(Guess you guys dont mind a time-skip, right?)
Grei Fourth
The final planet of the system,
Grei Fourth, was less of a world and more of a frozen graveyard. A desolate wasteland of eternal ice, its surface was an endless expanse of glaciers and merciless snowstorms that could disorient even the most seasoned traveler. Life was not just inhospitable here; It was impossible. The cold bit into everything, reducing exposed flesh to frostbitten ruin in minutes.
And yet, for those who had nowhere else to go, Grei Fourth was a sanctuary.
A perfect hiding place.
Across a seven-light-year in all directions, every criminal, fugitive, and outlaw knew of Grei Fourth. Its isolation made it ideal for those evading the watchful eyes of law enforcement. With a planetary diameter spanning
51,118 kilometers: comparable in scale to Uranus of the humanity’s golden throne: the Solar System, there was more than enough room for the dregs of the sector to carve out their own lawless enclaves.
Even if Manus managed to seize control of a few abandoned military bases on the planet, that is not a Issue these outposts remained disconnected, their networks severed long ago. Most criminals relied on external means to communicate, often using illicit methods to wipe their short-term memories after critical meetings, though the side effects were both unpredictable and immediate.
But none of that mattered.
Not when the
Weapon Master was involved.
His name was spoken in hushed tones, more myth than man. Few had ever met him, and even fewer had lived to tell the tale. Those who knew of him only did so because they had crossed paths before his transformation, before he had become the Weapon Master. To most, he was a ghost, a legend who could only be contacted through the
Dark Holonet. But this meeting was different.
This was personal.
Inside a dimly lit workshop buried beneath Grei Fourth’s surface,
the Weapon Master studied Emmanuel with one squinting bionic eye, his cybernetic gaze scrutinizing every detail. His mechanical legs twitched, their spider-like structure shifting as he adjusted his posture. He had the body of a machine, but fragments of his former self remained, one human arm, aged and scarred, and another that had been replaced with cold, unfeeling metal.
“So that explains your absence,” the Weapon Master muttered, his voice distorted by layers of synthetic augmentation. “I thought they would’ve killed you.”
Emmanuel exhaled bore by this talk, his breath visible in the frigid air as he checked the diagnostic system of his suit. The display flickered, struggling to isolate the
Terror Virus that had been eating away at him for years.
“They thought leaving me with a slow dose of the Terror Virus would be a better punishment,” Emmanuel replied, his tone edged with exhaustion. “Let it rot me from the inside out during my life sentence.”
His suit had been designed to keep the virus at bay, to extract it
but it couldn’t. The infection had embedded itself too deeply into his DNA, a grotesque fusion of biology and destruction. It was a miracle he hadn’t already degenerated into a mass of cancerous flesh.
The Weapon Master’s mechanical fingers flexed as he considered Emmanuel’s words.
“So, what are you planning to do?”
Emmanuel’s expression darkened as he turned, scanning the familiar chaos of his old friend’s laboratory. Shelves stacked with contraband weaponry, experimental tech, and vials of unidentifiable chemicals lined the walls.
“I need my cure,” he said flatly. “The same one Manus confiscated from me.”
The Weapon Master’s cybernetic eye whirred softly as he processed the statement.
“I have most of what you’d need to recreate it,” he mused, tapping the metal plating on his arm. “Except for one crucial element.”
Emmanuel nodded.
“A sample of my
uninfected DNA,” he confirmed. “Which is on
Grei Prime.”
Silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken tension.
“The only reason this thing hasn’t killed me yet,” Emmanuel continued, “is because when I designed it, I weakened its potency against my own genetic code. I couldn’t make myself immune, but I made sure it wouldn’t be a
game over, unless this suit fails.”
The Weapon Master let out a low, mechanical chuckle.
“Then you’d better hope it doesn’t.”
