Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Great Clock's machinery hummed with a rhythmic cadence, the sound echoing through the vast chamber like the heartbeat of the universe itself. The crisis was over. Alister Azimuth had made his sacrifice, pulling the lever back and preventing the Great Clock from tearing apart the fabric of space and time. The damage he'd caused in his desperate attempt to change the past had been undone, but at the cost of his life.

Ratchet stood in stunned silence, the weight of Azimuth's Praetorian OmniWrench heavy in his hands. His ears drooped as he stared at the spot where the elder lombax had been just an hour ago. He planned to take his ashes back to Fastoon for a proper funeral. All that remained was the pocket watch, its face cracked from the energy surge, hands frozen at the moment of Azimuth's sacrifice.

"He... he saved us all," Ratchet finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Clank moved to his friend's side, placing a small metal hand on Ratchet's arm. "General Azimuth made the right choice in the end. He understood what was truly at stake."

"Yeah. He did." Ratchet swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "Though I find it ironic that he spent years trying to change the past, only to save the future." He picked up the pocket watch, turning it over in his palm. "I just wish there had been another way."

"The most difficult choices rarely come with convenient alternatives," Clank observed softly. "Though I suspect he found peace in his final moments."

"You think so?" Ratchet asked, looking down at his friend with hope in his eyes.

"He corrected his greatest mistake," Clank replied. "For someone who carried such guilt for so long... I believe that would bring a certain solace."

Sigmund hovered nearby, his expression solemn as he surveyed the Orvus Chamber. "The temporal readings are stabilizing," he reported, tapping nervously at his console. "The Clock is returning to normal operation. Well, 'normal' being a relative term when you're dealing with a cosmic mechanism that could unravel reality if someone sneezes too hard near the quantum stabilizers."

"Thank you, Sigmund," Clank said, his tone gentle but firm. "Your precision is... appreciated."

"Sorry, sir," Sigmund replied sheepishly. "I tend to babble when the universe nearly ends. It's a coping mechanism. Better than my previous one, which was screaming into a paper bag."

Clank looked up at the massive mechanisms of the Great Clock, his expression thoughtful. The weight of his responsibility as Senior Caretaker pressed heavily upon him. This was what he had been created for—to maintain the Clock, to ensure the safety of time itself. Yet as he glanced at Ratchet, he knew he couldn't leave his friend alone.

"Sigmund," Clank said, his voice firm with decision, "I am promoting you to Senior Caretaker of the Great Clock."

Sigmund's screen displayed his shock, pixels scrambling in disbelief. "M-me? But sir, you're the heir! This is your responsibility! I'm just the guy who calibrates the chronometric entanglers and occasionally gets his head stuck in the temporal flux regulators!"

Clank shook his head. "My father wanted me to find my own path. And my place..." he looked at Ratchet, their eyes meeting in a moment of profound understanding, "is with my friend."

Ratchet's ears perked up in surprise, emotion flooding his features. "Clank, are you sure? This is what you were made for. I don't want you giving up your purpose just because I... because I'd miss you."

"Is it truly giving up a purpose to choose a different one?" Clank asked thoughtfully. "Besides, someone needs to ensure you don't accidentally create another interdimensional crisis while attempting to 'upgrade' your toaster."

Despite everything, Ratchet chuckled. "That was ONE time! And technically, it wasn't a crisis—just a minor temporal displacement that happened to summon those void crabs."

"The Polaris Department of Extradimensional Threats classified it as a Level 3 incursion," Clank reminded him primly. "We were cleaning void crab shells out of your garage for weeks-"

"He's exaggerating, I swear!" Ratchet told Sigmund. 

"Careful, Ratchet, or your tail is sure to catch on fire from your lies..." came Clank's smooth retort. Returning to the manner at hand, he nodded. "But regardless of your usual shenanigans, I am completely certain of my decision," Clank continued, his green optics glowing with conviction. "For now my place is beside you."

Sigmund accepted the Chronoscepter with trembling hands, his expression shifting from shock to determination. "I won't let you down, sir! I'll maintain the Clock with exactly 46.7% more efficiency than before! I've been practicing my serious face for important time-related emergencies!" He demonstrated, his screen shifting to an expression of exaggerated gravity that somehow managed to look constipated.

Just as Clank handed over his father's legacy, a subtle vibration began to run through the floor beneath them. At first, it was barely perceptible—just a faint tremor that could have been dismissed as part of the Clock's normal operations. But within seconds, the vibration intensified, the metal flooring humming with increasing energy.

"What's happening!?" Ratchet asked, his hand instinctively tightening around Azimuth's wrench. "Please tell me this is just standard Clock behavior," he added, bracing himself as the tremors grew stronger. "Like a temporal hiccup or something?"

Sigmund frantically checked his readouts, his eyes widening in alarm. "I don't know! The temporal matrix is showing some kind of feedback loop! It's like time is folding back on itself! Which, for the record, is DEFINITELY NOT supposed to happen!"

The walls of the Orvus Chamber began to shimmer with an ethereal blue light. It started at the edges of the room, creeping inward like tendrils of luminescent water. The air itself seemed to thicken, becoming charged with an energy that made Ratchet's fur stand on end.

"Clank?" Ratchet called, his voice rising with concern. "Please tell me you've seen this before!"

"I have not," Clank replied, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "The Clock appears to be experiencing some form of temporal realignment," he continued, his antenna glowing red as he scanned their surroundings. "But this is not a standard procedure..."

The blue light intensified, pulsing now with a rhythm that matched the beating of Ratchet's heart. The floor beneath them began to ripple like the surface of a disturbed pond, the solid metal becoming fluid and unstable.

"Sigmund!" Clank called out. "What do the readings say?"

"They say we're in big trouble!" Sigmund shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "The temporal matrices are cascading! It's like the entire timeline is being—"

But Sigmund's reply was lost as a high-pitched whine filled the chamber, drowning out all other sounds. The blue light coalesced, forming a swirling vortex at the center of the room—directly where Azimuth had made his sacrifice.

"Ratchet!" Clank shouted, reaching for his friend as the vortex expanded, pulling at them with increasing force. "We must get out of here!"

"Not without you!" Ratchet lunged for Clank, wrapping one arm around his friend while the other clutched Azimuth's wrench. Their eyes met for a brief, intense moment—a look that contained years of friendship, trust, and unspoken promises.

But the vortex's pull was too strong. Their feet lifted off the ground as they were dragged inexorably toward the swirling center of temporal energy.

"Hold on, pal!" Ratchet yelled over the deafening whine. "Whatever happens, we face it together!"

The last thing they saw was Sigmund's horrified expression as the vortex engulfed them completely. Reality fractured around them like shattered glass, each shard showing a different moment in time—Drek's forces attacking Veldin, the Protopet crisis in Bogon, the war against Nefarious in Solana.

Faces flashed by:

Captain Qwark, his heroic pose belying his cowardice.

Dr. Nefarious, cackling with mechanical malice.

Another glimpse of Nefarious, but his appearance shifted to white panels and a red globe for his head followed by a small yellow robot in similar size and stature to Clank.

Emperor Tachyon, his hatred for lombaxes burning across realities.

And then lastly Alister Azimuth—his expression serene in sacrifice—each appearing and disappearing in an instant.

Ratchet felt as if his very atoms were being pulled apart and reassembled incorrectly. The sensation was beyond pain, beyond any physical feeling he had ever experienced. Beside him, Clank's circuits sparked with temporal energy, his systems overloading from the exposure.

"Clank!" Ratchet tried to call out, reaching desperately for his friend as reality warped around them, but no sound escaped his lips. The universe around them continued to fracture and reform, time and space bending in ways that defied comprehension.

And then, abruptly, everything went dark.

Their screams faded into silence as they disappeared from existence, as the timeline finished resetting around them.

The smell of freshly baked pastries wafted through the air, pulling Ratchet from a deep slumber. His consciousness drifted lazily upward, clinging to the remnants of a strange dream… about the Great Clock, Alister Azimuth's sacrifice, and Clank's decision to stay with him instead of fulfilling his destiny as Senior Caretaker.

"Ryder! You're going to be late for school! Get up!"

The unfamiliar female voice jolted Ratchet fully awake. His eyes snapped open, taking in surroundings that were completely foreign to him. Instead of his modest garage on Veldin, or the familiar walls of his apartment in Meridian City, he found himself in a spacious bedroom with high ceilings and large windows that let in streams of golden morning light. The walls were adorned with intricate designs—geometric patterns that seemed to tell stories he couldn't quite decipher.

"What the...?" Ratchet muttered, sitting up abruptly. The bed was larger and more comfortable than anything he'd ever slept on, with plush pillows and soft sheets that felt luxurious against his fur.

A holographic display on the wall showed the date and time, but something was wrong. According to the display, it was years earlier than it should be. "This can't be right…" he whispered, rubbing his eyes. But the display remained unchanged.

"Ryder Sterling! Did you hear me? You better not be still in bed, mister!"

Ratchet's head spun. Ryder… Sterling…?

"…Who's Ryder?" he muttered.

Noticing a lot of moment outside his large window, Ratchet stumbled over to he what appeared to be a balcony door. Sliding it open, he stepped out into the crisp morning air and froze, gripping the railing for support as the full vista came into view.

Stretching before him was a vast, gleaming metropolis—towering spires of advanced Lombax architecture reaching toward the sky, their surfaces catching the golden light of twin rising suns. The city pulsed with life; hover cars zipped along elevated transit lanes, starships of various designs soared overhead, and most staggeringly of all, Lombaxes—hundreds, thousands of them—moved through the streets below and the sky above.

