Night Ledger
[EXCERPT: CAPTAIN BLACKFEATHER’S LOG // WIND DATE UNKNOWN]
The storm came up from the south, screaming like a god with a rusted throat. That was fine by me. I’ve never trusted calm weather.
We’d just finished raiding a convoy out of the Ruined Coast, a Psycho-run shipment carrying fuel drums and chemical rage. The hold still smelled of blood and smoke. Ravencloak was patching a bullet hole in the balloon rig while Ironwing tightened the lightning rods above deck. Below us, the clouds churned — black, blue, gold — a rolling grave for anyone too slow to listen.
Then the lightning split, and through it came Tyrgrim the Warlord.
He rode a dropship torn from a dozen dead machines, its hull covered in bone charms and red banners. I’d heard stories about him — how his Psychos bathed in jet fuel, how they carved their kills into their augments. Didn’t expect to meet the legend mid-sky, though.
“Blackfeather!” his voice boomed through the comms, cracked and laughing. “The storm’s ours. Leave the cargo or burn with it.”
I spat into the wind. “Tell your dogs to fetch their own thunder.”
His dogs — Bloodaxe and Battlemaiden — swung aboard before the hail even stopped falling. Bloodaxe carried a chain saw the size of a man. Battlemaiden had a smile like a fresh wound. They hit my deck screaming.
Ravencloak was first to meet them, diving from the rigging with both talons out. Ironwing fired the harpoon cannon until it glowed red, pinning one Psycho through the shoulder before the next round jammed.
I drew my cutlass — half steel, half lightning conductor — and met Tyrgrim on the main deck as the ships locked together in the squall. He was enormous. Half man, half metal, one arm missing and replaced by a blade fused from scrap. Every strike he threw felt like a hammer from the gods.
“You’re a thief,” he growled.
“And you’re late to the robbery,” I said.
The storm howled approval.
When the deck finally split, we both fell — tangled in ropes and debris — tumbling through open sky. Below us, the clouds flashed, then swallowed everything in white.
I woke hanging from a broken mast wedged between two cliffs. The ship was gone. The Psychos were gone. Ravencloak’s harness hung empty. Ironwing’s feathers were scattered down the ravine like silver snow.
The radio crackled. “Captain…?” It was Ironwing, faint, dying. “Was it worth it?”
I looked up at the storm still circling above — a crown of lightning no man could own.
“Worth it?” I said. “We’re still in the sky, aren’t we?”
I cut the line before he could answer.
[END LOG // CLASSIFIED: SALVAGE LEVEL 3 // RECOVERED FROM BLACKFEATHER’S WRECKAGE]
They say the Psychos never found the cargo. Some claim the storm still guards it, spinning endlessly over the coast. Others say that when the thunder rolls just right, you can hear Blackfeather laughing — free, broke, and undefeated.
