The SS Ouroboros approached Wasteland like a shadow slipping across a sea of darkness, its scratched metal hull dimly reflecting the ochre light of the desert planet. The hum of the engines grew sharper, a mechanical lament that vibrated in the crew's bones, summoning them from their cabins like an ineluctable call. One by one, the members gathered in the common room, a haven of neon light and the smell of synthetic coffee, a fragile oasis against the hostile immensity of space. The metallic voice of Phase, the pilot unit, echoed from the speakers, cold and impersonal: "Prepare for landing. Destination: Lost City, Oromo district."
Nicky Von Lenz was the first to break the silence, his enthusiasm a sunbeam cutting through the gloom. "Are we finally there?" he exclaimed, his golden horns glinting under the artificial lights, his blonde hair ruffled by an energy that seemed to defy the weight of the journey. His eyes shone, fixed on the viewport where Wasteland loomed like an arid wound, a desert promising adventure more than danger.
Erick Huy, the Commander, rose from his station, his butterfly wings trembling slightly, mosaics of blue and gold that seemed to dance under the neon. His tone was serious, an anchor of authority amidst Nicky's excitement. "Yes, we will land in Lost City, in the Oromo district. Once there, we must go to the Papacy's embassy to get our visa. The mission requires discretion, but I doubt our arrival will go unnoticed." His words carried the weight of a man who knew the games of power, a veil of concern cracking his composure.
Micheal, sitting on the couch with a mug of synthetic coffee in his hands, nodded slowly, the warmth of the drink thawing his chilled fingers. He took a sip, the bitter taste stinging his tongue, and in that moment his gaze fell on a corner of the room. There, seated at an isolated table, was another member of the crew, a figure who seemed sculpted from shadow itself. Niles. Tall, muscular, imposing, his black helmet swallowed every trace of his face, a void that defied curiosity. His gloved hands gripped a coffee mug, motionless on the table, as if it were an object of contemplation rather than a drink. No one had ever seen his face, and no one, truth be told, seemed to have paid him much attention. Niles had recently joined the Fifth Division, an enigma wrapped in armor, his skills still a mystery that no one had had the courage or interest to probe.
"Hey, Niles," Micheal called out, his voice breaking the silence like a stone cast into a still pond. "What do you think? How do you see the situation?" He leaned slightly forward, hopeful of eliciting a response from the silent man.
Niles did not move. He did not turn his head, nor gesture. He remained immobile, his gaze—or what the helmet concealed—fixed on the mug, as if the world around him had vanished. Micheal frowned, an irritation pricking his chest. "Hey, are you listening to me?!" he insisted, raising his voice, his tone betraying a growing frustration.
Erick intervened, placing a hand on Micheal's shoulder to placate him. "Leave it alone. I've never seen him speak. To be honest, I've never even seen him without that helmet. And I conducted his interview to join the division." His voice was calm, but there was a note of resignation, as if Niles were an enigma he had accepted not to solve.
Micheal turned to the Commander, his eyes wide with surprise. "Seriously? Then why did you hire him?" he asked, confusion rippling across his face.
Nicky joined the conversation, an ironic smile dancing on his lips. "Yes, truly, could you not find a more… err… suitable member, Commander?"
Erick scratched the back of his neck, an embarrassed gesture that betrayed his discomfort. "Well, the Commander of the Seventh Division, Vivian, asked me to. I owed her a favor. Besides, his Imprint isn't bad. All things considered, it could have been worse."
Nicky and Micheal exchanged a glance, a flash of complicity sparking their smiles. "Erick… is it possible that…?" Nicky began, stifling a laugh.
"Yeah… I was thinking the same thing, Nicky," Micheal continued, the jesting tone barely masking his curiosity. "Did Vivian talk you into it again? Damn it, you're her doormat, Erick!"
Erick blushed, waving a hand as if to dismiss the accusations. "No! What are you saying? I told you, I owed her a favor!"
"Sure you did, Commander," Nicky retorted, laughing. "You just can't say no to women, can you?"
"It must be your Venusian nature," Micheal added, needling him. "Did you at least manage to get anywhere with her?"
"Oh, why don't you mind your own business?!" Erick burst out, his tone rising with irritation, his wings stiffening slightly. "Don't you two have anything else to think about?"
