Morning came over Tenrihines like molten gold spilling across steel. The STF Headquarters was awake long before sunrise, engines thrummed, corridors buzzed with orders, and the air shimmered faintly with the hum of power armor being charged.
Down in the locker wing, the heavy door slid open with a hiss of air pressure. Boomer, the Tenth Great, stepped through, broad-shouldered, built like a fortress, and clad in polished blue sci-fi knight armor that seemed forged from both history and innovation. A red, battle-worn cape, the edges frayed from years of campaign wear. On his back hung a sword whose blade ended in the shape of an arrowhead, gleaming faintly with residual energy.
He walked with the easy confidence of someone who'd led armies and lived to tell the tale. "Hey, everybody ready to get to it?" Boomer's voice filled the room, rough but lighthearted.
Blade, standing nearby and tightening the strap on his scabbard, looked up. "I'm ready. I got a full ten hours—" A scream from the hallway cut him off. Both men froze, exchanging a quick look before rushing toward the noise. The echo carried down the metallic corridor until they rounded a corner.
There stood Voltron, towering in the middle of the passage, his dark mechanical armor glinting under the fluorescent lights. He had one hand gently holding a panicked recruit by the collar.
"Voltron!" Blade barked, stepping closer. "What happened?"
Voltron's deep, robotic voice buzzed softly, almost embarrassed. "I went to scare him as a joke, but… he got scared. I didn't mean for him to freak out."
Boomer chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, look at you. The great Voltron—terror of demons—scaring our own recruits half to death."
The recruit stammered an apology and stumbled away down the hall. Blade sighed and slapped Voltron on the shoulder plate. "Try not to kill anyone with humor next time."
Voltron's eyes flickered once—his version of a sheepish grin. "Acknowledged,"
Boomer smirked. "Come on, we've got a galaxy to save."
Back in the locker room, the three of them finished suiting up, armor clicking into place, helmets sealing with the familiar hiss of pressure locks. The air was charged with that quiet pre-battle energy that came before every major deployment. They made their way to the hangar bay, where the STF's flagship transport waited, its hull lined with the insignia of the Galactic Empire and the STF crest beneath it. Inside, the others were already seated.
Ian, calm as ever, reading a glowing data slate; Optimus, checking over his gauntlet's power readouts; and Ice King, staring silently out the viewport as frost crystals slowly spread across the glass from the energy leaking off his armor. As Boomer, Blade, and Voltron entered,
Ian looked up. "Everyone, take a seat. Save up your energy—when we arrive, it's going to be a fight to the end."
The tone in his voice silenced any lingering chatter. Chairs slid back, armor plates clanked, and the STF's elite sat in disciplined quiet.
Optimus leaned forward slightly, voice firm but not cold. "Listen up. This isn't just another operation. This is a test to see if you're really made for this. The Light has torn through cities and burned worlds. Today, we put an end to it."
A low hum filled the air as the ship's engines roared to life. Outside the viewport, the hangar doors parted, revealing the sprawling capital below—a sea of light, industry, and civilization built on the bones of a thousand wars. The city shrank away as the ship lifted into the dawn sky, the clouds parting like silk. The STF was in motion once again. Each man sat in silence, the weight of destiny settling across their armor. They were flying toward a war that could reshape the galaxy, and none of them knew who would live to see the next sunrise.
Captain One Arm woke before dawn in his private quarters, the thin light of Tenrihines slipping through the blinds and painting his room in a pale, metallic glow.
He dressed with the deliberate, practiced motions of a man who had lived a lifetime in the saddle, boots laced, coat snapped, the leather of his remaining gauntlet creaking familiarly as he flexed it. The wooden cane he kept by the door tapped in steady time as he walked out. Down in the cafeteria, the familiar rhythm of the morning was already underway, serving trays clattered, voices rose and fell in murmured orders, and the scent of roasted protein and spiced broth threaded through the air. Captain One Arm took his breakfast in quiet, the motion of eating almost ceremonial.
Red Riot slid into the seat across from him with the easy grin of a soldier who still found ways to be a boy. "You finally up," he said. "You nervous for today's big operation?"
Captain One Arm set down his cup, eyes distant for a moment. "I wouldn't be nervous if we were just a distraction again," he replied in a low voice.
There was no bravado in it—only the blunt truth of a man who'd been to too many fields where distractions became graves.
Red Riot's hand landed on the table, firm and warm. "You'll be fine. Trust in your leadership skills. I think Ian's testing you—seeing if you're ready for the next step." His tone carried belief; he spoke it like a promise.
Captain One Arm let out a soft breath and allowed himself a small, private smile. "Maybe," he said. "But whatever the test, it's time. Let's go.
The operation's starting." They rose together and walked toward the hangar, their steps falling into the cadence of soldiers who had always answered the call.