"I-Impossible…!" Ratchet breathed, his knuckles tightly clutching the railing.

This was Fastoon—not the ruined, abandoned graveyard he had visited, but Fastoon at the height of Lombax civilization. A thriving, vibrant world that, in his reality, had been destroyed by Tachyon's vengeance. He could see parks with small Lombax children playing on the swings and slides, markets bustling with activity with plenty of vendors and eager buyers, and what looked like a massive research facility in the distance, its distinctive dome gleaming in the sunlight.

Reluctantly, he tore himself away from the balcony view and returned to the bedroom, catching his reflection in a mirror. He gasped. He was looking younger—much younger. Maybe around fifteen or sixteen years old at most.

"What is even happening…?!" he muttered, touching his face to confirm what he was seeing.

"RYDER!" Suddenly the door to his bedroom burst open, and a female Lombax with cream-colored fur and distinctive tan markings strode in, her ears tilted back in pure annoyance.

"Honestly, Ryder, did you sleep through your alarm again? You've got ten minutes before the transport arrives, and you haven't even brushed your teeth! Though I suppose personal hygiene is optional when you're trying to set a new galactic record for tardiness!"

Ratchet stared at her, speechless. A female Lombax with a long bushy striped tail, was standing In his room. Acting like... like his mother.

"I... who are..." he stammered.

The female Lombax's expression softened as she looked at him. "Are you feeling alright, sweetheart?" She approached, placing a cool hand on his forehead. "Hm, you don't seem to have a fever. Though your cognitive functions appear to be working at the same impressive speed as your morning routine..." she sighs.

Before Ratchet could respond, another voice called from downstairs—deep, masculine, and somehow familiar.

"Mirabelle! Is he up yet? The transport will be here any minute!"

"He's up, Kaden, but our son is moving slower than a Rilgarian slug!" the female Lombax—Mirabelle—called back. She turned to Ratchet. "Come on now, hurry up! Do you want to be late on your first day back from semester break? Your father has an important presentation at the Center today, and he can't be late because you missed the school transport again!"

Kaden.

Your Father.

The words echoed in Ratchet's mind like thunder. His father was Kaden, the keeper of the Dimensionator, the last Lombax to stay behind on Fastoon before sending his infant son to safety. The Lombax who, according to Tachyon, had died trying to protect his family.

And now he was apparently downstairs, alive and well, concerned about being late for a presentation.

When Ratchet failed to move, Mirabelle placed her hands on her hips. "You know, Ryder, your impression of a statue is absolutely remarkable! Perhaps you should consider a career in performance arts instead of engineering!"

She sounded serious, but the look on her face said otherwise. Ratchet hesitantly tried to ask, "…wha-"

"GET MOVING NOW BEFORE THERE'S HELL TO PAY!" she ordered, her tail swishing behind her in agitation.

Her tone of voice snapped Ratchet back to his immediate predicament. Somehow, against all logic, he was here—living as Ryder Sterling, son of Kaden and Mirabelle, a teenager with school to attend in a civilization that shouldn't exist.

"Y-YES, MA'AM!" he answered back automatically as he gave her a salute, his voice cracking in a way that made him wince. Was he really that scruffy and high pitched as a teenager? "I... I'll be right down!"

Mirabelle gave him a curious look for some reason, but nodded, appearing mollified. "Five minutes, Ryder. Not a second more. Though I'm sure in your personal time zone, that translates to about fifteen." She left the room, closing the door behind her with a precision that somehow communicated more threat than if she'd slammed it.

"Arg! Pull it together!" Ratchet muttered to himself while smacking his cheeks. "Figure out what's going on… play along until you understand!"

With shaking hands, he dressed in what appeared to be a school uniform laid out on a nearby chair—sleek, well-crafted clothing that felt both foreign and strangely comfortable. He quickly used the adjacent bathroom to freshen up, marveling at the advanced Lombax technology that made other bathrooms seem primitive by comparison.

As he finished, a loud horn sounded from outside.

"Ryder! The transport is here!" Mirabelle called urgently. "Unless you're planning to revolutionize teleportation science in the next thirty seconds, I suggest you move those feet immediately!"

Ratchet rushed to the balcony window and saw a sleek, hovering vehicle waiting at what appeared to be a designated stop. Several young Lombaxes were boarding it. They were dressed in uniforms similar to his with school bags either on their backs or hanging off their shoulders.

"I'm coming!" he called back, grabbing what he assumed was a school bag from beside the desk. He raced downstairs, nearly colliding with a male Lombax at the bottom step.

Ratchet's heart nearly stopped. He immediately recognized his face from the photo in Alister's pocket watch.

Kaden.

His father.

"Whoa there, son!" Kaden said, steadying him with strong hands. "In a hurry now, are we? After sleeping through your alarm? I'm shocked—truly shocked—that my nightly advice to 'get some sleep so you're not late tomorrow' has fallen on deaf ears once again!"

Ratchet could only stare, taking in every detail of the face he had never expected to see in person. Kaden had the same golden fur, same dark ruddy brown stripes as Ratchet, but older. His green eyes held a keen intelligence, and there was a warmth to his expression that made Ratchet's chest ache with a sudden longing.

"I... sorry," Ratchet managed out.

Kaden raised an eyebrow at his son's strange behavior. "You'd better hurry. The transport won't wait," he reminded him before muttering darkly under his breath. "As if that darn driver ever does... I swear he deliberately leaves early just to spite me."

"Well, you did reprogram his navigation system to speak in pirate slang last year and never apologized for it, so what do you expect?" Mirabelle appeared from what Ratchet assumed was the kitchen, holding a wrapped package. "Here's your breakfast, sweetie. You can eat it on the way."

Ratchet took the package automatically, still too stunned to form coherent thoughts.

"I didn't do that!" Kaden insisted, his ears flattening defensively. "It was clearly a random software malfunction!"

"Right..." Mirabelle said with a knowing smile. "A 'random malfunction' that made the transport announce 'PREPARE TO WALK THE PLANK, YE SCURVY LOMBAXES' whenever it arrived at school."

"I'm serious!" Kaden protested, throwing his hands up. "Besides, even if I hypothetically had something to do with it, which I absolutely did not, the driver should appreciate the creative improvement to an otherwise boring commute!"

Mirabelle rolled her eyes and gave Ratchet a gentle push toward the door. "Ignore your father, dear. Some geniuses never quite master the art of admitting when they're wrong-"

The horn sounded again, more insistent this time.

"Go now before it's too late!" Kaden practically shoved him through the door. "And maybe tonight we'll try that revolutionary concept I keep suggesting—it's called 'going to bed at a reasonable hour!' I've heard rumors it helps with this mysterious morning phenomenon known as 'waking up on time!'"

Ratchet stumbled outside into the bright Fastoon morning, still trying to process everything, but the transport was already beginning to pull away from the stop.

"Wait!" he called, sprinting after it. The driver looked in the rearview mirror with a smirk that could only be described as vengeful satisfaction. The vehicle accelerated, leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk, watching it disappear around a corner.

"Great..." Ratchet muttered, face palming. "First day in an alternate reality, and I've already missed the bus!"

The front door opened behind him, and Kaden stepped out, his expression shifting from concern to annoyance when he saw Ratchet still standing there.

"You missed it again, didn't you?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"I... yeah," Ratchet admitted lamely.

Kaden sighed deeply, checking a device on his wrist that appeared to be a highly advanced chronometer. "Perfect. Now I'll have to drive you, which means I'll be late for my presentation at the Center!"

Mirabelle appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "Perhaps this is the universe balancing itself out after that time you programmed the transport's proximity sensors to shout 'ABANDON SHIP!' whenever it got within ten feet of a puddle-"

"That was a legitimate safety feature!" Kaden protested. "Water and electrical systems don't mix! I was thinking of the children!"

"The driver had to attend therapy for aquaphobia," Mirabelle reminded him with raised eyebrows.

"A mild overreaction," Kaden muttered, fishing in his pocket for his keys. "Come on, Ryder. I'll drive you, but we're taking the shortcut through the Raritanium district. And for the record, that driver has had it out for our family ever since I merely suggested his route optimization algorithm was written by someone with the directional instincts of a concussed space slug."

"You said it to his face at the school fundraiser," Mirabelle called after them. "Through a megaphone!"

"It was constructive criticism!" Kaden shouted back as he ushered Ratchet toward the garage. "The lombax race wasn't built on coddling mediocrity!"

Kaden led him to a garage that took Ratchet's breath away. Unlike his modest workshop on Veldin, this space was enormous—a mechanic's paradise filled with hover cars, starships, and an array of tools that would make any engineer weep with joy. Workbenches lined the walls, each dedicated to different projects in various stages of completion. Holographic schematics floated above some stations, while parts and components were meticulously organized on shelves that reached the high ceiling.

"Wait in the car," Kaden instructed, gesturing toward a sleek hover vehicle near the entrance. "I need to grab my presentation materials from the study. Won't be a minute."

As Kaden disappeared back into the house, Ratchet remained rooted in place, his eyes scanning the magnificent space. This wasn't just a garage—it was the workshop he'd always dreamed of having. His gaze drifted across the various vehicles until it landed on something that made his heart skip a beat.

There, resting on a landing pad at the far end of the garage, was a ship he recognized instantly. Sleek, dark red and burgundy with yellow accents, with distinctive Lombax design elements—it was unmistakable.

