Thirteen years had elapsed since the fateful day on the forsaken planet of Nextar, a day that forever altered the course of Xero's existence. Now, he stood as the hardened captain of a special ops unit known to the cosmos as the "Stray Dogs," a name that whispered tales of their unyielding tenacity and lethal prowess. He found himself perched atop Proxus, a colossal space station that pierced the void like a spear of humanity's defiance. This fortress among the stars, a titan of metal and might, served as both a bastion for the galaxy's finest space soldiers and a crucible where the Legion of Bright forged its elite Gatherers.
The Stray Dogs, a squad birthed from the ashes of desperation and baptized in the crucible of war, were not mere Gatherers. Their mandate stretched beyond the hunt for Eartha shards—they were the Legion's unseen hand, capable of rescue, espionage, and when necessary, the cold, calculated deliverance of death.
Atop the upper decks of Proxus, Xero stood as a sentinel, his gaze a pair of smoldering coals surveying the sprawling facility below. The scars of war etched across his face were mirrored in the station's battle-scarred exterior, each a testament to the unending conflict that raged like an insatiable inferno across the galaxies.
"Thirteen years marks the anniversary today," he murmured, his voice a low rumble of retrospection and sorrow. His fingers absently caressed the greying strands of his beard, each a marker of battles fought and burdens borne.
From the depths of his pocket, he withdrew a silver chain, its surface marred by the relentless march of time—rusted and scarred, yet holding a weight far heavier than its physical bearing. Dangling from it were three metallic emblems, each painstakingly crafted in the likeness of the helms worn by Tato, Burro, and Orvo. They were not mere trinkets but relics of a past steeped in regret and loss.
"Tato, Burro, Orvo, I have damned you," he whispered, a solitary tear daring to breach the fortress of his stoic demeanor. He fought against the swell of emotions, a dam holding back a flood of grief and guilt.
Memories cascaded through his mind—the haunting garden on Nextar, the enigmatic woman shrouded in mystery, and the harrowing moment of awakening to the lifeless bodies of his brethren. "If only I had been the one sacrificed," he lamented, lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, where specters of the past and shadows of remorse danced in an unending ballet of what could have been.
Around him, Proxus thrummed with the pulse of a war machine, its decks echoing with the footsteps of soldiers and the clanging of metal, a symphony of survival in the relentless opera of interstellar conflict. Yet, within Xero's heart, a different war raged—a battle against the ghosts of decisions made and the price of leadership in a universe that knew no mercy.
"Captain," a resonant voice echoed through the metallic corridor, its timbre cutting through the ambient hum of the space station. From the dimness emerged a figure as imposing as the war-torn halls of Proxus itself. Lieutenant Ray, his stature towering and skin the color of deep space, approached with purpose. His hair, intricately braided, contrasted sharply with the cold steel surroundings, while piercings adorned his eyebrows and nose, glinting like stars in the artificial light.
"Lieutenant Ray, what brings you?" Xero's response was laced with the unwavering authority of a man tempered by the fires of command.
"The boy, he is ready," Ray intoned, his voice imbued with a respect forged in the crucible of shared battles.
"Go on, let's go pay him a visit," Xero commanded, his voice betraying a hint of anticipation beneath its stern veneer.
Together, they traversed the corridor, their boots echoing off the metal floor, towards a steel cage that served as an elevator. Ray's armor clanked with each step, a formidable ensemble of reinforced plating and intricate circuitry, reminiscent of the legendary Space Marines of ancient lore. It was a testament to the Legion's prowess, each segment a marriage of art and function, designed to withstand the horrors of the cosmos.
"His readings are extraordinary. Physical attributes surpass all the other recruits, his age and even beyond. The Soulbliss has aligned with his body perfectly, which is a rare case indeed," Ray reported, consulting a holographic chart that sprang to life from the screen gadget attached to his wrist.
"Excellent," Xero responded, his voice carrying the weight of sorrow, an echo of battles past and the sacrifices yet to come.
The elevator groaned as it descended into the bowels of Proxus, delving deep into the station's heart. The doors slid open with a hiss, revealing a corridor that was a stark contrast to the station's upper levels. Here, the passage was cloaked in shadows, broken lights flickering like dying stars, while pipes and cables hung from the ceiling like the innards of some great beast.
Stepping into this gloomy abyss, they made their way to the corridor's end. A massive metal door stood sentinel, its surface scarred and aged, guarded by two figures whose salute was as much a testament to their respect for Xero as to their fear of what lay beyond.
"Men," Xero acknowledged with a raised hand, signaling them to cease their formalities. The guards turned, their movements precise and mechanical, as they began the process of unlocking the door.
The clicks and clanks of the locks disengaging reverberated through the hallway, a prelude to the revelation of what—or who—resided behind this fortress-like barrier. The air was thick with anticipation and the unspoken questions that hung in the gloom of Proxus's lower depths.
The heavy thud of the metal door resounded through the room as Xero and Ray stepped inside, leaving the oppressive darkness of the corridor behind. They found themselves in a starkly contrasting environment—a room bathed in harsh, artificial light, its walls a sterile white. At the center, the focus of the space, was a solitary table, and there, bound to a chair, sat a boy.
"How are you feeling?" Xero's voice, though tinged with authority, carried an undercurrent of genuine concern.
The boy, with short black hair, bore the physique of a young warrior sculpted by relentless training. His body was a map of scars, each a silent testament to the harsh regimen he had endured from infancy. Clad in worn, tattered clothing and black goggles, he was the embodiment of both resilience and the cruelty of his upbringing. After a moment's pause, he met Xero's gaze and replied with a subdued, "Fine, I guess."
"That is good, Solo," Xero responded, a hint of relief in his voice. "We will get you out of these straps, and you can return to your corridor soon," Ray added, moving to the boy's side to release the latches binding his wrists.
"Was there a point to this?" Solo's voice was flat, devoid of the curiosity or rebellion one might expect from someone his age.
"Yes, there was," Xero explained, his tone gentle, paternal even. "When a child is infused with Soulbliss, it can cause them to go berserk. We have to restrain them, keep them isolated, to balance the energies. Some don't survive the process, but you, Solo, you've surpassed our expectations and more."
Solo flexed his wrists, readjusting the goggles that shielded his eyes, a barrier against the world. Without another word, he rose from the chair and strode out of the room.
Ray made a move to stop him, but Xero's hand halted him. "Little shit," Ray muttered under his breath.
"Don't blame the boy," Xero countered, his voice laced with regret. "He was thrust into circumstances most children couldn't even imagine."
Xero's thoughts drifted back to the day he discovered Solo, a silent infant swaddled in black cloth amidst the horrors of Nextar. He had brought the child to Nerva, only to be ordered to the Capitol of Bright, the heart of the Legion's empire in the Urion galaxy. There, high-ranking officials and the Emperor himself had analyzed the boy, intrigued by the unusual, dark auras that mingled with the Soulbliss within him.
Under the Emperor's command, Xero had taken Solo to Proxus, where the boy was raised not with the warmth of parental love, but in the cold, calculating environment of a military installation. To them, Solo was an experiment, a subject to be studied and molded into a weapon. He had been denied the simple joys of childhood, the chance to be anything other than a tool of war.
In the sterile white room, the air hung heavy with unspoken sorrow—a sorrow for the childhood Solo never had, and for the path that lay inevitably before him.