Tour of Duty [Quest]

[Sam Carter]

The hangar was colder than he thought it would be. Not just in temperature—though it bit through the collar of his flight jacket—but in atmosphere. Metallic silence. Fluorescent buzz. The low, constant thrum of generator cores keeping the line of mechs on standby. It was a working silence, like a breath held too long. Sam walked the central gantry with his helmet tucked under one arm, boots clicking against the grated floor. Eyes drawn, again and again, to the mechs.

This was the real thing. Not a sim with weighted gravity and a safety shutdown. Not a classroom drone giving him pointers in a filtered voice. This was concrete and steel and reactor burn, and somewhere out past those walls—out past the last pylon beacons—was wilderness that didn’t give a damn whether you were fresh or veteran. He wasn’t ready. He knew it. But nobody asked.

A cracked speaker squawked overhead. “Corporal Carter. Hangar Bay 12. Sergeant Masters is waiting.”

He swallowed and picked up the pace.

Sergeant Masters was built like a dropped anchor—solid, scarred, motionless until you were too close to back away. He stood by a stack of crates, arms crossed, one boot braced against a floor jack.

"You're Carter?" the man asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just scoffed. "You think you’re hot shit? You all do. Fresh outta simulation, not a real scratch on you. You think this is a step up. A promotion. It ain’t. Your daddy's name ain't gonna save you here, kid."

Sam didn’t reply. His instinct was to stand straighter. Say something formal. But the words caught behind his teeth. Instead, he looked up at the mech that had been prepped for him. She wasn’t sleek. She wasn’t pretty. Her frame was matte-grey and square-shouldered, heat scarring visible along the knee joints, paint chipped along her forearms. But her name was stenciled in careful white ink on the chestplate:

Athena.

There was something solid in that name. Something honest. Sam found himself breathing easier just looking at her. Masters grunted.

"You’ve been assigned the west arc. That’s thirty-six hours, no relief, full solo. Radar shows no movement—but zoids don’t ping on radar till they’re claw-deep. You’ll be running sweeps, monitoring comms, and staying awake. You fall asleep in that cockpit, we don’t find bones."

He tapped a thumb against the datapad and shoved it into Sam’s chest, "Read it. Sign it. Get in the damn machine."

Sam thumbed through the briefing. His pulse pounded in his ears, but his hands stayed steady. Somewhere, between page three and page four, he saw it:

[Pilot Callsign: Blackout]

He paused. Almost asked. Masters caught the hesitation and smirked.

"Heard about your little training mishap. Fried the sim deck like it was a damned toaster. Took a quarter of the grid with it. Now, why in the hell were you fuckin’ with the EMP?! No idea how you kept your mech upright through that, but you did. You earned it. And trust me, pilot—names stick harder than paint."

He hated that name. Had tried to kill it back in the sim barracks. But someone—maybe a trainer, maybe just rumor—must’ve passed it along. The word stung. Blackout. Back in the dorms, it was a joke. Sam’s jaw tensed. He didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod. He signed anyway. No hesitation in the stroke. Maybe he’d earn it for real this time.

He climbed the gantry with practiced hands, hesitating only once before palming the ignition key against the side hatch. The mech let out a low chime—systems waking, servos whining to life. The cockpit hissed open. He slid into the pilot seat. The harness snapped into place.

> Pilot recognized. Blackout.
> System boot complete. Comms encrypted. Reactor flow steady.

He sat there for a moment. Breathing the stale air. Watching the HUD flicker through diagnostics. Outside, the hangar doors were beginning to part, slow and loud, revealing a wedge of night-drenched land beyond the perimeter fence. Oceans of dry stone. Jagged cliff bands. Silent wind turbines on the far edge of Union territory. Out there, civilization frayed at the seams. There were no cities. No evac zones. Just long silence, and the things that moved through it when no one was watching. Sam reached for the manual override. Set his nav for patrol point one. Masters’ voice cut through one last time on the private line.

“This isn’t training anymore, Blackout. Out there, your mech is your spine. Your skin. You don’t treat her like a machine—you treat her like breath. You get that right, you come back. You don’t... someone else gets your bunk.”

Sam didn’t answer. He pulled the lever. The hangar opened wide.

> [MISSION OBJECTIVE: PERIMETER PATROL – WEST ARC]
> [TIMER: 36:00:00]
> [ZONE STATUS: CLEAR – NO ZOID SIGNATURES DETECTED]
> [COMM CHANNELS: OPEN // ECHO-LINK 3-7 ACTIVE]

The mech stepped forward into the wind, taking Sam –now Blackout, officially– with it.