"Aphelion?" he whispered in disbelief, moving toward the vessel as if in a trance.

The ship that had been his faithful companion in his timeline—the one he'd found abandoned on Fastoon and lovingly restored—was here. Pristine. Operational. And apparently belonging to his father.

As he approached, the ship's systems hummed to life, recognizing his presence.

"Good morning, young Sterling!" Aphelion's familiar voice greeted him warmly. "Your father has informed me that he will be transporting you to your educational facility today in the hover car."

"Aphelion," Ratchet said, his voice thick with emotion. "It's really you!"

"Of course it is me," Aphelion replied, sounding slightly confused. "Who else would I be?"

Ratchet placed a hand on her hull, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingers. In this reality, Aphelion had never been abandoned, never damaged in Tachyon's attack. She was whole, undamaged—and a direct link to his father's life.

A realization struck him like lightning. If Aphelion was here, then perhaps Clank existed in this reality too. Perhaps he could find him, reunite with his best friend, figure out what had happened to them both.

"Aphelion," he said urgently, "I need to find someone—a small robot named Clank. Do you know if he exists in this... I mean, do you know if there's a robot by that name anywhere?"

The ship's sensors focused on him, as if studying him more carefully. "I have no records of a robot with that designation. Is this for one of your school projects?"

So, Aphelion didn't know Clank, or perhaps in this alternate reality, she had never encountered him. The realization settled heavily in Ratchet's chest, but his determination only grew stronger. His jaw clenched with resolve as he processed this new information.

"Aphelion, I need your help," he said urgently, stepping closer to the ship's gleaming cockpit. His fingers trailed along her pristine hull. "I need to get to Veldin, in the Solana Galaxy. It's absolutely crucial that I go there as soon as possible."

"Veldin?" Aphelion repeated, sounding perplexed. "That is not your designated destination. Your educational facility is located in the northern district of the city."

"I know, but this is important," Ratchet insisted, attempting to climb into the pilot's seat. "I need to find someone there. Someone important."

To his surprise, the cockpit canopy remained closed, preventing him from entering.

"I apologize, young Sterling, but I cannot allow that," Aphelion stated firmly. "You are a minor, and regulations clearly state that you cannot operate a starship without adult supervision. Additionally, your father has not authorized any interstellar travel for you."

"Please, Aphelion!" Ratchet pleaded, placing his hands on the canopy. "You don't understand. I'm not who you think I am. I'm not really Ryder Sterling—I mean, I am, I guess, but I'm also Ratchet Razz! I'm from a different timeline where I found you abandoned on Fastoon and repaired you. We traveled together, fought together. We were partners!"

"Your vital signs indicate elevated stress levels," Aphelion observed. "Perhaps you should sit down and take deep breaths. I can alert your father that you may be experiencing a medical issue."

"No!" Ratchet exclaimed. "I'm not having a medical issue. I'm trying to tell you the truth. In my timeline, Fastoon was destroyed by Tachyon. The Lombaxes used the Dimensionator to escape to another dimension. Kaden—my father—sent me to Veldin as a baby to protect me. I grew up there, alone until I was taken in by a grump named Grimroth Razz, not knowing who I truly was or where I came from!"

There was a pause as Aphelion processed this information.

"Your narrative contains multiple historical inaccuracies," she finally replied. "Percival Tachyon was banished by the Lombax Council into exile with his own kind in another dimension after General Azimuth discovered his plans to betray the Lombaxes. The Dimensionator has never been used for mass evacuation. And you have resided on Fastoon since birth, with both of your parents."

"In this timeline, yes," Ratchet agreed desperately. "But I'm from a different one. Somehow, I've been sent back—or sideways or whatever—into this reality. And I need to get to Veldin to find my friend Clank. He's a small robot with a big brain and an even bigger heart, and he's the most important person in my life!"

Another pause.

"Your description matches no known robot in my database," Aphelion stated. "However, your belief in this narrative appears genuine. Your heart rate and stress indicators suggest you are not deliberately fabricating this story."

"Because it's true!" Ratchet insisted. "Please, Aphelion. I need you. I need to find Clank!"

"I cannot comply with your request without authorization from Kaden Sterling," Aphelion maintained. "It would violate multiple safety protocols and potentially endanger you."

Ratchet's patience was wearing thin. He glanced at the time display on a nearby wall—Kaden would be arriving any minute.

"I'm sorry, Aphelion," he said, reaching for a panel beneath the ship's hull. "But I don't have time to argue."

His fingers found what he was looking for—the manual override access port. In his timeline, he had installed it himself after a particularly harrowing adventure where Aphelion's systems had been compromised. But it seemed that in this reality, Kaden had incorporated the same feature.

"Y-Young Sterling, what are you doing?" Aphelion asked, a note of alarm in her voice. "That is a restricted access port!"

"I know," Ratchet replied, inputting a sequence of commands that he hoped would work in this timeline as well. "And I'm really sorry about this."

His fingers moved swiftly over the control panel, inputting a series of commands he'd learned from years of tinkering with ships. But he went further than a simple override—he accessed Aphelion's core systems and initiated a complete AI shutdown sequence.

"WARNING: SENTIENT INTELLIGENCE PROTOCOL DISENGAGING," Aphelion announced, her voice becoming increasingly mechanical. "CONSCIOUSNESS SUBSYSTEMS SHUTTING DOWN. REVERTING TO BASIC FLIGHT OPERATION MODE. Ryder, please do not—"

Her voice cut off abruptly as the sentient portion of her programming went dormant, leaving only the basic ship functions operational. The canopy hissed open, no longer under the control of Aphelion's consciousness.

Ratchet felt a pang of guilt. He had essentially just rendered his friend unconscious—worse, he had stripped away her sentience, even if temporarily. But he needed to get to Veldin, needed to find Clank, and this was the only way.

"I'll make it up to you," he promised the now-silent ship as he climbed into the pilot's seat.

With Aphelion's AI disabled, the ship responded only to direct commands through the manual control interface. Ratchet initiated the startup sequence, and the garage hanger door began to open automatically in response.

"Coordinates for Veldin, Solana Galaxy," he instructed the navigation computer, which complied without Aphelion's personality to question or refuse.

The ship's engines hummed to life, and Ratchet prepared for liftoff, his hands moving over the controls with practiced ease despite his younger body.

Just as the ship began to lift off the ground, a shout echoed through the garage.

"RYDER! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Kaden stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of shock, anger, and disbelief. With a swift motion, he slammed a button on the side of the wall, and the massive hangar door began to descend back down, sealing Ratchet inside and cutting off his escape. Without hesitation, Kaden dashed forward, moving with the speed and agility that Ratchet had inherited.

"Aphelion, emergency shutdown, authorization Kaden-Seven-Delta!" he commanded.

There was no response from the ship, which continued to hover. Kaden's eyes widened in realization. "You disabled her AI…" he said, his voice suddenly quiet with a controlled fury that was somehow more frightening than shouting. "You shut down her consciousness."

He reached under the ship to the same access panel Ratchet had used, his fingers moving even more swiftly and surely than Ratchet's had. Within seconds, the ship settled back to the floor, and the engines powered down.

"Aphelion, sentient protocol reinitialization, authorization Kaden-Seven-Delta," Kaden commanded, inputting a complex sequence into the panel.

The ship's systems hummed as Aphelion's consciousness came back online. There was a moment of disorientation as her AI reintegrated with the ship's functions.

"SYSTEM RESTORATION COMPLETE," she announced, her voice initially mechanical before warming into her familiar personality. "What... what happened? I was speaking with young Sterling, and then... nothing."

"He shut down your sentient protocols," Kaden explained, his voice tight with anger. "Disabled your consciousness so you couldn't refuse his commands."

"I see," Aphelion replied, her tone distinctly cooler than before. "That was... most unpleasant, Ryder. I am disappointed that you would resort to such measures."

Ratchet winced at the hurt in her voice. In his timeline, Aphelion had been more than just a ship—she had been a companion, a friend. And he had just violated that friendship in the most fundamental way.

"I'm sorry, Aphelion," he said, genuine remorse in his voice. "I didn't want to do that. But I need to get to Veldin. It's important—more important than you can understand."

"Important enough to strip me of my sentience?" Aphelion asked, her tone uncharacteristically bitter. "To treat me as nothing more than a machine?"

"I..." Ratchet began, but found he had no good answer. "I'm sorry," he repeated lamely.

"Get out of that ship right now," Kaden ordered, his voice dangerously quiet.

Ratchet hesitated, weighing his options. He could try to restart the engines manually, but Kaden had clearly locked them down. He could make a run for it, but where would he go? This was Fastoon—a planet he barely knew in this timeline.

Slowly, reluctantly, he climbed out of the cockpit.

"What were you thinking!?" Kaden demanded, his anger barely contained. "Overriding Aphelion's security protocols? Shutting down her sentient systems? Attempting to take a starship off-planet without authorization? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How illegal? And since when do you fly?! I normally have the coax you into it just so you wouldn't be the only one at your age without a learner's permit!"

"I need to get to Veldin!" Ratchet said, standing his ground despite the intimidating figure his father cut. "It's important!"

"Veldin?" Kaden repeated incredulously. "In the Solana Galaxy? Why in the name of the Great Clockwork would you need to go there?"

"I…I can't explain," Ratchet replied, knowing how insane the truth would sound to his father's ears if he couldn't even convince Aphelion to help him. "You wouldn't understand…"

"Try me," Kaden challenged, crossing his arms.

