-
- Nederlands nl |
- fr
Outside: a hangar filled with drop pods, each stenciled with the same name: WARBLADE. An army of himself. And beyond the hangar's viewport—Earth. Not the blue-green world of history books, but a gray, smoking cinder.
He stepped into the nearest pod. Not because he was ordered to. Because the memory he wasn't supposed to have—faint, blurred, like a dream after waking—showed him a little girl's face. His daughter. From before.
Silence.
"Warblade," a voice crackled through the bay's speaker. "Report."