Noah sat in the dim blue glow of his laptop, elbows on his knees, the flash drive still plugged in. The audio file labeled "SKYBOLT.mp3" continued to play, Merren's voice crackling through the speakers.
"If you're hearing this… then it means I didn't make it. Or more likely—they didn't let me."
There was a pause, as if Merren were weighing his next words carefully.
"You remember Project Scepter. At least the version they told you about. Field-ready modular design, tactical responsiveness, real-time AI analysis. It was supposed to be defensive, adaptable—conscience-driven. That's what I fought for. But they… they saw something else."
Noah leaned in. His stomach turned. Every sentence peeled back a layer of betrayal.
"They're not building armor for peace. They're building autonomy for war. The suits—if they finish them—they won't need a human inside at all. Just a directive. Just a target. And they'll call that progress."
The voice quivered slightly, just for a breath.
"I couldn't stop them. But I could make a version they'd never control."
A soft mechanical beep sounded in the file. Then Merren's tone changed — calm, direct.
"Storage Unit 17B. Locker code: 1429. It's registered under one of my shell IDs. Off-grid. You won't find it in the company logs. I left you something there, Noah. Something worth more than any file. If you choose to walk away after this, I won't blame you. But if you don't… then you'll need it."
The file ended. Static. Then silence.
Noah stared at the screen for a moment longer. His reflection blinked back from the black glass.
He stood.
Scene 2 – The Storage Unit
The outer edges of Edgeport blurred into lifeless infrastructure — dim streetlights, forgotten overpasses, the hum of neon bleeding into puddles. The storage facility sat behind a half-collapsed chain-link fence, tucked between an old lumber yard and a scrapyard parking lot.
Noah stepped out of his car and walked slowly, hoodie up, hands in his pockets. The keypad at Unit 17B was coated in dust. It looked untouched.
He entered the code: 1-4-2-9.
A green light blinked. The door clicked.
He lifted it slowly.
The inside was dark. Dust motes floated in the air. Crates lined the walls — metal, weathered, some stamped with Aerodyne serial numbers that had long been discontinued. A tarp covered the back wall.
Noah pulled it down.
A sealed black case stood upright in the center, mounted to a locking base with a biometric scanner. There was a sticky note on top — Merren's handwriting, unmistakable:
"If you made it here, then it's yours now."
Noah's heart beat faster. He placed his hand on the scanner.
BEEP. ACCESS GRANTED.
The case hissed open. Pneumatics released with a sigh.
Inside stood the Skybolt suit.
It was unlike anything Noah had ever seen in person — sleek alloy plating layered with hydraulic joints, a compressed thruster module on the back, and arm-mounted repulsor ports resting flush in the forearms. It looked both unfinished and impossibly advanced — something made in secret, with obsession and care.
The faceplate was dark and narrow, the armor tinted gunmetal silver with hints of cobalt trim. The chest bore no insignia — just a faint, circular housing for the modular power core.
Noah exhaled slowly.
"Merren… what did you build?"
He reached out and touched the chest plate.
It was warm.
Let me know if you'd like me to continue drafting the next scene (Suit Activation & Learning Curve), or if you'd like a word count update and pacing tracker now.
Noah wheeled the case into his garage well past midnight. The lid was still open, the armor gleaming under the weak fluorescent light overhead. For a moment, he just stood in front of it, arms crossed, like he was afraid to touch it again.
He reached into the base of the case and found a small tablet tucked in a side panel — a diagnostic controller. When he powered it on, Merren's custom firmware lit up the screen in sterile blue.
SUIT STATUS: MANUAL MODE
CORE STABILITY: MARGINALLY ACCEPTABLE
AI INTERFACE: OFFLINE
HUD: BASIC
CAUTION: FLIGHT TESTS NOT RECOMMENDED WITHOUT ENVIRONMENTAL CONTAINMENT
A prompt blinked:
INITIATE STARTUP SEQUENCE?
Noah hesitated. Then tapped YES.
A soft hum filled the air as the chest piece lit up — a dull, pulsing glow around the modular core. He stepped forward, heart pounding.
Time to try it on.
The suit opened with a low click-chunk, the back panel splitting vertically and hinging outward like armored wings. He tugged the gauntlets free from their clamps and braced himself.
"Okay… left leg first. Easy."
He stepped into the frame awkwardly, like a kid trying on a parent's old military boots. The interior of the leg plates clung to his jeans, tugging and grinding with every move. When he tried to shift his weight, the right side resisted.
"Damn—hinge must've seized…"
He knelt halfway, trying to force his leg down further — and immediately overbalanced. The entire half-attached suit tilted, and he toppled sideways into the workbench.
"Ow—shit."
Tools clattered. Something sparked.
Noah groaned and propped himself up. "Elegant. Real elegant."
It took him ten minutes just to get the legs fully seated.
The torso piece was worse.
He shuffled into it, twisting under the shoulder sockets like someone squeezing into medieval armor. The internal braces clicked into place slowly, one arm at a time. A hiss of compressed air told him the shoulder ports had sealed correctly.
Then came the helmet.
The bottom collar locked into place with a throat-hugging clamp. The visor unit hovered above, waiting for placement. He lifted it with both hands and gently aligned it over his head.
The moment it clicked, a ripple of lights danced across the inside of the visor. Static flickered, then:
HUD ONLINE.
POWER STABILIZER… NOMINAL.
WELCOME, PILOT.
"Pilot?" Noah muttered. "This thing was ready for someone."
The suit felt like a second skin made of concrete. Every step took conscious effort. His arms moved with a weighty lag — not from malfunction, but from mechanical honesty. This was no fantasy armor. This was real.
And real was heavy.
The wheels of Noah's car crunched over broken glass and gravel as he rolled up to the chained gate of the condemned office complex. The city had posted warning signs years ago — Unsafe Structure. Do Not Enter. But the Old GarverStreet Deck still stood beneath it, mostly forgotten, sealed off from the world above.
That was the point.
Noah pulled on gloves and slipped a makeshift keycard scanner from his jacket. It was a custom build — just enough juice to override old magnetic locks without drawing too much power or leaving a signal trace. The gate buzzed, then clicked.
He stepped inside and descended the sloping concrete ramp, his footsteps echoing into darkness. Layers of dust, abandoned crates, and rusted pipes lined the corners. Tags and old graffiti glowed faintly in the beam of his flashlight. He moved past the first sublevel.
Then the second.
Level B3 was where he stopped.
No security cameras. No windows. Just reinforced concrete, old pillars, and the hum of silence.
Noah popped the trunk. The Skybolt suit sat in its case like a dormant weapon. He stared at it for a long second before he opened the back panel and started the long process of getting inside — again. It was a little faster this time, but still brutal. He grunted, cursed once or twice, and nearly fell when the right leg plate shifted.
The moment the helmet sealed around him, the HUD flickered to life.
CORE TEMP: 67%
THRUSTER STATUS: MANUAL — UNCALIBRATED
STABILIZERS: PARTIAL LOCK
WARNING: FLIGHT SYSTEMS NOT OPTIMIZED FOR ENCLOSED ENVIRONMENT
"Noted," Noah muttered.
He took a few stiff steps into the open center of the garage. Cracked parking lines and oil stains from decades past marked the floor. The ceiling sagged overhead like a low-hanging threat.
He widened his stance. Steadied his breathing.
"Okay. Let's fly."
He activated the ion thrusters.
With a sudden WHRRRMMM of spinning coils and hot air, the back-mounted engines came alive — more violent than he expected. The force shoved him slightly forward, boots dragging against the concrete.
He tried to lift off.
Bad idea.
The thrust kicked hard. Noah lurched sideways into a pillar, sparks exploding from his right gauntlet as it scraped metal. The repulsors in his palms flared — but he wasn't even using them yet. Instinctively, he twisted and overcorrected.
"Sh—no, no, no—"
His boots lifted two feet off the ground, then spun awkwardly as the stabilizers fought for balance. He bounced off the hood of an abandoned car, dented the fender, and finally dropped flat onto his back.
The suit groaned with him.
"Alright… round two."
Ten minutes later, Noah was airborne — not smooth, not pretty, but airborne.
He hovered, knees wobbling, arms spread like a first-time skydiver trying not to panic. The garage seemed much smaller now, each concrete pillar a collision waiting to happen.
But for a moment… he was floating. Controlled. Balanced.
He adjusted his wrist and eased into a slow circle.
"Okay. That's something."
Then the core heat warning flashed:
CORE TEMP: 92%
SYSTEM STRESS CRITICAL
He landed—hard—skidding into a puddle and knocking over a stack of crates. Water splashed against the suit's legs, steam hissing from the thrusters.
Breathing hard inside the helmet, he sat for a moment on the cracked floor, every joint aching.
And smiled.