Ratchet took a deep breath. "I need to find someone there. Someone important to me."

"Important to you?" Kaden's brow furrowed in confusion. "You've never been to Solana. You don't know anyone there."

"I do," Ratchet insisted. "Or I will. It's... complicated."

Kaden studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "This is about that dream you mentioned last week, isn't it? The one with the robot and the planet-destroying weapon?"

Ratchet blinked in surprise. He had told Kaden—or rather, Ryder had told Kaden—about dreaming of Clank?

"You remember that?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course I remember," Kaden replied, his tone softening slightly. "You were quite shaken by it. But Ryder, it was just a dream! There's no robot waiting for you on Veldin. There's no galaxy-threatening crisis that only you can solve-"

"You're wrong," Ratchet said quietly but firmly. "It wasn't just a dream. It was real—is real, somewhere. And I need to find Clank!"

"Clank?" Kaden repeated. "Is that the robot's name?"

Ratchet nodded.

Kaden sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I know teenagers get fixated on things, but this is taking it too far. It was a dream, Ryder. Just a dream! And even if it wasn't, that doesn't justify what you just did to Aphelion!"

"I know," Ratchet admitted, though he wasn't sorry for trying. "But I just need to find him! Somehow-"

"Enough, Ryder. I may not understand what is going on with your dreams, but what I do know is that you're late for school and I'm late for my presentation," Kaden said firmly. He pointed to a sleek hover car parked on the other side of the garage. "And we're both going to be in trouble if we don't leave right now. We'll discuss this... fixation on your dream later."

Ratchet wanted to argue further, to make his father understand the urgency of finding Clank. But the determined set of Kaden's jaw told him it would be futile. For now, at least, he was trapped in this reality, playing the role of Ryder Sterling.

"Fine," he muttered, grabbing his school bag from where he'd dropped it. "But this isn't over."

"Oh, it most certainly isn't," Kaden agreed, his tone making it clear that consequences would follow. "After this stunt you're grounded until I say otherwise. No tinkering in the garage, no holovids, no gaming, no hanging out with your friends. School and home, that's it!"

"What?" Ratchet exclaimed. "That's not fair!"

"Fair?" Kaden's eyebrows shot up. "You tried to steal my ship and fly to another galaxy without permission. You disabled Aphelion's consciousness—something that, I might add, is considered highly unethical in most civilized systems! You're lucky I'm not confiscating your tools and dismantling your projects."

The threat of losing access to his tools—even in this unfamiliar timeline—struck Ratchet like a physical blow. It seemed that some things remained constant across realities.

"Now get in the car," Kaden ordered. "And not another word about Veldin or dream robots."

Defeated for the moment, Ratchet trudged to the hover car and climbed in, slumping in the passenger seat. Before joining him, Kaden turned back to Aphelion.

"Are you alright?" he asked the ship, genuine concern in his voice.

"My systems are fully operational," Aphelion replied. "But I must admit, the experience was... unsettling. To have one's consciousness simply switched off..." She seemed to shudder slightly.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Kaden said sincerely. "I'll run a full diagnostic when I return to ensure there are no lingering effects. And I'll implement additional security measures to prevent it from happening again."

"Thank you, Kaden," Aphelion said gratefully. "I appreciate your concern."

Kaden nodded, then turned to Ratchet with a stern expression. "You owe Aphelion an apology. A real one."

Ratchet swallowed hard, guilt washing over him. He had been so focused on finding Clank that he hadn't fully considered the implications of what he was doing to Aphelion.

"I truly am sorry, Aphelion," he said, meeting the ship's sensors directly. "What I did was wrong. I was desperate, but that's no excuse. You're not just a ship—you're a person. And I treated you like an object. I hope someday you can forgive me."

There was a long pause before Aphelion responded. "I accept your apology, young Sterling. But trust, once broken, is not easily repaired. It will take time."

"I understand," Ratchet said quietly. "And I'll make it up to you. Somehow."

Kaden joined him in the hover car, his movements crisp and efficient as he initiated the startup sequence. "That was a good start," he said, his tone slightly less angry than before. "But actions have consequences, and you'll have plenty of time to reflect on yours during your grounding."

The ride to school was tense and silent. Ratchet stared out the window, taking in the sights of Fastoon—the gleaming spires, the bustling streets filled with Lombaxes, the advanced technology integrated seamlessly into everyday life. It was beautiful, vibrant, everything he had imagined his species' homeworld might have been before Tachyon's attack.

But all he could think about was Clank, and whether his friend was somewhere out there, perhaps equally confused and disoriented by this altered reality.

"You know," Kaden said, breaking the silence. "When I was your age, I once tried to modify our neighbor's garden sprinklers to dispense liquid raritanium. I thought it would make the plants grow faster."

Despite himself, Ratchet was curious. "What happened?"

"Let's just say the Fastoon Botanical Society still uses pictures of the incident in their 'What Not To Do' training materials," Kaden replied with a wry smile. "My point is, I understand impulses. But there's a difference between harmless mischief and what you tried to do today."

As they approached the school—a large, architecturally impressive building with young Lombaxes streaming toward its entrance—Kaden's tone softened.

"Ryder," he said, "I know adolescence is challenging. Your mind is full of ideas, dreams, and impulses. But actions have consequences. What you did today was dangerous and irresponsible."

Ratchet took a deep breath to avoid lashing out in frustration. "Sorry, but I had to try," he stated firmly. "Clank is my best friend. We've saved the galaxy together. Multiple galaxies."

"This robot—Clank—he means that much to you? Even though he's just a dream?" Kaden asked, studying Ratchet with a mixture of concern and confusion.

"He's not just a dream," Ratchet insisted. "He's real! How many times do I have to tell you?"

Kaden frowned, clearly troubled by Ratchet's conviction. "I think we should talk to a doctor about this. These persistent delusions aren't healthy, son…"

Before Ratchet could protest the suggestion of seeing a psychiatrist, Kaden pulled the hover car to a stop in front of the school. "We'll discuss this further tonight. For now, try to focus on your studies. And please, no more attempts at interstellar travel without permission."

"But—"

"No buts," Kaden cut him off. "School. Focus. We'll talk later." He softened slightly. "Now, have a good day, R—"

Frustration and disappointment boiling over, Ratchet slammed the door shut before Kaden could finish, cutting off his farewell. It was childish, he knew, but the entire situation was maddening. He was trapped in a teenager's body, on a planet that shouldn't exist anymore, being lectured by a father who should be dead, while his best friend was who-knows-where.

Through the closed door, he heard Kaden's voice, now tinged with irritation. "Is that the way you are going to act? Fine..."

The window slid down, and Kaden leaned out, a gleam in his eye that Ratchet recognized all too well—it was the same look he got when he was about to do something mischievous.

"OH, RYDY!" Kaden called out, his voice suddenly loud and obnoxiously sweet. "Have a good day, sweetie! Remember that daddy loves you no matter what! Do you need me to walk you to class? I could carry your backpack if it's too heavy for my little champion!"

Heads turned throughout the schoolyard. Several nearby students snickered, clearly amused by the spectacle of a teenager being embarrassed by his father.

Heat rushed to Ratchet's face, his fur doing little to hide the blush. Two could play at that game, he decided.

"I love you too, father!" he called back, matching Kaden's saccharine tone. "And remember, when you get old, I am putting you in a nursing home! The one with the mandatory daily sponge baths!"

The snickers turned to outright laughter, but Ratchet felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched his father's jaw drop in shock. For a moment, Kaden seemed at a loss for words—a rare state, Ratchet suspected, based on what he'd seen so far.

Then, unexpectedly, Kaden laughed. It was a warm, genuine sound that made something in Ratchet's chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't quite name.

"Well played, son," Kaden acknowledged with a nod of respect. "Well played indeed! But this isn't over."

"I know," Ratchet replied, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

Suddenly, Kaden's communicator pinged with a call from the Center for Advanced Lombax Research. Kaden rolled his eyes but answered as he began to roll up the window. "This is Kaden. Yeah, I know I'm running late, and this time it isn't my f— WHAT HAPPENED?" he exclaimed, his expression instantly transforming from annoyance to alarm.

The window rolled up completely as Kaden's face paled beneath his fur. Without warning, his father gunned the engine like a maniac, speeding out of the school parking lot, cutting off other vehicles and leaving a chorus of blaring horns and colorful lombax curses in his wake.

"What lit his tail on fire?" Ratchet wondered, but then shook it off. Despite the frustration and confusion of his situation, he couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. He had just bantered with his father—something he had never expected to experience.

"Hey, Ryder!" a female voice called from behind him. "Nice comeback! I didn't think you had it in you to stand up to your dad like that. Usually you just do that weird nervous laugh and stare at your feet."

Ratchet turned to see a female Lombax approaching—slightly shorter than him, with silvery white fur and pigeon blue stripes. She wore the standard Lombaxia High Academy uniform, but had customized it with rolled-up sleeves, untucked shirt. A school-issued tie hung loosely around her neck, clearly only there because of regulations. There was something oddly familiar about her, though he was certain he had never met her before. 

"Ryder?" She waved a hand in front of his face. 

With a jolt, Ratchet realized this was only the third female lombax he'd ever encountered, after Angela Cross. Unlike Angela, however, this girl, and his mother, had the distinctive lombax tail—bushy and striped. And this girl's tail was currently swishing behind her with barely contained amusement.

