The hangar itself was thunder—metal, voices, the metallic tang of fuel and hot engines. The troop transporter waited like a behemoth on the tarmac, its ramp yawning open to accept the convoy of men, tanks, and support vehicles that would bring the fight to the planet below. Crews hustled. Crates stamped with department seals were stacked in neat columns.
Mechanics tightened bolts with rhythmic efficiency.
Billix, hunched and quick-fingered, rolled a cart piled high with spare parts, his hands moving with a practiced grace born of long nights in maintenance bays. He nodded to Captain One Arm as he passed, the kind of nod that said without words.
The loading took hours but felt like seconds. Fighters were chained into their cradles, tank turrets were locked and secured, and small armored carriers clicked into place along the transporter's belly. Soldiers strapped in, checking seals and murmuring short prayers or jokes to break the tension. Families of comrades exchanged clipped salutes and last-minute advice. When every last pallet was secured, the transporter's internal lights dimmed and the intercom chimed, crisp and command-sure.
Captain One Arm stepped to the nearest microphone and cleared his throat. His voice held the steady rasp of a man who had spent more nights under the stars than in beds. "Listen up," he began. The hum of engines and the creak of metal softened as voices drew in. "Once we reach the planet where the demon factories are located, we will establish a combat outpost and an airfield. After that's set up, we will launch a massive invasion and then break into smaller columns and task forces. This fight is not a sprint—it is predicted to take a year or two. We will cycle you soldiers out after a month-long deployment. We will rotate, resupply, and rebuild as needed. We don't ask for bravery; we simply ask for duty."
A hush followed, soldiers absorbing the plan, the scale of what they were about to do pressing against their ribs. Captain One Arm felt the weight of their trust like a hand on his shoulder.
He continued, softer now, not for orders but for the people who listened. "Watch each other's backs. Hold to your formations. When you see someone falter, be the one to hold them up. We go together, we fight together, and we come home together."
There was a sound then—less like applause and more like resolve—boots striking metal in a cadence that felt like promise. Red Riot caught Captain One Arm's eye and gave a small, fierce grin.
Claus gave a short, sharp salute before jamming the last crate into place. Outside, the transporter's engines powered up, and a low, rolling thunder ran along the hangar floor.
They were bound for a planet with smoke on its horizon and factories that forged terror. The ship sealed, vents cycling, and a final list of checks ran across the captain's console. Captain One Arm stepped back, shoulders straight, the cane under his hand as steady as ever. Whatever this trial demanded, he would meet it. The mission began. The ship landed, and the operation began.