810/5000
Quest Giver: Pilots Union
Quest Length: 5,000 words
Quest Location: Markov + Outside Markov
Quest Prerequisites: Not hostile with the Pilot's Union
Quest Description: So you think you're hot shit? Well, it's time to suit up soldier. Someone has to keep our borders safe and your number has been called. You've been assigned a mech and for the next thirty six hours you're on perimeter guard duty. Radar scans show no wild zoid activity at this time, but that's been known to change on a dime just like the weather. Report to Sergeant Masters in Hangar Bay 12. He'll get you squared away and situated with your equipment. Congratulations, Pilot. You just became of a member of the Pilots Union.

 

[Sam Carter]

Location: West Arc, Perimeter Line – Sector Delta-Four
Status: 02:42:17 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active

The quiet was worse than the noise.

Back in the sim pods, there was always something—voice comms, diagnostics pings, instructors breathing down your back. Even the stress felt padded. Controlled. But out here, it was just wind and rock and the low hum of Athena’s core keeping time like a slow heartbeat.

Sam adjusted in the cockpit seat. The harness straps tugged across his chest as the mech stepped over a loose rise in the terrain, servos hissing with each motion. Dust spiraled in the floodlights, kicked up from the drypan beneath their feet.

> [Status: No anomalies. 3.1km from Beacon 12]
> [Zone Temp: -3°C. Wind: 14 kph. Visibility: Moderate.]

He’d already run two sweeps. The perimeter beacons were steady—small, blinking towers sunk into the stone like old teeth. They marked the end of safe space, the edge of civilization. Beyond them, the maps blurred into red. “Unclaimed.” “Unstable.” “Unnecessary.” That last one always stuck with him.

Sam toggled open his mech’s internal status panel. Athena was healthy—armor integrity at full, heat levels nominal, reactors sipping power like she had all the time in the world. She was a good frame. She made the work feel less lonely.

Still, the quiet scratched at him. It wasn’t the absence of threat. It was the space between each footstep. The sound of his own breathing. The voice in his head, whispering that if something did happen, nobody was close enough to stop it.

He tapped the comms—more to hear something than anything else.

“Blackout, sweep complete to Beacon Twelve. Looping back via southern incline. No movement. No anomalies.”

Silence. A beat passed. Then:

“Copy, Blackout. Stay alert.” The voice of dispatch. Bored. Distracted. Just another rookie on their first solo night. He sighed and recentered his grip on the controls.

The route back was slower. He took a detour through a canyon notch—tight walls, bad visibility, but a necessary scan route. Athena moved with the weight of a machine that could crush tanks but didn’t want to scrape her armor on a stupid rock wall.

“Sorry, girl,” he muttered. “I know this isn’t your idea of a good time.”

There was no answer, of course. But talking to her helped. Like talking to a horse, or a car.

As they crested the rise beyond the canyon, a low shiver passed through him. The land opened up below in soft hills of burnt grass and scattered debris. Ancient, broken fencing from when the boundary was further out. A collapsed comms relay tower, half-swallowed by earth. He slowed Athena and ran a scan sweep.

> [LIDAR SCAN: COMPLETE | No anomalies]
> [Audio pickup: Interference minimal]

He leaned back in the chair, rotating one joystick lazily, letting Athena scan and walk on autopilot for a stretch. The horizon was blood-orange with the coming dawn, distant clouds sharp as blades.

He felt small. Not like he had during training, hemmed in by officers and sharp orders. This was different. Out here, it wasn’t people that made him feel that way—it was the land itself. Wide. Quiet. Indifferent. Like it hadn’t noticed him, or maybe just didn’t care to. He reached out and tapped the side of the console.

“This is Blackout,” he said, mostly to himself. “perimeter patrol. Still standing.”

Thirty-three hours to go.

And the quiet was just getting started.

* * * ​

Location: South Incline, 4.3km Past Beacon 12
Status: 04:16:44 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active

A shrill tone snapped him upright in the cockpit.

> [ALERT: Beacon 14 – Signal Disruption]
> [senNET: LOW]
> [Type: Telemetry Fault | Source: Undetermined]

Sam blinked. Focused on the readout. The pulsing icon for Beacon 14 had turned amber on his display—still functioning, but flickering in and out of sync with the grid’s timing pattern. Like something had brushed its outer shell and knocked it half-asleep.