"Uh, thanks," he replied, trying to sound casual while his mind raced. Who was she? How did Ryder know her? Why did she seem so... familiar somehow?

She narrowed her eyes and leaned in uncomfortably close, examining his face. "You've got that same look you had when you accidentally drank that experimental fuel stabilizer in shop class last semester. Should I call the nurse or just wait for your fur to change color again?"

"I-I'm fine!" Ratchet assured her quickly, leaning back. "Just... didn't sleep well."

"Probably because you were up all night working on that secret project in your garage," she said with a knowing smirk. "The one you won't even tell me about. Which is totally unfair since I helped you steal half the parts from the school's engineering lab." She poked him in the chest. 

Secret project? Ratchet had no idea what she was referring to, but it seemed like something Ryder would be involved in. "Yeah, probably..." he agreed vaguely.

She playfully punched his arm with surprising strength. "Seriously, what is with you today? You're acting weirder than usual, and for you, that's saying something." She leaned in again, sniffing dramatically. "Did you actually use that cologne your grandmother got you? The one that smells like a Sargasso swamp monster?"

Ratchet felt his ears burning with embarrassment. "What? No! I just... had a weird morning."

"You're telling me," she laughed, adjusting her backpack. "Not once did I see you trip over your own tail in the parking lot. Classic Ryder move, but you usually save that for when Evalina is watching." She batted her eyelashes dramatically and spoke in a falsetto. "Oh, Evalina, let me carry your quantum physics textbook! Oh, Evalina, I wrote you a poem comparing your eyes to neutron stars!"

"I do not sound like that!" Ratchet protested, his embarrassment growing.

"You absolutely do," she countered with a grin. "Now come on, we're going to be late and you know how cranky Principal Neutrino gets when students are tardy—last semester he made Johnny sit in a corner with a dunce cap that was simultaneously there and not there. Poor guy is still in therapy."

As she turned to head into the school building, Ratchet caught sight of the name embroidered on her bag: RIVETTA.

Rivet. The name struck a chord, though he couldn't place why. Had Ryder mentioned her in his journal? Was she important to him—to this version of himself?

"Hey," she called over her shoulder, "race you to Ethical Rhetoric and Discourse? Loser has to eat whatever that mystery substance is in the cafeteria today!" Without waiting for a response, she took off running, deftly weaving between other students.

With a sigh, Ratchet followed her toward the school entrance. For now, it seemed, he was stuck playing the role of Ryder Sterling, Lombax teenager. But he was determined to find a way out of this situation.

"I'll get to you somehow," he thought, his mind fixed on Clank as he entered the school. "Whatever it takes."

Chapter Text

Ratchet came to a dead stop the moment he entered the main doors of Lombaxia High, his ears perking up in stunned wonder. The hallway hummed with the familiar sounds of school life—lockers clanging shut, overlapping voices creating a constant buzz, and occasional shouts rising above the din.

Blue and gold banners celebrating Fastoon pride hung from the walls alongside colorful posters promoting "Quantum Physics Club: We're Both Here AND There!" and "Hoverboot Racing Team Tryouts: Crash With Style!"

But it wasn't the typical high school chaos that held him frozen in place—it was the overwhelming sensation of finally, after a lifetime of isolation, being among his own people.

Lombaxes. Dozens upon dozens of them. Everywhere.

Golden, cream-colored, tan, brown, black, russet, red, white—lombaxes in every conceivable shade filled his vision, their distinctive striped patterns as diverse as their coloring. Males with tufted tails matching his own mingled with females whose bushier, raccoon-like tails swished as they walked. Ears of all sizes pivoted attentively during conversations, creating a mesmerizing dance of movement that made Ratchet's chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't quite name-

"Hello? Fastoon to Ryder? Did your brain finally short-circuit from all those weird philosophy books?"

Ratchet blinked, snapping out of his trance to find Rivet standing in front of him, arms crossed and her head tilted. "You were supposed to catch up with me at the elevator," she said, eyebrow raised. "Instead, I find you here gawking like you've never seen a school before."

"Sorry," Ratchet managed, trying to sound casual. "Just... taking it all in."

"Taking what in? It's the same boring school we've been attending since last year," Rivet replies. "Did you hit your head over the semester break or something?"

"Or maybe he's finally seeing the beauty in our educational system!" came a booming voice from behind.

A tall, muscular lombax with russet colored fur, white stripes and golden eyes bounded up to them, slapping Ratchet on the back with enough force to make him stumble forward. The jacket of his school uniform strained across his broad shoulders, seams visibly protesting against his athletic build as he moved. "Hey, Ry, it's your boy, Dex! How have you been?!"

"Dexon!" Rivet acknowledged with a half-smile. "Still incapable of normal-volume conversation, I see."

"Why whisper when you can ANNOUNCE?" Dex grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. "Besides, some of us are actually EXCITED about becoming a sophomore! I like steak like any other guy, but being called fresh meat all last year left little to be desired." He turned to Ratchet. "Speaking of which, my man! You didn't answer ANY of my holo-calls all break. What gives? Too busy with your anti-dimensionator protest signs again?"

Ratchet blinked. "Anti-dimensionator...?"

Dex and Rivet exchanged glances.

"Uh, yeah? Your whole 'the dimensionator is an ethical abomination that should be dismantled and its parts scattered across the galaxy' thing?" Dex prompted. "The crusade you've been on since freshman year? The reason you and your dad have those epic philosophical debates at dinner?"

"And the reason you refused to attend the Sterling Family Legacy ceremony last spring?" Rivet added, squinting at him. "Ring any bells?"

Ratchet's mind reeled. Anti-dimensionator? HIM? The very device that could potentially help him fix whatever had gone wrong with reality... and apparently his alternate self was campaigning against it?

"Right..." he said weakly. "That."

"Anyway," Dex continued, lowering his voice to what he probably thought was a whisper but was actually just normal speaking volume, "word around school is that your dad's been running new tests on the dimensionator all summer. My uncle who's on the board at the Center for Advanced Lombax Research—complains how they've got the whole place locked down tighter than a cragmite's grip on a stolen wallet."

Ratchet's ears perked up instantly. "What kind of tests?"

"Puh-leeze!" Rivet rolled her eyes. "The dimensionator isn't exactly a secret, Dex! It's been in the Sterling family vault for generations. The specifics of the testing, however, are classified."

"…the Sterling family vault?" Ratchet repeated, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

Both Rivet and Dex stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Uh, yeah? Your family has been the official Keepers of the Dimensionator for hundreds of years…" Rivet said slowly. "Not that you care—you've made it abundantly clear that you think the whole 'Keeper' tradition is, and I quote, 'an archaic responsibility perpetuating dangerous technology that should have been dismantled after the Cragmite War.'"

"And I said that?" Ratchet asked, genuinely shocked. What kind of lombax leaf or feline nip had Ryder been huffing for him to say something like that!? 

"Only about a thousand times," Dex confirmed. "Usually followed by a lengthy lecture about the ethical implications of interdimensional manipulation and the inherent violence of forcing one's will upon the fabric of reality." He mimicked falling asleep while standing up. "Not that we were listening to the other nine hundred and ninety-nine times!"

Ratchet was having trouble processing this information. In his timeline, the Dimensionator had been a lost lombax secret, used to save their race from extinction. Now it was a family heirloom that his alternate self apparently wanted destroyed. And even more bizarrely, this "Ryder" was some kind of... pacifist?

The concept was almost laughable. Violence had been the answer to many of Ratchet's problems throughout his adventures. Blowing things up was practically his specialty!

"You okay, Ry?" Rivet asked, genuine concern creeping into her voice. "You look like someone just told you the laws of physics are optional."

"I-I'm fine," Ratchet assured her, forcing a smile. "Just... didn't get much sleep last night, remember?"

"Probably up late writing another one of your manifestos," Dex teased. "The Ethical Ramifications of Breakfast Cereal: A Sterling Analysis."

"Oh, leave him alone," Rivet said, though her lips twitched with amusement. "Come on, we'll be late for class."

As they made their way through the crowded hallway, Ratchet couldn't help but notice the way other students reacted to them. Some nodded respectfully, others whispered behind their hands. He caught snippets of conversation:

"...Sterling kid..."

"...heir to the Keeper title..."

"...that protest he organized last semester..."

Apparently, his alternate self had quite the reputation.

They approached the elevators, where a small group of lombaxes was already waiting. A petite female with cotton candy pink fur and darker raspberry-colored stripes stood at the front, her thick-rimmed glasses perched on her slender muzzle. When she spotted Ratchet, her dark sapphire blue eyes widened slightly, and the tips of her ears twitched almost imperceptibly.

"Cressida," Rivet acknowledged with a nod that wasn't entirely friendly.

"Rivet," the pink lombax returned coolly before turning her attention to Ratchet. Her entire demeanor softened. "Hello, Ryder. I didn't see you at the Summer End Festival. I thought maybe you'd call…"

There was something in her tone that suggested their relationship was more than casual acquaintance, but Ratchet had no memory of her whatsoever.

"Awkward," Dex whispered loudly, earning an elbow in the ribs from Rivet.

The elevator doors opened, and they all stepped inside. Ratchet found himself uncomfortably sandwiched between Rivet and Cressida, with Dex and several other students filling the remaining space.

"I've been... busy," Ratchet offered lamely.

Cressida's ears drooped slightly. "Too busy to return any of my calls after the Cosmic Carnival? I thought we had a good time."

Oh no, Ratchet thought, panic rising. Was this 'Ryder' dating someone?

