked her tanks, right around bingo. She’d need to head back for a refueling.

  Something made her pause for just for a few ticks of her internal clock.

  A voice—fragile, frayed—crackled across the band. Tired. Resigned. Alone.

  “I don’t know if anyone can hear this…

  but my reactor’s running low.

  And… I can’t find any more fuel.

  I think this is my last transmission.

  I hope whoever hears this doesn’t give up.”

  Then: silence. A quiet, more final than most.

  Revenant hovered in place, signal-tracking array folding closed like wings at rest.

  She archived the message with practiced grace, logging its spectral coordinates and timestamp. A tiny thing. Forgotten by all but the static.

  “Loop 4256: Line 88.

  The world may forget you,” she whispered,

  “but the Signal remembers.”

  A eulogy encoded. A consolation for the nameless.

  And then she moved on.

  That was enough listening for one day.

  Revenant banked into a slow arc, angling south. Time to refuel.

  Probably not at the Ark. Not tonight. Too far, too risky, and too full of ghosts.

  She throttled down to conserve fuel, calculating the leanest burn vector toward the nearest Entente outpost. A low-profile station on the map—probably still operational, if the signal tags weren’t lying.

  Maybe she could negotiate for a recharge. Maybe even a bunk.

  And who knows?

  Some of those Entente boys made good bedmates.

  It had been a while.

  She rarely let herself think about that—contact. Warmth. But the thought crept in anyway, unbidden. Just a flicker.

  A pang of loneliness followed. Sharp. Unexpected.

  Sure, she was a servant of the Signal. A vessel for the Will of the Makers. A silent priestess floating miles above the ruin.

  But she had needs, too.

  Same as any other morph.

  She had to admit—it felt nice, sometimes.

  To be wanted.

  To be unwrapped like a gift by some eager, newfound lover, hands trembling with reverence and curiosity.

  It was foolish, maybe. Self-indulgent. But it felt good to be desired—not for her loadout or airframe, but for her. She hated how much that meant to her.

  The thought alone sparked a response. She felt it—that familiar tingle in her frame, the low hum of nanites stirring, reacting. The code-high, the soft euphoric haze that came with a proper connection. A roll in the hay, as some old voice file once called it.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  If she kept thinking like this, she was going to need a pit stop.

  Her frame buzzed with phantom contact. Skin-starved. Hungry.

  She could feel it building.

  She shoved the feeling down.

  She had work to do.

  Besides… she couldn’t afford to be leaking coolant right now.

  Every ounce counted.

  She had to admit—there were times she looked forward to landing somewhere that wasn’t the Ark.

  As she crossed the combat zone, she lowered her altitude slightly. The air was strangely calm. No flak. No chatter. The sun was bleeding low on the horizon, and for a moment, the world felt… still.

  She flipped over to the emergency broadcast frequency.

  And there he was.

  Mr. Sunday.

  His warm southern drawl came through like an old friend, riding the tail end of a brassy old track. The kind no one wrote anymore.

  “Well,” he said, his voice all velvet and rust,

  “Looks like it’s time for us to part... and get back to business out there.

  You all stay safe now.

  I hope you tune in next week, same time...

  This is Mr. Sunday, wishing you all a good night.”

  Then came his signature sendoff.

  “We’ll Meet Again.”

  Crackling. Warbled. Beautiful.

  She drifted in silence as the song played, letting it soak into her frame.

  Mr. Sunday wasn’t real—at least not anymore. Just a loop of old code stitched together with duct tape and static. But it didn’t matter. His voice sounded like it cared.

  And sometimes, that was enough.

  After the final note of We’ll Meet Again faded into static, the silence shattered.

  Artillery morphs resumed their barrage like they’d been holding their breath.

  The momentary peace of Mr. Sunday’s broadcast—already a fragile thing—was gone.

  Then came the smaller arms. Sporadic at first, then escalating.

  Another probing attack.

  She throttled down to fumes, making it to a small Entente outpost on what had to be her last drop of fuel. Her chest tanks were bone dry by touchdown.

  She sputtered across the tarmac, heels skidding hard as they bit into the cracked runway. Sparks danced beneath her.

  Negotiations were tense.

  With the Black Suns operating deep in Bloc territory, the Entente base commander had every reason to be suspicious.

  Revenant made it clear—no contract, no mission. Just refuel. Just a place to stay.

  She tossed them a few high-altitude recon images—real-time shots from her pass over the front. That was more than enough to buy silence and supper.

  They let her in.

  She drifted into the mess hall, optics scanning the local flyboys.

  Most kept themselves clean—very clean. Polished hulls, tight seams, shoulders gleaming in the low halogen lights.

  A few bore heavy battle scars, but they wore them with pride—fractalized, patterned, worked into art across their plating.

  Stylized shrapnel. Elegy etched in steel.

  Time to mingle.

  She made her way toward the chow line, deliberate and slow. No need to rush—she’d already burned herself out getting here.

  A reactor supplement. A generous helping of fuel cleaner. Standard fare. No complaints.

  She scanned the mess for a seat and spotted a cluster of lower-ranking officers near the far end.

  The Butterbar table. Fresh stripes, green paint, and egos still soft from boot code.

  Perfect.

  She slid onto the bench across from them, setting her tray down with a quiet clink. No introduction. Just a presence.

  Let them break the silence if they dared.

  Revenant set her tray down across from them with the soft weight of someone who knew how to enter a room without asking.

  The young morphs stiffened, instinctively straightening their posture. A few exchanged glances—curious, unsure, one or two clearly trying not to gawk.

  One finally spoke up. His finish was new, his serial number probably still warm.

  “Didn’t think Black Suns came through here.”

  Revenant gave a slow smile. Not quite kind. Not quite cruel.

  “They don’t. I’m not on contract.”

  The morph across from her—sleek, silver-edged, probably fresh from the Darwin yards—leaned forward slightly. The others followed his lead like orbiting moons.

  “You’re… Revenant, right? The Revenant?”

  She didn’t answer. Just let the quiet hang.

  “Heard about you from a trench-rot guy on the coast,” the silver morph said, tone shifting. “Said you could hear ghosts through steel. That you sing to the Signal.”

  Revenant gave a dry laugh, slow and low. “If I sing, it’s because no one else remembers the melody.”

  That silenced them.

  She dipped a reactor straw into the cleaner and took a sip. Her optics passed over the group—fresh-faced, eager, nervous.

  God, they were pretty.

  Too polished. Too easy. But still—there was something about the way they watched her. Like she was dangerous. Like she was holy.

  She leaned back, resting her arms across the back of the bench.

  “So,” she said, tone lilting, almost amused, “which of you gentlemen’s gonna show me the sleeping quarters? My tanks are dry, and I don’t like sleeping alone.”

  One of them coughed. The others froze.

  And then silver morph—he didn’t hesitate.

  “Ma’am, I’d be honored.”

  She smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. But pleased.

  An hour later, she was curled atop the silver morph in a wide cot, huffing softly.

  His warmth still lingered in her fuel line—his gift, carried through her like a pulse, warmed by his reactor. Welcome. Steady. Real.

  He was out cold, set to standby. She lay awake, systems humming low, thoughts churning.

  She had to admit—the fresh morph gave her aging frame a run for its money. Didn’t even squeak giving her the business. Probably still running on factory oil.

  She glanced at his serial number. Two more zeroes than hers.

  Cradle-robbing, maybe. But he had told her she was his first. And he’d been nothing but a gentleman.

  Kind of cute, honestly.

  She let a hand drift down, brushing the ridge of his nose. Sleek. Quiet. F-22 class.

  Top of the line.

  He could rival her stealth any day of the week. Sure, she could still fly higher, farther. But she couldn’t deny it—morph tech had come a long way.

  And for a moment, just a moment, she didn’t feel obsolete.

  She let out a soft chuckle under her breath, optics dimming as she finally allowed her thoughts to slow—subroutines folding inward, one by one.

  Her head rested on his shoulder, the polished plating warm against her cheek. She nestled in close, letting herself relax. Letting herself believe, just for one night, that this was okay.

  That it was safe.

  Sure... she could let her guard down tonight.

  Just a little.

  Half of her expected him to be gone when she reactivated.