The cargo door groaned, then slammed open with metallic thunder — releasing a hulking war machine that shook the hangar.
For a moment, everyone stared in awe. Then it stopped. Dead still.
"It's a bit slow, ain't it?" Moore muttered.
"Darling, it's old," Dixie said, patting the console, "but it's got all the charm."
Bzzz. Clack. Bzzz. Clack.
"Door stuck," CAT announced flatly.
Every head turned, and every eye rolled in perfect, synchronized agony.
CAT pressed the intercom.
"Limedars, open the cargo doors manually. Use the special equipment."
Tyson, Amaru, and Moore leaned forward in their seats.
"Special equipment?" Tyson said, doubtful.
Moments later, Lime appeared, dragging a black leather bag.
"They're really going to start fixing it?" Tyson asked, baffled. "During mission time?"
"This is going straight into my KPH report under 'unprofessional conduct.'" Moore crossed her arms and frowned.
Amaru grinned. "I'd have just ripped the door down. Webbed it back up later."
Lime rummaged through the bag, muttering theatrically.
"Zpecial Zequipment, az zou azk…"
He dove in deeper, clinking and clacking like an archaeologist uncovering ancient treasure.
"Zhere!" he cried, triumphantly lifting the artifact!
A small, blue can.
WD-40.
Tyson facepalmed. Amaru wheezed with laughter.
Moore's expression could have curdled steel.
CAT's voice came through the speaker, calm as ever.
"As I said, the special equipment is required. The door is too tight and needs lubrication. Water Displacement Forty Formula. It has solved spacecraft problems since 1953 A.D."
Lime gave a thumbs-up. Dixie grinned like a proud mechanic.
Nyxa just turned away and muttered, "We're all going to die. At least the door will open for the new owner of this ship."
The AT-45 Raider stomped out from its cage, each metallic step cracking the obsidian bedding beneath.
The ship's windows dimmed automatically, shielding the crew from ultraviolet bursts and stray radioactive flares.
CAT's voice came through the comms in a calm, clinical, almost proud.
"As discussed earlier in the cockpit: The Wraith requires a dense radioactive field — not too hot, not too inert. Our destination lies approximately three hundred and twenty-nine kilometers ahead, at the summit of the volcanic ridge. We have designated it Wraith Peak. It is the site most frequented by The Horror… and, partially, its home."
Amaru groaned.
"Fine. I'm taking a nap. Real-life cutscene skip."
She kicked her boots onto the control panel, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
"Miss Amaru! You can't—" Moore began, before Nyxa silently rested a hand on her shoulder and pointed toward Dixie. Already in sleep mode, head tilted against the seat.
*tsk* Moore lowered her voice, sighed, and crossed her arms as the Raider began its slow march across the volcanic plain, moving like a steel camel through a desert of fire and ash.