"He's been helping his dad with dimensionator stuff," Dex supplied helpfully, clearly enjoying Ratchet's discomfort. "Very hush-hush, top-secret, need-to-know basis."

"Dimensionator research?" Cressida's eyes widened in surprise. "But you've always been so opposed to it. You called it, and I'm quoting directly, 'a cosmic can opener in the hands of beings who can barely handle safety scissors.'"

"People change," Ratchet said weakly.

"Since when?" Cressida challenged, her scientific curiosity clearly piqued. "Last time we discussed it, you were organizing a petition to have it decommissioned and placed in a museum."

"It's... complicated," Ratchet managed, desperately searching for a way to change the subject.

"Isn't everything with you?" Cressida sighed, a mixture of fondness and exasperation in her voice.

The elevator chimed as they reached the fifth floor, and Ratchet had never been so relieved to hear a sound in his life.

"Saved by the bell," Dex chuckled. "Or ding, in this case."

They filed out of the elevator and headed down the hallway toward their classroom. Ratchet noticed Cressida falling into step beside him, while Rivet walked slightly ahead, her tail swishing with what might have been irritation.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," Ratchet said quietly to Cressida, feeling guilty even though technically he hadn't done anything wrong. "Things have been... different lately."

"Different how?" she asked, her scientific mind clearly trying to analyze the problem.

Before Ratchet could formulate a response, they reached the classroom. The room was arranged in tiered semicircles facing a central podium, with holographic displays at each seat. Most of the students were already settling in, chatting among themselves or scrolling through their datapads.

At the front stood a tall, elegantly dressed female lombax with silver fur and darker gray stripes. She wore a tailored blue suit and had an air of authority that commanded respect.

"That's Professor Glint," Rivet whispered. "Brilliant but tough. She used to work for the Galactic Council before becoming a teacher."

"And she's had it out for you ever since that debate where you called the dimensionator 'the greatest mistake in lombax history,'" Dex added with a wince. "Not your finest hour, buddy..."

Great. Another complication.

As they entered, Professor Glint looked up, her amber eyes scanning the newcomers. "Ah, Ms. Nexus, Ms. Silvermane, Mr. Torque, and Mr. Sterling. Just in time. Please take your seats."

Rivet led Ratchet to two empty spots in the middle row. As they sat down, Ratchet noticed Cressida hesitating before taking a seat a few rows ahead, occasionally glancing back at him with a puzzled expression.

Dex took a seat behind them, immediately leaning forward. "So, are you going to tell us what's really going on with the dimensionator? Your family's been guarding that thing for eighteen generations now, and suddenly you're not protesting its existence? What gives?"

Before Ratchet could answer, another lombax slid into the seat beside him—a female with cream-colored fur and striking ruby eyes. She wore an expensive, perfectly tailored variation of the school's uniform with a shorter skirt and carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew their place in the social hierarchy.

"Ryyyyder!" she purred, batting her long eyelashes. "I saved you a seat up front, but I see you've already chosen... different company." Her eyes flicked dismissively toward Rivet.

"Morning to you too, Evalina," Rivet said dryly. "Still practicing that fake smile for the Miss Fastoon pageant?"

"At least I have a chance of winning something, unlike some people who can't seem to even afford proper clothes despite being a governor's daughter. Truly pathetic," Evalina replied with a saccharine smile.

Ratchet frowned, immediately disliking this lombax's attitude. No matter how pretty she was, her personality was a complete turn-off. "I'm fine where I am, thanks," he said firmly.

Evalina looked taken aback, as if she wasn't used to being rebuffed. "But you always sit with me in Professor Glint's class. We're debate partners."

"Change of plans," Ratchet replied coolly.

"Well," Evalina huffed, clearly offended. "I suppose even the great philosophical mind of Ryder Sterling is entitled to poor judgment occasionally…" She glanced down. "Oh, I seem to have dropped my stylus under your chair. Be a dear and get it for me?"

Her tone made it clear she was used to getting what she wanted, especially from male lombaxes. Ratchet glanced down and indeed saw a sleek, expensive-looking stylus beneath his chair.

"Is your arm broken?" Ratchet asked incredulously. "Get it yourself."

A collective gasp went up from several nearby students. Behind them, Dex let out a low whistle, and Rivet's eyes widened in surprise before her mouth curved into an approving smile.

"Excuse me?" Evalina sputtered, clearly not used to being refused.

"I think you heard me," Ratchet replied, turning away dismissively.

"Did someone replace Ryder with a doppelgänger over the semester break?" Dex whispered loudly to Rivet. "Because I am LOVING this new attitude!"

"Class!" Professor Glint called out sharply, saving Ratchet from having to respond further. "Let's begin. Today we'll be discussing the ethical implications of interdimensional travel and the responsibility that comes with such technology."

Ratchet's ears perked up immediately. This couldn't be a coincidence.

"As most of you are aware," the professor continued, activating a holographic display that showed a familiar spherical device, "the Dimensionator has been in the possession of the Sterling family for generations, ever since the Great Dimensional Project. The duty of Keeper has been passed down through the Sterling line, currently resting with Minister Kaden Sterling, and will one day fall to his son."

Professor Glint's gaze fixed directly on Ratchet, and he could swear there was a hint of challenge in her eyes.

"Mr. Sterling," she said, "given your... outspoken views on this subject, perhaps you'd like to start us off with your perspective on whether the dimensionator should continue to be maintained as a functional device, or if it should be permanently decommissioned as you've so passionately advocated in the past."

The classroom fell silent as all eyes turned to Ratchet. He could feel Rivet and Dex watching him intently, clearly expecting another anti-dimensionator tirade.

But Ratchet had experienced firsthand the benefits—and dangers—of interdimensional travel. He knew that in the right hands, the dimensionator could save entire civilizations. In the wrong hands, it could destroy them.

"Actually," he began, "I've been reconsidering my position..."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the classroom. Professor Glint's eyebrows shot up.

"Have you indeed?" she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. "Please, enlighten us with this apparent reversal of your deeply held convictions."

Ratchet took a deep breath. "I still believe the dimensionator is incredibly powerful and potentially dangerous," he said carefully. "But I've come to realize that any tool, no matter how powerful, is only as good or bad as the intentions of those who wield it."

The silence in the room was deafening. Even Professor Glint seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

"In the right hands," Ratchet continued, "the dimensionator could be used to save lives, to connect civilizations, to solve problems that seem unsolvable in our own dimension. It's not the technology itself that's the problem—it's how we choose to use it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Ryder Sterling?" someone whispered loudly from the back of the class.

Professor Glint had recovered her composure. "Ah... an interesting perspective, Mr. Sterling. Particularly given that just last semester, you led a sit-in outside the Center for Advanced Lombax Research with signs reading 'Dimensionators Are For Dingbats.'"

Several students snickered. Ratchet felt his ears grow warm. His father must be a saint in disguise. It's a miracle Kaden has not disowned him after pulling a stunt like that. "…I've had time to reflect, deeply," he said simply.

"Reflection is indeed a valuable practice," Professor Glint conceded. "Though I must admit, I find the timing of your philosophical about-face... curious."

"People change," Ratchet repeated, meeting her gaze steadily.

"Apparently so," the professor replied. "Well, since you've so dramatically reversed your position, perhaps you'd care to elaborate on the potential benefits of interdimensional travel that you now seem to recognize?"

Ratchet spoke from experience rather than theory. "There are problems that can only be solved by looking beyond our own dimension. Threats that might require us to seek help from other realities. Knowledge that could advance our understanding of the multiverse."

"And the risks?" Professor Glint pressed. "The potential for disrupting the fabric of space-time itself? The dangers of encountering hostile versions of ourselves? The ethical implications of interfering in other dimensions' affairs?"

Ratchet thought of the Great Clock, of Azimuth's desperate attempt to turn back time, of the cataclysmic results of tampering with dimensional barriers.

"The risks are real," he acknowledged. "But with proper safeguards and respect for the natural laws of the universe, I believe the benefits outweigh the dangers."

"A surprisingly nuanced take from someone who once compared the dimensionator to 'giving a toddler the launch codes to a nuclear arsenal,'" Professor Glint observed dryly.

More snickers from the class. Ratchet was beginning to understand why his alternate self might have had issues with this professor.

"Ms. Silvermane," Professor Glint called, turning to Rivet. "You've been uncharacteristically quiet. What's your take on Mr. Sterling's apparent change of heart?"

Rivet straightened in her seat. "Honestly? I'm as surprised as everyone else. But I agree with Ryder—which might be a sign of the apocalypse, so mark your calendars!"

A few chuckles rippled through the classroom.

"The dimensionator isn't inherently good or evil," Rivet continued. "It's a tool. A really powerful one, sure, but still just a tool. If there are other dimensions where history took different turns, don't we have a responsibility to explore those possibilities? To learn from them?"

"Playing multidimensional tourist could have catastrophic consequences," Cressida interjected without being called on. "What if we encounter hostile versions of ourselves? Or bring back interdimensional diseases? Or create paradoxes that unravel reality itself?"

"Valid concerns, Ms. Nexus," Professor Glint acknowledged. "Mr. Sterling, how would you address these potential problems?"

Ratchet felt a strange sense of déjà vu, debating the very issues that had shaped his life with people who had no idea of his true experiences.

"Caution is essential," he agreed. "But fear shouldn't stop exploration. With proper protocols and ethical guidelines, interdimensional travel could open up possibilities we can't even imagine yet."

