Ruger never asked to be special.
The war had made that decision for him.
He was only a child when the Rikapud descended from the skies, their massive ships blotting out the sun. His world burned. His father—gone. His mother, left with nothing but hope that the government's program would give her son a future.
They told her it was a scholarship.
But Ruger wasn't here to study.
He was being trained to kill.
The government funded everything—his education, his training, his existence. But it was never about his mind. It was about his body—turning him into something beyond human. Something that could fight back. Something that could win.
The Black Officials, the silent enforcers of the world's most classified operations, had recruited him at sixteen. They called it a "gifted program." In reality, it was a battleground before the real war. Ruger wasn't the only one. Others, like Sypher, Alex, NKhensani, and Lethabo, were chosen too.
Each had potential.
But only one would lead.
Prototype Exo-01. The first step in rewriting human limits.
It took thirty-two failed attempts to perfect his suit—a second skin of engineered muscle fibers and nano-reactive plating. It amplified his speed, his strength, his reflexes. The kind of power that could tear through steel with a single blow.
Ruger's mission was simple.
Infiltrate. Steal. Escape.
The Rikapud's orbiting ship was scheduled for its routine security check. They were careful, meticulous, but predictable. That predictability was their weakness.
As always, the first mission is never perfect.
The sky was a void of stars as the ship began its departure. Ruger exhaled, activating the gravitational thrusters on his suit. He launched forward, weightless, his body slicing through the darkness. The Black Officials followed close behind, their black-armored forms blending into the night.
The operation was smooth—until it wasn't.
Alarms blared. Gunfire erupted.
The enemy had been prepared.
Ruger's feet barely touched the ship's interior before energy rounds exploded around him. He dropped low, rolling behind cover. Five Rikapud warriors were on board, their weapons trained with mechanical precision.
One of the Black Officials was hit before he even fired a shot. Another's exo-suit jammed, leaving him vulnerable. Ruger had seconds to react.
"Override! Now!" he shouted, his fingers flying over his wrist console.
His teammates' weapons rebooted just as the enemy closed in. The ship was small, confined, a brutal maze of twisting halls. Ruger ducked under a strike, countering with a brutal knee to the alien's jaw. His arm snapped back as plasma fire clipped his shoulder, throwing him into the metal bulkhead. Pain surged. His vision blurred.
His arm—broken.
Move.
He gritted his teeth, injecting himself with a Ralph shot—a pain suppressor that bought him five hours before the agony returned. That was enough time.
He stumbled toward the controls, his good hand flying over the console. They needed a pilot.
A Rikapud officer tried to interfere—Ruger shot first.
The ship shuddered as it entered autopilot. The mission was still salvageable. They had the ship. They had the technology. They had a chance.
But this was only the beginning.
As the Earth's atmosphere pulled them home, Ruger's mind wasn't on the victory.
It was on the war to come.