Could be heat distortion. A power hiccup. Wind warping the signal. Or not.

Sam eased back on the controls as soon as the alert came through, slowing Athena’s stride. The stabilizers compensated, smooth and quiet, but it was his hands that made the call. Something felt off. Not dangerous—at least not yet—but enough to make him cautious. He swallowed. Clicked into comms.

“Dispatch, this is Blackout. Picking up signal disuption on Beacon 14. Low senNET, but repeating irregularly. No visible interference at current distance—advancing for visual.”

A delay. Then:

“Copy, Blackout. Proceed with caution. Note any physical damage or wildlife interference. Recommend no dismount.”

He wasn’t planning to.

The ride out took twenty minutes. The incline was steep, skirting the edge of old quarry scars from before the war. Pits of shattered stone, rusting gantries, and rail tracks that curved like broken ribs. When Beacon 14 finally came into view, Sam narrowed Athena’s optics. The thing stood at a crooked angle, half-shadowed by a rock outcrop.

And something was wrong. Not damaged, exactly. But…off.

A slow strobe blinked from the beacon’s headlamp, out of sync with the rhythm of the others. Not enough to trip emergency systems, but enough to make your brain itch. And its lower panel—normally sealed tight—was hanging ajar, like it had been popped open and closed again. Sloppy. Not by the book.

Sam frowned and leaned into the controls. Brought Athena to a full halt thirty meters out. He toggled zoom. No scorch marks. No claw damage. No sign of explosive residue. But the dust patterns around the base were disrupted—soft spiral scuffs in the soil, like something had circled it. Not human bootprints. Not tires. Something lower. Wider. Unclear.

“This is Blackout,” he said, quietly. “Beacon 14’s casing appears tampered with. Could be old maintenance. Could be wild interference. No immediate signs of damage, but soil’s been stirred. Recommending a drone pass later today to confirm integrity.”

A pause on the line.

“Acknowledged, Blackout. Continue patrol. Marked for review. Good catch.”

He lingered a moment longer.

Athena’s heat vents released a slow exhale of steam into the dawn air. Sam tightened his harness and nudged her into motion. As they turned back toward the ridge, he looked once more over his shoulder. The beacon stood blinking in the wind. Still amber. Still wrong. And for a second, Sam was sure the soil beside it shifted. Just a twitch. Just enough to make him question his eyes. But then it was still again.

1878/5000
Quest Giver: Pilots Union
Quest Length: 5,000 words
Quest Location: Markov + Outside Markov
Quest Prerequisites: Not hostile with the Pilot's Union
Quest Description: So you think you're hot shit? Well, it's time to suit up soldier. Someone has to keep our borders safe and your number has been called. You've been assigned a mech and for the next thirty six hours you're on perimeter guard duty. Radar scans show no wild zoid activity at this time, but that's been known to change on a dime just like the weather. Report to Sergeant Masters in Hangar Bay 12. He'll get you squared away and situated with your equipment. Congratulations, Pilot. You just became of a member of the Pilots Union.

 

[Sam Carter]

> Location: Beacon 14 Perimeter
> 04:37:12 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active

Athena stood still as stone, her gyros whispering beneath the silence.

Sam eased back into the cockpit seat, eyes skimming the readout one more time. Beacon 14’s signal pulse was steady again, though off rhythm by a hair—like a song half-remembered. The diagnostics were clean, but he didn’t trust it. Not completely. He zoomed the external cam one last time, focusing on the ground. Those drag marks. Wide and shallow. Too clean for animal tracks. Too small for Union-issued treads. Some kind of cargo dolly, maybe. Drone wheels. Someone came out here with tools, left the panel swinging open like a drunk slamming a cupboard. Took what they needed and ghosted.

Sam opened a new report channel on his console.

[FIELD NOTE: Blackout | 04:50]
"Beacon 14 stable. Observed minor interference and irregular casing marks. Scuff patterns suggest possible unregistered civilian access. No direct threat. Request follow-up maintenance sweep and regional log cross-check for non-Union activity."

He hesitated a second before attaching a still image: the open casing, the smudge on the access port. Then he hit send.

“Copy, Blackout. Logged. Maintain course and complete sector sweep. Engineering will follow up.”

That was it. No questions. No orders to investigate further. Sam didn’t know if that was standard protocol or if no one gave a damn about a beacon at the edge of nowhere.

He nudged Athena back into motion. The mech moved slow at first, her servos adjusting to the incline again. The air was thinner up here, wind cold against the hull. Moonlight was just starting to scrape the far cliffs in pale white streaks. Ahead, the land opened into wide ridgelines and long stretches of dead grass. No movement. No heat signatures. Just the faint hiss of wind skimming the high stones.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Onward.”

The rest of the hour passed quiet. Athena picked her way along the route, her frame silhouetted against the coming dawn. Sam kept the pace steady, rotating through thermal, magnetic, and motion scan as he’d been drilled. No more anomalies. No signals out of place. But every now and then, he glanced back at the diminishing dot of Beacon 14 on the map. The report was filed. The system would handle it. That was how it worked. Right? Still, that beacon… it hadn’t looked damaged. Just touched. Used. He rolled the thought over like a stone in his gut, then forced it down. Orders were orders. This wasn’t a detective mission. It was a patrol.

> Location: Sector R-31
> Status: 14:06:48 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active

By hour fourteen, the edges of everything blurred. The seat had molded to him. His legs had stopped tingling hours ago, gone somewhere past discomfort and into numb truce. The cockpit air was thin, just enough to breathe, but dry enough to leave his tongue cracked and scratchy. He drank when the alarms told him to. Pissed when the system beeped at him to do so. The suit handled the rest.

Outside, the wind howled across open rock. Pale sun glinted on distant outcroppings. No movement. Not even birds out this far. Nothing but him, Athena, and the emptiness. Sam leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. The autopilot held course for the next ridge. They were following a winding recon path now, tracing along the remains of an old mining trench—nothing strategic, just terrain coverage. He cycled the scanner again.

> [Thermal: clear. Audio: null. EM: flatline.]

Same as the last five scans. Same as the next five would be. The thrill of the morning—the tension at Beacon 14, the weight of his first deployment—had dulled into a low ache at the base of his neck. He rolled his shoulders. Stretched one arm, then the other. His spine popped.

“Status?” he asked.

Athena’s voice replied in her usual neutral tone, low and crisp. “No anomalies. Sector R-31 remains clear. Next scheduled ping in twenty-one minutes.”

Sam nodded to no one. His eyes drifted to the viewport glass, the way the afternoon haze washed the rocks in a soft grey.

“You ever get bored?” he muttered. Athena didn't respond. She wasn't built to. He tapped a knuckle against the side of his helmet. The interior was hot now. Sweaty. He tried to picture the hangar. Sergeant Masters, arms crossed, jaw chewing that ever-present toothpick. Other rookies still grounded, watching sim feeds from their bunks. Maybe they were laughing about him—Blackout, the EMP kid, finally in the big chair. Finally playing soldier. He blinked hard. No room for that. Not now.

He pulled up the patrol timer. Twenty-two hours to go. He rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand. “Hell of a way to earn a name,” he said aloud, to himself, or to Athena, or maybe to the dust outside. “Thirty-six hours of nothing.”

But the nothing was important. He reminded himself that. This was the job. The quiet shifts made the noise mean something. He flicked on the exterior audio feed, just to break the silence. Wind screamed across the hull like distant whalesong. And then—faint.

A chirp. Soft. Short. Electronic. Sam sat upright. The HUD blinked once, yellow.

> [Alert: Comms Ping Received – Source: Bronto]

A voice crackled through the static, distorted by distance and relay lag.

“—Bronto to Blackout. You still breathing out there, Blackout?”

Sam cracked a dry smile and keyed his comms.

“Alive and bored. You?”

“Just found a field mouse chewing on Beacon 17’s baseplate. We locked eyes. I blinked first.”

“Brave of you to admit that,” Sam replied.

A pause. Then a low chuckle from the other end. “Try not to fall asleep in that tin can of yours. This place eats the lazy.”

Sam glanced at the empty ridge ahead. The nothing stretching forever. “Copy that,” he said. “Blackout out.”

He cut the line. The silence settled in again. But the fatigue felt lighter now. Not gone. Just held at bay. He tapped the console. Time to recheck the path ahead. Time to stay sharp. Because out here, the only thing worse than noise was the quiet right before it.

2903/5000
Quest Giver: Pilots Union
Quest Length: 5,000 words
Quest Location: Markov + Outside Markov
Quest Prerequisites: Not hostile with the Pilot's Union
Quest Description: So you think you're hot shit? Well, it's time to suit up soldier. Someone has to keep our borders safe and your number has been called. You've been assigned a mech and for the next thirty six hours you're on perimeter guard duty. Radar scans show no wild zoid activity at this time, but that's been known to change on a dime just like the weather. Report to Sergeant Masters in Hangar Bay 12. He'll get you squared away and situated with your equipment. Congratulations, Pilot. You just became of a member of the Pilots Union.

 

[Sam Carter]

> Location: Southern Ridgeline, Sector R-32
> Status: 16:47:29 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active

By hour sixteen, the world started playing tricks.

Sam had cycled through the same three sensor routines a dozen times. Everything came back clean. The terrain remained still—waves of wind-raked stone, patches of frost clinging to the northern slopes, a scatter of metal debris from old mining ops rusting in the cold sun.

He’d switched to manual control just to feel something. Athena’s massive limbs churned slowly across a high crest, each step crunching the shale beneath her feet. The cockpit vibrated with the rhythm of her movement—reassuring, like a heartbeat. Sam’s eyes flicked to the left viewport. And paused. There. Halfway down the slope, a dark shape wedged between two rocks. Angular. Too sharp to be natural.

He leaned forward, squinting. His breath caught.

Tall, hunched, with spiked shoulders. Roughly bipedal. The proportions were close. Too close.

Zoid.

Sam flicked the thermal scan up. Heat signature faint. But present. Warm metal in the cold. He zoomed. The silhouette didn’t move. Just loomed. Crouched. Like it was waiting.

“Athena,” Sam said, heart thudding. “Tag unknown contact. Initiate threat protocol. Prep weapon systems.”

“Confirmed. Arming protocol initiated. Awaiting target lock.”

He toggled the broadcast channel, heart racing. “Blackout to Dispatch—possible Zoid contact, R-32 ridge, gridpoint 558-B. Visual confirmation. Thermal positive. Requesting verification.”

No response.

He switched to direct line with the nearest mech.
“Blackout to Bronto, do you copy? I may have eyes on a wild—”

Static.

Nothing.

The ridge hummed in his ears, wind battering the hull. His mouth was dry as stone.
Athena’s crosshairs locked on the shape. Thirty meters. Twenty-five. Then… the sun shifted. A blade of light cut across the slope, casting the silhouette into clearer contrast.
Sam froze. No movement. No bioluminescence. No pulsar nodes. No twitch of hydraulic limbs. Just— He zoomed tighter and saw the truth.
A mining rig. Old Union make. Collapsed at the knee, half-covered in sand. The "spike" was a broken armature. The heat signature? A sun-warmed panel glinting in the breeze. Nothing more. His hand slackened against the joystick.

“Cancel threat protocol,” he muttered. “Disregard contact. False alarm.”

“Standing down,” Athena replied, calm as always. The HUD dimmed. The crosshairs vanished. His heart thudded in his ears, caught between shame and relief.
He sat back and stared at the wreck for a long moment. Something in him wanted to laugh. But the tension wouldn’t let go. Instead, he logged the object with a generic marker—DECOMMISSIONED UNION RIG, NO RECOVERY REQUIRED—and turned Athena back toward the patrol route.

Ten minutes passed before the adrenaline left his system. He didn’t call it in again. He didn’t want the comm techs back at base snickering about “Blackout” jumping at shadows. The logs would speak for themselves if anyone bothered to look. And yet…That silhouette. The shape of it. The way it crouched. He’d been sure. Too sure. He sighed and refocused his eyes on the far ridge.

Still hours to go. Still plenty of silence left to fill.

And now, a question worming in his head: What happens when it’s not a trick of the light?

> Location: Outer Expanse, Sector R-34
> Status: 28:12:02 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active

As hour twenty-eight rolled into blurred focus, the world felt slow. Like it had tilted just slightly off-center. The stars were clearer this far from the hubs. Pin-pricks of cold light across the black. They looked painted on, unmoving, hollow in their beauty. Sam blinked at them too long once and forgot what he was doing. His neck hurt from trying to stay upright.
Inside the cockpit, it was quiet but not peaceful. The kind of quiet that pressed down on your skull. Every system hum felt louder. Every breath raspy. The air recycling unit clicked once—he jumped. He hadn't spoken in over two hours. Not to Athena. Not to himself.
Even the mech’s gait felt slower now, though he knew it wasn’t. Just his brain dragging, like wet cloth pulled through mud.

His eyes kept drifting closed.

He jerked awake with a start. Focused on the dim light of the HUD. Checkpoint 77-B had just passed. That meant he was headed into the far shelf, near the canyon run. One of the last sectors. Just eight more hours. Then he could eat. Sleep. See real light. He adjusted in his seat. Stiff. Hungry. Felt like he was running on fumes.

“Athena,” he rasped. “Play… something. Doesn’t matter what.”

“Initiating low-focus stimulation loop. Standby.” A soft pulse of sound began to trickle in—barely a rhythm, like rain on hull plates. It wasn’t music. Just enough to keep the brain from folding in on itself. His head leaned back against the seat. Eyelids heavy again. Just for a second. Just a breath.

Crackle
BZZZCHHH—

“…Blackout, this is Relay Station Vega-2. Do you copy?” The voice cut through the fugue like a knife. Sam flinched upright, heart punching through his chest.

“Blackout, responding. Copy.”

“Blackout, we’ve got a situation developing near your current patrol vector. Small-scale energy spike flagged by orbital recon. Coordinates incoming now.” A soft chime. His HUD blinked. A red dot blinked just southeast—along the edge of the canyon’s mouth.

“Signal’s intermittent. Not strong enough for a Zoid, not consistent enough for weather interference. Could be a buried relay node kicking up, or…” They trailed off. Didn't finish the thought.

Sam swallowed. Eyes sharper now. “I’m en route to verify. ETA seven minutes. Standing by for further instruction.”

“Roger that, Blackout. Keep your comms open and check in every ten. We’re routing Bronto to shadow your flank—just in case.” The channel clicked out. Sam sat still for a long while. Fatigue was gone now. Swept away like fog in heat. He stared at the blinking red dot. It pulsed slowly. No data. No label. Just… something. He keyed the thrusters. Athena’s frame shifted into a low stalk, limbs fluid. The sound of her movement filled the cabin.

Back to business. Back to clarity. Something was out there. And finally—finally—he wasn’t imagining it.

3917/5000
Quest Giver: Pilots Union
Quest Length: 5,000 words
Quest Location: Markov + Outside Markov
Quest Prerequisites: Not hostile with the Pilot's Union
Quest Description: So you think you're hot shit? Well, it's time to suit up soldier. Someone has to keep our borders safe and your number has been called. You've been assigned a mech and for the next thirty six hours you're on perimeter guard duty. Radar scans show no wild zoid activity at this time, but that's been known to change on a dime just like the weather. Report to Sergeant Masters in Hangar Bay 12. He'll get you squared away and situated with your equipment. Congratulations, Pilot. You just became of a member of the Pilots Union.

 

[Sam Carter]

> [Location: Mouth of the Dreadspire Canyon, Sector R-34]
> [28:15:37 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active]

Athena’s footsteps echoed down the ridge like slow drumbeats. The canyon loomed below, its jagged maw swallowing the land in a curl of darkness. Even with the thermal cams, visibility was thin—an uneven blend of rock heat and shadow pockets stretching like tendrils between the cliffs. Sam adjusted the viewport brightness, thumbed in a slow zoom on the sensor grid. The red ping still pulsed. Exactly where Command said it would. And still… nothing on scans. No shape. No sound. No signature clear enough to read. Just that persistent, flickering blip. As if the land itself was glitching.

The mech hissed slightly as it came to a stop along the upper shelf. Sam leaned forward, brow furrowed, the faint hum of cockpit systems washing around him like white noise. He hadn’t blinked in a while.

“Initiating passive scan loop,” he said, voice low. “Marking gridpoint Zeta-Twelve. Starting visual sweep.”

Athena complied with a soft chime. The HUD split in two: left pane held the canyon’s mouth in wide angle, the right scrolled lines of sensor data—spike strength, radiation levels, ion wash, everything the mech’s suite could pick up without active pinging. Because active scans meant revealing your own position. And tonight didn’t feel like the night for that. Sam sat in silence, watching.

Wind blew dust down into the canyon below. It curled and scattered in the gaps between the cliffs. A soft moan of air funneled up through the stone, constant but irregular, like breath. For a moment, it sounded almost like a voice. He leaned closer, squinting through the viewport glass. The mech’s headlamp was off—standard protocol during anomaly recon—but it made everything out there look... more haunted than real. Then he saw it.

A shimmer. Brief. Flickering. Like a heat mirage, but wrong for the temperature. Not rising—twisting. Spiraling just above the canyon floor. No clear shape. No color. Just movement where nothing should move.

“Athena, log optical disturbance. Frame 612-C through 620-A.”

“Logged.”

He tapped his comms. “Blackout to Dispatch, anomaly confirmed. Visual irregularity detected at target coordinates. No identifiable contact yet, but confirming unknown energy output.”

There was a pause. Just static for a breath. Then: “Copy, Blackout. Keep eyes on. Bronto is ten minutes out. Hold position unless compromised.”

He didn’t respond. Just kept watching. The shimmer was gone now. Like it had never been there. His sensor readouts remained blank. No sign of movement. No heat spike. No ion discharge. Nothing. Just empty rock. Just that damn red ping. Sam sat back. Exhaled through his nose. Then, after a short moment, toggled the cockpit hatch. The system hissed as the canopy split and peeled upward, releasing a sharp gasp of recycled air into the cold night. A gust hit him hard—biting wind, dry and wild. Smelled like copper and old stone.

He didn’t know why he did it. Instinct maybe. Or exhaustion dressed up as curiosity. He stood carefully from the harness and stepped onto the exterior catwalk, helmet lights dimmed to amber. From here, the canyon felt alive. He could hear the wind better—deep and mournful, brushing across carved rock and twisted wreckage. Smell the frost rising from shaded corners. See the old Union markers still half-buried in the stone. Sam crouched on the catwalk and stared down into the dark, watching for the shimmer again. But nothing came. No movement. No signal. Just… that feeling. Like the world was holding its breath. And maybe watching him back.

He stayed out there for five minutes. When he returned to the cockpit, his fingers were stiff. His throat dry. He logged the anomaly again—this time with a personal note: “No contact. Visual distortion present and gone. Environmental inconclusive. Recommend drone sweep with dedicated energy signature tracker. No threat identified. No confirmation of presence.” He paused at the last line. His finger hovered over the keypad. Then added: “...Uncertain.”

Backup arrived seven minutes later. Big mech. Heavier than Athena. A shield unit. Two pods beneath each arm. Sam knew the pilot only by handle—Bronto. Guy barely talked in the mess hall. Not much of a smiler. The comms crackled.

“Blackout. This the hot spot?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Bronto didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Doesn’t look like shit.”

Sam almost laughed. “It didn’t. Until it did.”

Another pause. Then the other mech stepped past him and scanned the ridge line. Sensors deployed. Lights swept in slow arcs. Big, deliberate movements. Still nothing. After five minutes, Command told them to mark the location and return to patrol sweeps. Bronto peeled off northwest. Sam swung south again, starting his loop back through the canyon’s far edge. The ping vanished from his HUD. Logged and cleared. But the feeling didn’t leave.

By hour thirty, the stars had shifted. The ridge line looked sharper in the encroaching dawn light. The wind had eased off. And Sam still couldn’t shake it. Not the shimmer. Not the sound of wind that wasn’t quite wind. Not the way the ground had felt like it was listening. And not the thought that somewhere out there, past the scanners, past the rock and dust, something else had blinked first.

4792/5000
Quest Giver: Pilots Union
Quest Length: 5,000 words
Quest Location: Markov + Outside Markov
Quest Prerequisites: Not hostile with the Pilot's Union
Quest Description: So you think you're hot shit? Well, it's time to suit up soldier. Someone has to keep our borders safe and your number has been called. You've been assigned a mech and for the next thirty six hours you're on perimeter guard duty. Radar scans show no wild zoid activity at this time, but that's been known to change on a dime just like the weather. Report to Sergeant Masters in Hangar Bay 12. He'll get you squared away and situated with your equipment. Congratulations, Pilot. You just became of a member of the Pilots Union.

 

[Sam Carter]

> [Location: Outer Expanse, Return Vector—East Ridge Spine]
> [30:12:34 / 36:00:00 – Patrol Active]

As the sun started to bleed over the horizon, the sky cracked open with a strange gold. Not warm. Not comforting. But sharp, like the edge of a knife reflecting light. Sam didn’t look at it long—just enough to mark the time, enough to feel the sweat cooling beneath his suit’s collar.

Athena walked like she was on rails now, her steps smooth and predictable. The systems practically flew on muscle memory. Sam wasn’t really flying the mech anymore—he was with it. Watching. Syncing. Like how your hands keep working even after your head’s drifted off.
The last few hours had been quiet. Painfully quiet. No more calls. No more shimmers. Just land and static and the occasional brief tone from a beacon reminding him the grid still knew he existed.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the canyon.