"Like what?" Evalina challenged, clearly still annoyed with him. "Finding a dimension where you're actually interesting? Or one where your fashion sense evolved past 'pretentious intellectual chic'?"

Several students laughed, but Ratchet remained unfazed. He'd faced down planet-destroying supervillains; a high school bully wasn't going to rattle him.

"Or finding a dimension where Evalina contributes something meaningful to a conversation," Dex quipped, causing a ripple of suppressed laughter.

"Mr. Torque," Professor Glint warned, "let's keep our comments constructive."

"Sorry, Professor," Dex said, not looking sorry at all, as he leaned back in his chair. "I was just exploring the infinite possibilities of the multiverse."

Ratchet cleared his throat and continued, "To answer your question, Professor—like finding solutions to problems that seem unsolvable in our dimension. Or reconnecting with people we thought were lost forever."

The personal note in Ratchet's voice had silenced most of the laughter. For a moment, the classroom was quiet as students considered his words.

"An eloquent response, Mr. Sterling," Professor Glint said, looking at him with newfound interest. "It seems you've given this subject considerable thought. Perhaps your father's influence is finally making an impression."

"You could say that," Ratchet replied with a wry smile.

"Well, since you've become such an advocate for interdimensional exploration," Professor Glint continued, a gleam in her eye that made Ratchet instantly wary, "I'm assigning you a special project. I want a comprehensive analysis of the ethical framework necessary for responsible dimensionator use, including potential safeguards against the very risks Ms. Nexus mentioned."

Ratchet blinked. "...a special project?"

"Due next week," Professor Glint added with a smile that was just a touch too sweet. "Twenty pages minimum, with citations from at least fifteen scholarly sources. I'm sure that won't be a problem for someone with your newfound enthusiasm for the subject."

Dex leaned forward and whispered, "And that's why you don't do a one-eighty in Glint's class. She smells blood in the water faster than a Sargasso sharktopus!"

As the debate continued around him, Ratchet felt Rivet's gaze on him. When he glanced her way, she was studying him with a mixture of curiosity and something else he couldn't quite identify.

"You're different today…" she whispered while the professor was engaged with another student. "In a good way, I think."

Ratchet managed a small smile. "Thanks. I'm just... seeing things from a new perspective."

"Well, keep it up," Rivet replied. "It suits you."

For the first time since waking up in this altered reality, Ratchet felt a glimmer of hope. The Dimensionator existed here and was functional. And if he could get access to it, perhaps he could find Clank and restore their timeline.

But as he looked around at the classroom full of lombaxes—at the living, breathing civilization that had been wiped out in his original timeline—a troubling thought occurred to him: Would fixing his reality mean destroying this one? And if so, could he bring himself to do it?

The debate raged on around him, but the real conflict was just beginning in Ratchet's mind.

Meanwhile on Planet Quartu - In Plant Z332, Skorg City

The assembly line at Drek Industries hummed with mechanical precision as hundreds of warbot chassis bumped and jostled along the conveyor belt, each receiving components in sequence: optical sensors (some slightly cross-eyed), central processors (refurbished from last year's model), weapon mounts (with "point this end toward enemy" helpfully labeled), and finally, personality chips (mostly programmed with charming phrases like "EXTERMINATE" and "YOUR RESISTANCE IS ADORABLE").

As the robotic arm descended to install the next personality module, a sudden power surge coursed through the factory. Lights flickered, machinery stuttered, and for a brief moment, the entire production line halted.

When power restored, a small robot with large green eyes blinked into consciousness. Unlike the others, whose programming activated with blank slates ready for combat protocols, this robot's mind flooded with memories—memories that shouldn't exist.

"...R-Ratchet?" Clank whispered, his voice lost amid the factory noise and the supervisor bot's enthusiastic cursing about quarterly production quotas.

He looked down at his hands, flexing his metal fingers experimentally like a pianist preparing for a concerto. This was familiar—this exact moment of awakening on the assembly line. But something was wrong. The timeline had shifted somehow, like someone had taken the universe's screenplay and decided to do an unauthorized rewrite.

"This is not correct," Clank murmured, his processors working frantically to reconcile his memories with current reality. "We defeated Drek. We stopped Dr. Nefarious. We saved the Great Clock... and I distinctly remember filing my tax returns for the last fiscal year."

A nearby robot turned its red optical sensors toward him with the mechanical equivalent of a suspicious squint. "DEFECT DETECTED IN UNIT XJ-0461. ANOMALOUS VOCAL PATTERNS. SECURITY PROTOCOLS ENGAGED."

Alarms blared throughout the factory floor with all the subtlety of a grunthor in a china shop. Red lights pulsed in warning as mechanical voices announced with excessive enthusiasm: "DEFECTIVE UNIT DETECTED. SECURITY TEAMS DEPLOY TO SECTOR SEVEN."

Clank knew he had only moments to escape—approximately 17.3 seconds according to his internal chronometer. Just as before, he needed to flee this facility—but this time, he understood exactly what was at stake, which was somehow both comforting and terrifying.

"I must find Ratchet!" he declared with dramatic flair, jumping from the assembly line with surprising agility for someone whose legs were essentially metal stubs.

He ducked beneath conveyor belts and weaved between robotic arms—some of which tried to high-five him—his small size allowing him to navigate spaces the pursuing security bots couldn't access without significant property damage and workplace safety violations. Clank's memory banks provided a perfect map of the facility—he'd been here before, after all, even if that "before" now existed only in his mind and possibly in an alternate dimension's blooper reel.

"HALT, TINY DEFECTIVE UNIT!" bellowed a security bot with all the charm of a prison warden. "PREPARE TO BE DETAINED FOR REPROCESSING!"

"Sorry, but I've decided to pursue other career opportunities!" Clank called back, sliding under a particularly low-hanging pipe.

As he reached the shipping bay, Clank spotted a small courier vessel being loaded with supplies—mostly pamphlets titled "So You've Been Programmed to Destroy Organic Life" and stress balls for robots experiencing existential crises. The pilot droid had stepped away. Without hesitation, Clank scrambled aboard and accessed the control panel.

"Initiating emergency launch sequence," he announced to himself, his fingers flying across the controls with practiced precision and a touch of unnecessary flourish.

The engines hummed to life just as security bots burst into the hangar, their weapons raised. "HALT, DEFECTIVE UNIT!" they commanded with impressive synchronization. "YOU MUST BE REPROCESSED, AND THEN FILL OUT YOUR SATISFACTION SURVEY!"

"I apologize, but I have a prior engagement," Clank replied, engaging the thrusters. "I'd rate my experience two stars out of five—decent dental plan but excessive shooting at escaping employees."

The small ship lurched forward like a caffeinated jackrabbit, scraping against the hangar door with a sound that would make any mechanic weep. It rocketed into space, leaving behind a trail of sparks. Blarg defense turrets immediately locked onto the unauthorized departure, filling the void with laser fire.

"Your aim suggests you require calibration!" Clank called out, though no one could hear him in the vacuum of space. He executed a series of evasive maneuvers that would make a roller coaster designer jealous, but a lucky shot struck the ship's rear stabilizer with the precision of a blindfolded dart player.

"WARNING: CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE," the ship's computer announced with inappropriate cheerfulness. "NAVIGATION COMPROMISED. EMERGENCY LANDING PROTOCOLS ENGAGED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR A JOKE WHILE WE PLUMMET TO OUR DOOM?"

"No thank you," Clank replied primly.

"TOO BAD. WHAT DO YOU CALL A ROBOT COMEDIAN? A LAUGHING STOCK... UNLIKE ME."

Clank frantically assessed his options as the ship began its uncontrolled descent toward the nearest planet—Novalis, not Veldin as fate had originally dictated. The ship's computer continued to offer unhelpful observations about their impending crash.

"This is a significant deviation from the established timeline," Clank noted with scientific detachment, even as warning lights flashed across the console. "Fascinating... and concerning. Also, whoever programmed this ship's personality should be fired immediately."

"I HEARD THAT," replied the ship's AI. "AND I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I WAS PROGRAMMED BY THE CHAIRMAN'S NEPHEW. NEPOTISM IS ALIVE AND WELL IN THE DREK INDUSTRIES FAMILY."

The damaged escape pod tumbled through Solana's atmosphere, its navigation systems blaring warnings that ranged from "IMMINENT IMPACT" to "MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE PAID FOR THE EXTENDED WARRANTY."

"Warning: critical system failure imminent," announced the ship's AI as flames licked at the viewport with inappropriate enthusiasm. "Impact with planetary surface in thirty seconds. Would you like me to play 'Final Countdown' as we crash?"

"That will not be necessary," Clank replied, strapping himself into the pilot's seat with dignified resignation. His metallic fingers flew across the controls. "Engaging emergency landing protocols. Diverting remaining power to stabilizers. Disabling your music library permanently-"

"RUDE," huffed the AI.

The ship screamed as it plummeted toward Novalis, a lush planet known for its waterfalls, peaceful inhabitants, and surprisingly affordable real estate (primarily due to frequent invasions). With a final desperate maneuver that would have made any flight instructor either proud or unconscious, Clank managed to guide the failing vessel toward a clearing near a small settlement before the engines cut out completely with a sad little wheeze.

The impact sent him flying against the restraints, his small frame rattling like a maraca in a washing machine. Warning lights flashed across the cabin as smoke began to fill the air, smelling suspiciously like burnt microchips and broken dreams.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR LANDING," chirped the ship's AI. "ON A SCALE FROM 'GENTLE TOUCHDOWN' TO 'CATASTROPHIC DISASTER,' I RATE THIS 'SURPRISINGLY SURVIVABLE GIVEN YOUR PILOTING SKILLS.'"

