Of - Lawrence London, Halif Faruk, Roman Mercur... Now

“And back,” London replied, slamming a fresh power cell into his rifle.

The air in the sterile briefing room was thick with the scent of ozone and recycled oxygen. , his face a map of scars and sun-faded tattoos, leaned over the holographic display. He was the anchor, the veteran who had seen more deep-space combat than the rest of the crew combined. OF - Lawrence London, Halif Faruk, Roman Mercur...

“To the edge?” Mercur asked, checking the edge of his vibro-blade. “And back,” London replied, slamming a fresh power

“We’re hitting the Aegis refinery at 0400,” London grumbled, his voice like gravel. “No mistakes. This isn’t a training sim.” He was the anchor, the veteran who had

“Then don’t miss,” a cool, melodic voice interjected. stood by the window, watching the distant stars. He was the team’s specialist—agile, silent, and dangerously precise. His reputation preceded him; some said he was more machine than man, a whisper in the dark that ended wars before they began.

As they prepped their gear, the camaraderie was unspoken but absolute. They were the outliers, the ones the Federation called when diplomacy failed and the odds were impossible.

The hangar doors hissed open, revealing the sleek, black silhouette of their ship. The mission was suicide to some, but to London, Faruk, and Mercur, it was just another Tuesday in the void.