Romy never understood why they had to get into their space suits for battle. The logic of it made sense; if you had to evacuate your battler, then you’d be able to survive in space. But barely anyone survived evacuation into a battlefield, and if you did there was a fifty-fifty chance you’d get picked up by the Critamal. The black, scaly creatures with the beady yellow eyes weren’t known for their gentle side.

Suited up, Romy strapped herself behind a gun. She grinned, gripping the dual handles with relish. At least the artillery on the battler was up-to-date.

The twins followed suit, sitting behind the remaining two guns. There was a gun on each side, and one at the back. Thrym acted as co-pilot and manned the missiles at the front beside Elara—their pilot. Romy felt secure in the knowledge that if they died, it wouldn’t be because her knot member crashed.

“Pressurising Battler 56,” Elara shouted.

“Shutting off vents.”

“Initiating Terminal Launch sequence.”

“Guns functional.”

“Open valve.”

“Ah, screw it,” grumbled Elara. “I’m just going.”

Romy was thrown to the back of her seat, head rattling in her helmet. Thrym’s voice crackled through her earpiece, shouting at Elara for incorrect deployment.

It always took Romy a minute to get her bearings with the speed these crafts put out. This particular battler made her feel like she’d shake apart before they even reached the battle.

A high whining followed by a disjointed voice rang in her ears. “Battler 56, this is Control Deck. Assistance required at H8.” The voice cut out.

“Roger that, Control,” Elara responded, poking her tongue out at Thrym. “Everyone ready?”

“Elara, I can assure you that if you’re ready, the rest of us were probably ready ten minutes ago,” Phobos said. Romy laughed, peering out of her window as they approached the front line.

The battle was in full swing, with their forces concentrated in a semi-circle facing the Critamal. The Orbitos battle crafts were grey and sleek, and the fleet of Orbito One attacked the Critamal in two rotating waves. You fired, you circled to the back, you fired, you circled to the back.

Debris was everywhere. Grey alloy, as well as the dark green of the Critamal battlecrafts. There were already casualties on both sides.

Elara dodged a ruined ship, slamming everyone to the right. “You know what, Phobos? I’m gonna make sure I crash on your side. See how ready you are for that.”

Battle was an odd thing. Jokes were funnier, pain was more acute, and you were so aware of everything; your head was constantly turning, every flash drawing your fidgeting attention.

“Approaching H8, ETA: nine seconds. Guns ready,” Thrym chimed.

Romy knocked back the safeties and tilted her head to the right—she swore she shot better this way. Her chest rose and fell in even breaths as she eyed the chunky, ugly enemy crafts.