"Well, not really," Micheal replied with an ironic smile, "at least not until we land."
Their cheerful exchange was interrupted by the hiss of the common room door opening, a metallic sound that cut the air. A silent figure entered, the Lone Soldier, his face etched with the scar that hinted at an enigmatic smile, his ice-like eyes seeming to peer beyond reality. He said nothing, merely nodding a greeting before heading to a table and filling a mug with coffee.
"I'm not even going to try with him," Micheal muttered under his breath, the words escaping with a hint of annoyance. His gaze slid back to Niles, that motionless figure shrouded in the black helmet, an enigma that seemed to swallow the light. He shook his head and drank the last sip of synthetic coffee, the bitter taste tingling on his tongue.
A crackle interrupted the silence, and Phase's voice resonated from the speakers, cold and mechanical: "Please take your seats at the piloting stations. We are in close proximity to Wasteland." The order prompted the crew to rise, their hasty footsteps echoing as they headed to the bridge.
Micheal remained on the couch, calmly finishing his coffee, then got up and stretched. He started towards the exit, but passing near Niles' table he noticed something strange. The coffee mug, which the man had stared at motionlessly, was now nearly empty, with only a few drops at the bottom. "When did he drink that?" he thought, surprised. He hadn't seen him move, and the mystery of Niles struck him, an unease tightening his chest as he wondered what lay behind that helmet.
Wasteland Landing
The SS Ouroboros trembled as it penetrated Wasteland's atmosphere, a sharp wail rising from its hull as the heat of flames licked the viewports, staining the metal a fiery orange. The dense, dusty air of the planet slammed against the ship, shaking it with violent gusts, while the drone of the engines fought to maintain control. In the bridge, the neon lights flickered, and the crew members, strapped into their stations, gripped the armrests, their faces taut under the intermittent glare. Micheal, seated next to Phase, felt the seat vibrating beneath him, a pulse traveling up his spine, as the acrid smell of ozone mixed with the sweat in the air. Then, with a final shudder, the ship cleared the atmospheric barrier, and the surface of Wasteland opened before their eyes like a raw wound.
Below them stretched an immense desert, a sea of gigantic dunes that rose like petrified waves, their ochre flanks shimmering under a pale, cruel sun. Winds laden with dust and sand lashed the horizon, raising whirlwinds that danced like furious spirits, obscuring the view with a brown veil. In the distance, wild creatures emerged from the desolation. Enormous scorpions, five meters long, moved with lethal agility, their chitinous armor reflecting the light in greenish flashes. With a quick leap, they plunged beneath the sand after seizing invisible prey, leaving only slight ripples on the surface. Further on, slow-paced herds advanced, their bodies covered with long red fur that waved in the wind, adapting to the scorching heat with a primal grace. And still, sand sharks furrowed the desert, their sandy color perfectly camouflaging them, swimming through the dust with fluid movements, their fins cutting the ground like blades.
As the SS Ouroboros descended, the outline of Lost City emerged on the horizon, a dusty metropolis rising like a mirage among the dunes. Black skyscrapers, imposing and square, dominated the Oromo district, their sides connected by wide streets bustling with traffic: armored vehicles and drones sped through the dust, an ordered chaos illuminated by an artificial purple glow that contrasted with the deep black of the buildings, tinging the air with an unreal shadow. But further away, another district loomed, dilapidated and ancient, nestled in a dark, jagged rock face. Here, the buildings were cracked and crumbling, the narrow, winding streets snaking like dried-up veins, immersed in a dimmer purple light, a sharp contrast to the opulence of Oromo, a place that whispered stories of a forgotten time.
The SS Ouroboros veered toward a rectangular building, a colossus of metal and glass that stood at the edge of Oromo, so vast that the ship, next to it, seemed an insignificant toy. It was the spaceport, a modern fortress dominating the desert, its smooth walls broken by a circular entrance at the center. As the ship approached, the entrance opened with a deep hiss, a vortex of purple light revealing an internal hangar illuminated by halogen lamps. With a grave hum, the SS Ouroboros slipped inside, its engines gradually shutting down as it settled onto a magnetic platform. The circular hatch closed behind her, sealing the crew in a sudden silence, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal.