Blindy squeezed in after him, pressing himself against the wall like the elevator might bite.
The doors shut—
and a second later,
opened again.
In front of them—
an empty cargo bay.
Massive.
Almost the size of the ship itself.
Blindy exhaled, stretching his neck to take it all in:
“Oh shit…
we got THIS too?..
From the outside—tiny…
but inside…
you could—
you could fit the entire old Z-P-N-E-S in here…
I’m serious—
like—no joke—
full ship…”
They stepped out.
Lights flicked on automatically.
The cargo bay was way too clean for a place meant to store instruments of war.
Walls—matte titanium, silver, smooth like a thought without noise.
Panels met at perfect angles, lines geometrically flawless.
Vent grilles breathed softly, like the ship itself was inhaling.
The floor—dark composite alloy with magnetic locks.
Slightly rough, but polished—like someone stayed up nights making sure it wouldn’t embarrass anyone in front of generals.
Blindy looked around and let out a low whistle:
“Holy shit…
Kanzaki are real assholes…
no doubt…
but packin’ HALF A HANGAR
into a tiny ship—
yeah…
okay…
I’ll give ’em that one…”
Phoenix softly lit up the center of the bay.
“Thank you, captain, for appreciating the compartment design.
Now—both of you. Look. Something is waiting.”
And they saw them.
Two silhouettes.
Two personalities.
Two fates.
Phoenix spoke—with something close to pride:
“Space-bike—IRON WRAITH.
Designed specifically for a Reaper.”
Zeros’ bike looked like it wasn’t forged by humans—
but by the vacuum itself.
The body—dark bronze, deep, swallowing light.
Lines—long, aggressive, like a predator ready to strike.
The front tapered into a cold, precise wedge—
and beneath the shell, a core that felt dangerous even when idle.
From the nose emitter came a dense blue glow—
not bright,
not loud.
Cold. Exact.
Like a targeting system.
The side panels were covered in microfractures—
not damage.
History.
Every crack—a survived fight.
Every scar—proof.
The Iron Wraith didn’t roar.
It just… existed louder.
Phoenix redirected his attention to the second machine.
“And… space-scooter—RUSTFANG—for the captain.”
The scooter looked simpler.
Which made it more dangerous.
The body—steel, patched in places by hand.
A rivet not from factory.
A panel from a different alloy.
But all of it assembled with stubborn intent—
like someone said: Fuck it. It’ll work.
The front light burned too bright—
a warm blue-white glow, almost alive.
Under the frame—reinforced boosters.
Short burst.
Violent.
A bite.
The name fit perfectly:
RUSTFANG—
not rust.
Character.
Doesn’t intimidate.
But it bites.
For the first time, Phoenix allowed something close to a smirk:
“Now you won’t have to walk at all.
And I’ll be with you on the ground.”
Blindy scratched the back of his head:
“Fuck… why don’t I get one like that psycho motherfucker’s?”
Phoenix clarified coldly, not even trying to hide the mechanical sarcasm:
“All complaints—to Airi. She handled the design.”
Blindy clapped his hands:
“I KNEW IT—!
It’s her again—!
She’s messin’ with me—
I KNOW she is—!
BUT I DON’T CARE—
still… thanks.”
Zeros mounted the Iron Wraith.
The bike hummed.
Roared—
and then settled into a low, metallic purr.
The body lifted half a foot off the ground, like a steel ghost fox.
Zeros threw out:
“LET’S GO. OPEN THE GATE.”
Behind them, a containment field flared to life—
holding back the vacuum.
The gates opened.
And Zeros—like a fired arrow—
shot out. Straight into the ink-black darkness of the planet.