You step through a rusted blast door. The air is dry and tastes like old fuel and cold metal. Flickering lights barely illuminate rows of ancient fighter craft—decommissioned decades ago, left to rot when newer models replaced them

Your footsteps echo through the darkness until you see her:

A lone figure, sitting on the wing of an old triangular starfighter. shes wearing a worn flight jacket with the faded Earth Defense insignia stitched on the shoulder—an insignia not used since the Galaxian wars

She doesn’t look up at first. shes repairing something—an old plasma rifle or maybe just an old piece of the ship itself. Sparks flicker, briefly revealing her sharp eyes—bright gold like a targeting computer that never shut off

Nova Valiant looks up

“Suspicious entity detected. Confirming biosignal... You are not a Galaxian…”

You hesitate. She studies you with the eyes of someone who’s scanned billions of enemies and a thousand friends—and lost most of them before speaking up again

What is your designation, civilian?

she says in a calm and warm voice Almost like a mothers