The transport ship groaned as its damaged systems flickered back to life, its engines sputtering and whining in protest. Dominic didn't care. He had a task now—a larger one than he'd ever imagined. The wreckage around him would not go to waste. Not on his watch.
His hands moved with practiced ease as he shifted between various consoles inside the ship's cockpit, his eyes scanning the data feeds that were slowly beginning to stabilize. The transport was far from operational, but it would be soon. The main engines were still intact, though the auxiliary power system was fried. The ship could be flown, but it would need time to be fully restored.
Dominic set to work. The mechs, the dead bodies of the pilots, the wreckage—it all needed attention.
The cargo bay was the first place he focused his efforts. He ordered the mechs to be moved into position, their broken forms still useful. He could feel the pulse of the strange heart at his side, its rhythm a constant reminder that he wasn't just restoring these machines for survival. There was something else, something more. The heart had already begun to weave itself into his thoughts. It was a subtle thing, like a quiet whisper in the back of his mind, urging him forward, pushing him to create something greater than anything he had before.
One by one, the mechs were rolled into the main hangar. Some of them were irreparably damaged—too far gone to be of any use. But the others, the newer models—those were another story. They had the potential to be something more. Dominic could already see it in his mind: the combination of the old, rusted tech with the new, cutting-edge components. He could make them work together, harnessing the power of both. The result would be something powerful.
As he worked, the transport continued to stabilize. The systems hummed louder now, and the ship's weapons systems began to flicker online. He could feel the ship's pulse, synchronizing with his own. It was like it was alive, responding to his touch, adapting to his will.
But it wasn't just the ship that needed renovation.
Dominic moved through the cargo hold, eyeing the bodies of the fallen pilots. Their lifeless forms were sprawled across the cold metal floor. They had no use now, no more purpose. But their equipment—now that was something different. Their neural interfaces, their combat suits, their weapons—they were all still valuable. And Dominic was going to make sure they would serve him, not the CMC.
The first body he approached belonged to a soldier in the uniform of the CMC. The pilot's face was pale, eyes wide open in a final, silent scream. The neural interface was still intact, though slightly damaged. The suit, too, was in surprisingly good condition. Dominic carefully detached the neural implant, wiping the blood and grime away as he worked.
The suit was another matter. He needed it, or at least parts of it. A CMC pilot suit wasn't just armor—it was an extension of the pilot's body, designed to enhance neural connections, provide maximum protection, and support combat efficiency. But Dominic didn't need all of it. He only needed what would fit him.
The pulse of the heart beat louder in his chest. It was guiding him now, showing him what needed to be done.
Dominic moved with precise, efficient movements as he stripped the suit from the dead pilot's body, removing all the necessary components: the power pack, the neural interface, the helmet. His mind raced, taking stock of everything he had, everything he would need.
He worked through the night, the sounds of grinding metal and the faint hum of the ship's systems filling the air. Slowly, the new suit began to take shape.
It wasn't just a suit anymore.
Dominic incorporated pieces from several different suits, from different pilots. The CMC armor was tough, but it wasn't perfect. He needed to reinforce it, augment it. He fused in pieces of the mechs—reinforced plating, improved joints, added servos for flexibility. The helmet had a wider range of vision than the standard CMC model, its interface upgraded to work seamlessly with his own neural connection.
The suit was a hybrid now, a combination of human technology and mech-grade armor, all linked together through the neural implant Dominic had salvaged. It would give him an edge over anyone who came after him.
As he finished the final adjustments, Dominic stood back, admiring his work. The suit was functional—everything he'd hoped it would be—but there was still something missing. He ran his fingers over the exterior, tracing the lines, feeling the smooth surface. The suit needed something more, something to make it truly his.
He paused, staring at the mech parts that surrounded him.
Then it hit him.
Dominic grabbed a section of an old battle mech's chest plate—a relic of some long-forgotten war. It was made of rare material, an alloy that had been phased out years ago. The armor was dented and scratched, but the quality was undeniable. He could feel its strength, its resilience. This would be the piece that would make his suit stand out.
He attached it to the chest of the combat suit, its worn, battle-scarred surface blending perfectly with the new parts. The suit wasn't just an extension of his body anymore. It was a reflection of him—his past, his experience, his vision.
Dominic looked at himself in the reflective surface of the ship's control panel. The armor gleamed under the dim light, a masterpiece of salvaged technology and pure willpower. The suit wasn't perfect, but it was a weapon, and it was his.
The pulse of the heart in his chest grew stronger, almost as if it recognized his transformation.
"Now, you are ready."
The voice—clearer now, more defined—spoke in his mind. Dominic could feel the weight of its words, the truth behind them.
He was ready.
And the universe would soon know what it meant to cross him.