The Rock had always been a graveyard. A jagged, barren asteroid deep in the Nyx system, it was home to the lost, the forsaken, the children who had no one. They called themselves the Sons to No One, but among them, there was one they followed—the First Son. Wrapped in scavenged armor, his face hidden beneath a battered helmet, the First Son stood at the edge of the hangar bay, watching as the Vanduul raiding party tore through the colony’s outer defenses. The air was thick with the crackling of distant plasma fire, the screams of dying colonists swallowed by the void. He clenched his fists. This was their home, and tonight, they would make the Vanduul pay for trespassing. He turned to his brothers—fighters who had survived every horror the universe had thrown at them. They weren’t soldiers; they weren’t UEE marines. They were scavengers, orphans, outcasts who had learned to fight in the dark corners of space. But they were his. “Jex, take Zeta team through the tunnels. Get to the fuel depot and be ready to blow it on my mark,” he ordered, voice cold through the comms. “Rook, you and the others hold the perimeter. We don’t let them reach the reactor.” “And you?” Rook asked. The First Son pulled his heavy rifle from his back, checking its charge. “I’m going hunting.” ⸻ The Vanduul warriors stalked through the ruined corridors of the mining station, their towering forms casting jagged shadows in the emergency lighting. They moved with predatory grace, their plasma lances glowing like malevolent stars in the dimness. The First Son waited in the wreckage of a collapsed bulkhead, motionless. His heartbeat was steady, his breath even. He counted their steps. Four of them. Two heavily armored. One scout. One with a glaive. He struck first. A suppressed shot punched through the scout’s skull, his body dropping before the others could react. The First Son burst from cover, plasma rounds sparking off his reinforced chest plate as he closed the distance. The glaive-wielder roared, slashing through the air with a deadly arc. The First Son ducked low, sliding beneath the swing before driving his combat knife into the alien’s exposed throat. Blood sprayed across his visor, the Vanduul gurgling as he collapsed. The remaining two warriors fell back, regrouping. One fired wildly while the other activated a wrist-mounted blade, its serrated edge humming with energy. The First Son dodged the gunfire, leaping forward. He twisted mid-air, landing hard against the gunner and driving him into the ground. A quick pull of the trigger, and the Vanduul’s helmet exploded in a flash of plasma. The last warrior lunged. The First Son barely dodged the serrated blade as it cut across his armor, sparks flying. He pivoted, using the momentum to bring his rifle up—click. Empty. The Vanduul sneered in its guttural tongue. It charged, blade raised high. At the last moment, the First Son yanked the plasma pistol from his hip and fired point-blank. The blast caught the alien under the chin, incinerating its skull. The body crumpled, twitching. “Perimeter clear,” he muttered into his comms. ⸻ Across the station, explosions rocked the colony. Jex had done his part—the fuel depot was burning, cutting off the raiders from their reinforcements. The remaining Sons were sweeping through, picking off survivors. By dawn, the battle was over. The station was barely holding together, but it was still theirs. The First Son stood over the corpse of the Vanduul leader, bloodied and victorious. His armor was dented, his rifle empty, but he had won. They had survived. They always survived. ⸻ https://robertsspaceindustries.com/spectrum/community/SC/forum/50177/thread/children-of-the-rock-a-star-citizen-clan-9/479413