Every time his HUD blinked. Every time a rock shadow moved like a figure in the peripheral. Every time he almost let himself believe the scanner readout—empty, flat, clean. Something had been there. Or maybe he was just tired.

He’d done everything right. Logged it. Reported it. Got backup. No contact. No intel. They’d call it a ghost ping. One of those “welcome to the field” flukes. Maybe they were right. But he didn’t believe it. Not deep down. He’d seen the shimmer. He’d felt it.

Now, on the return loop through the spine route, he traced the high cliffs in silence. Occasional static from shifting clouds made Athena’s sensors buzz, but nothing substantial. Wind battered the ridge. Old Union posts blinked faintly in the far distance—motionless, obsolete watchtowers.

He leaned back in the harness, half-dozing, but the reflexes stayed sharp. Every thirty seconds: sweep, scan, recalibrate. Eyes to the radar. Eyes to the terrain. It was routine. Almost boring. But after the canyon, even boredom came with an edge.

The radio crackled at 35:01:22. Dispatch.

“Blackout, you’re clear for return. Proceed to Hangar Bay Twelve. Sergeant Masters will meet you for debrief.”

Sam keyed in an acknowledgment. Voice dry. “Copy. Returning now.” And just like that, it was over.


> [Cevanti Frontier Bastion | Hangar Bay Twelve]
> [36:00:00 / 36:00:00 – Patrol End]

The air inside the hangar was thick with oil, old sweat, and ozone. The smell of industry. The smell of home. Sam sat in the cockpit for a full minute after powering down Athena. Just breathing. Helmet in his lap. Fingers resting on the edge of the seat. His whole body ached. Head throbbed with the ghost of artificial light and recycled air. Limbs heavy, like lead sloshing through his blood. He should’ve gotten up immediately. Should’ve stepped down, logged his end-cycle. But for just a moment, he let himself sit there.

Quiet. Thinking.

He hadn’t hallucinated that shimmer. He knew it. Didn’t matter what the logs said. Didn't matter if Bronto or the brass waved it off. He’d felt it. Same way he’d felt the tension in the cockpit when the call came in. Same way he still felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up every time he pictured that stretch of canyon. Eventually, he stood. Swung down the side ladder with slow, practiced effort. His boots hit the hangar floor with a thud. Athena powered down fully behind him—hydraulics releasing with a soft, contented sigh. The mech stood tall and still, like a sentinel going to sleep.

Sergeant Masters waited nearby with a tablet in one hand and a cup of something that probably passed for coffee in the other. Same buzzcut, same scar across the temple from whatever old war he didn’t talk about. The guy didn’t blink much, but he always watched you like you owed him something.

“Carter,” Masters said flatly. “You look like death warmed up.”

Sam gave a tired smirk. “Feels about right.”

“Standard patrol wrap. You know the drill. Any unlogged incidents, speak now.”

Sam hesitated. The words sat in the back of his throat. Dry. Bitter. “No contacts,” he said slowly. “But… there was a shimmer. Optical anomaly. No heat, no movement, no radiation. Logged the event. Bronto verified visual clear. Nothing else showed.”

Masters squinted. Tapped something into the tablet, “You think it was something?”

Sam didn’t answer immediately. Just met his eyes, “I think it was almost something.”

The Sergeant didn’t smile. But he didn’t scoff either. He nodded, once, “Keep that gut feeling. It’ll save your ass one day.” He handed Sam the tablet. “Sign here. Grab chow. You’re off-duty till briefing at 0500 tomorrow.”

Sam took the tablet. Signed. The stylus trembled slightly in his fingers.

5574/5000
Quest Giver: Pilots Union
Quest Length: 5,000 words
Quest Location: Markov + Outside Markov
Quest Prerequisites: Not hostile with the Pilot's Union
Quest Description: So you think you're hot shit? Well, it's time to suit up soldier. Someone has to keep our borders safe and your number has been called. You've been assigned a mech and for the next thirty six hours you're on perimeter guard duty. Radar scans show no wild zoid activity at this time, but that's been known to change on a dime just like the weather. Report to Sergeant Masters in Hangar Bay 12. He'll get you squared away and situated with your equipment. Congratulations, Pilot. You just became of a member of the Pilots Union.