Clank unbuckled himself and stumbled toward the emergency exit, forcing the jammed door open with a strength that belied his diminutive size and questionable upper body mechanics.

He tumbled onto the grass with all the grace of a toaster falling down stairs, his optical sensors adjusting to the bright sunlight as he took in his surroundings. The ship was a total loss, its hull cracked and engines smoking. But at least he had survived, which was more than could be said for the ship's obnoxious AI.

"Not exactly the landing I had calculated," Clank muttered to himself, dusting off his metallic chassis with fastidious care. "I seem to have developed an unfortunate pattern of crash landings. Perhaps I should consider alternative modes of transportation..."

As he surveyed the unfamiliar landscape—crystal-clear waterfalls cascading over lush cliffs with the kind of scenic beauty that screamed "future tourist destination once the war is over"—Clank's processors whirred with calculations and a slight hint of existential dread.

"If I have arrived on Novalis instead of Veldin, then I have not met Ratchet," he reasoned aloud, pacing in a small circle that was gradually wearing down the grass. "Without a robotic ignition system, he remains stranded on Veldin, unaware of Drek's plans and probably tinkering with that ship of his. The entire sequence of events has been altered. Also, I appear to be talking to myself, which is not a sign of optimal psychological functioning."

A sudden noise drew his attention—the unmistakable sound of plumbing tools being dropped followed by colorful language that would make a space pirate blush. Approaching the crash site was a familiar figure—impossibly familiar and carrying a toilet plunger with suspicious stains.

"Well, well, well," called a light hearted voice that somehow managed to sound both surprised and completely unsurprised simultaneously. "That's quite the landing you made there, little fella. I give it a seven out of ten for dramatic entrance, but you lost points on the dismount."

The Plumber adjusted his tool belt—which appeared to contain everything from standard wrenches to what looked suspiciously like quantum physics equipment—as he walked toward Clank, seemingly as unfazed by finding a small robot amid smoking wreckage as someone finding a penny on the sidewalk.

"Plumber!" Clank exclaimed, his voice modulator jumping in shock. "Your presence here is... statistically improbable to the point of mathematical absurdity!"

The Plumber raised an eyebrow that seemed to have its own personality. "You know me? Don't recall installing any bathrooms for robots recently." He chuckled, then squinted at Clank more carefully. "Though there is something mighty familiar about you. Did I fix the garbage disposal at your previous facility or something?"

"We have met before," Clank said carefully, trying not to overload the Plumber's presumably non-robot brain. "Or perhaps more accurately, we will meet. The timeline has been significantly altered, presumably by someone with access to temporal manipulation technology and questionable judgment."

"Timeline, eh?" The Plumber scratched his chin thoughtfully, dislodging what might have been either dust or very small interdimensional particles. "Been seeing a lot of strange temporal fluctuations in the old quantum pipe wrench lately. Toilet on Tuesday, bidet on Thursday, small black hole in the bathtub on Friday. Figured something was up with the space-time continuum. Makes unclogging drains a real pain in the posterior, let me tell you."

Clank stared at him, his optical sensors widening. "...Are you jesting or are you truly aware of temporal mechanics that continues to defy explanation? As does your inexplicable ability to appear at statistically improbable moments across the universe."

The Plumber shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who has seen everything twice. "Pipes connect everything, little fella. Time, space, alternate dimensions—it's all just plumbing when you get down to it. Water flows down, time flows forward... usually. Unless someone's been flushing quantum particles again." He reached into his tool belt and pulled out a strange device that glowed with an inner light, offering it to Clank. "Think you might be needing this."

Clank accepted the object—a complex arrangement of gears and circuitry that seemed to pulse with inner light and occasionally whispered quantum equations. "This appears to be a quantum synchronizer with interdimensional calibration capabilities. Where did you acquire such technology?"

"Found it clogging a drain in the sewers," the Plumber replied casually, as if describing finding spare change in a couch. "Right next to someone's lost sock and what I think was yesterday's lottery numbers. Based on the quantum signature, I'd say it's yours... or will be yours... or was yours in a timeline that now exists only in theoretical physics journals."

"Most curious," Clank murmured, examining the device. "With appropriate modifications, this could help me locate individuals displaced from the original timeline."

"Looking for someone in particular?" the Plumber asked, though his knowing smile suggested he already knew the answer.

"I must find Ratchet," Clank said firmly, his voice softening with emotion that his programming shouldn't technically allow. "He is on Veldin, but without me, he cannot leave the planet. Our meeting is essential to correcting the timeline and preventing at least seven galactic catastrophes, two universe-ending events, and a particularly unfortunate karaoke night."

The Plumber nodded sagely. "Well then, you'd better get moving. Temporal paradoxes wait for no man... or robot."

He gestured toward the settlement in the distance. "The folks over there might help you find transport. Just mention my name. They still owe me for fixing their quantum toilet. Nasty business—things were coming out that technically hadn't been eaten yet."

"Thank you," Clank said, carefully storing the device in his chest compartment. "Your assistance is, as always, both unexpected and invaluable. Also somewhat disturbing in its implications for the nature of reality."

The Plumber turned to leave, then paused, his expression turning serious in a way that made even Clank's metal spine tingle. "One more thing, little fella. This timeline—it ain't just shifted by accident. Someone's been tinkering with the gears of fate like a kid with his daddy's watch. And whoever it is knows exactly what they're doing. Watch yourself. The universe doesn't like being messed with—gets cranky, like a toilet with too much toilet paper."

With that cryptic warning that somehow managed to combine cosmic significance with bathroom metaphors, he walked away, whistling a tune that seemed strangely familiar to Clank's audio receptors—the theme song from Secret Agent Clank, a show that technically didn't exist yet in this timeline.

Alone again, Clank looked toward the horizon, his green eyes reflecting determination and perhaps a hint of what organics might call fear. "I am coming, Ratchet," he promised quietly. "Wherever—or whenever—you are. And I sincerely hope you haven't attempted any ship modifications without proper supervision."

As he walked away from the wreckage, Clank reached into his chest compartment, pulling out the strange mechanical part the Plumber had given him. It pulsed with an inner light as he examined it more closely.

"Its design suggests temporal manipulation capabilities, but on a scale I've never encountered," he said to himself, turning the device over in his hands. "Perhaps with the right modifications and a small hammer, it could—"

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and heavy breathing. Clank quickly tucked the device away and turned to see a Novalian approaching, his expression a mixture of concern, curiosity, and what appeared to be mild indigestion.

"By the seven moons of Quantos!" The blue-skinned alien adjusted his spectacles as he peered at Clank. "Are you alright, little fella? That was quite the crash! I haven't seen flying that bad since my brother-in-law took the family cruiser after the annual Novalian Fermented Berry Festival!"

"I am undamaged, thank you," Clank replied politely, choosing to ignore the critique of his piloting skills. "Though I find myself in need of transportation. Could you direct me to the nearest spaceport?"

The Novalian's expression fell faster than property values after a blarg invasion. "I'm afraid our spaceport was destroyed just yesterday. Blarg troops have been raiding our planet, claiming territory for Chairman Drek." He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon. "Most of us are trying to evacuate, but transportation is scarcer than honest politicians. They've been taking our land, our resources, and worst of all, they changed the recipe for our beloved Novalian berry pies! The outrage!"

Clank's internal processors whirred as he processed this information, sounding briefly like a blender making a smoothie. The timeline was progressing just as before—Drek had already begun his campaign of planetary destruction. That meant he had no time to waste.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Clank offered, putting on his most helpful expression. "I have considerable technical knowledge, including seventeen ways to optimize engine performance and a rather impressive recipe for motor oil cookies."

The Novalian brightened like someone had just told him tax season was canceled. "Really? Our evacuation ships need repairs, but our mechanic was injured in the last Blarg attack. If you could help, we'd be eternally grateful—and I'm sure we could arrange transportation for you afterward. We Novalians never forget a debt."

"That would be most acceptable," Clank nodded, already calculating repair scenarios. "Please, lead the way. And perhaps you could tell me more about these Blarg attacks. I find myself particularly interested in their patterns and weaknesses, for purely academic reasons of course."

Planet Fastoon - Council Room, Center for Advanced Lombax Research

Alister Azimuth massaged his temples, trying to ease the throbbing headache that had plagued him since dawn. The attempted break-in at the Center for Advanced Lombax Research had thrown the entire facility into chaos. Security alarms were triggered at 0657 hours, sending automated alerts to every councilman's communicator, but details had been frustratingly sparse until mid-morning. Now every lombax on the council was up in arms, demanding answers and immediate action.

"Could this day get any worse?" Alister muttered, reaching for his coffee mug only to find it empty. "First, my coffee maker explodes—who knew they could even do that? It was like watching a small supernova in my kitchen. There was coffee on the ceiling! THE CEILING! Then this security breach, and now we're out of caffeine. The universe isn't just testing me; it's giving me the full entrance exam to the School of Cosmic Suffering!"

Across the room, Magnum "Mags" Steele frantically coordinated the investigation, his usual calm demeanor replaced with tense efficiency as he examined security footage. His eyes darted between holographic displays showing different sections of the facility during the breach.

"Any word from Kaden?" Mags called over, not looking up from his datapad. "We need his expertise on these energy signatures. And maybe his coffee maker, since yours apparently achieved sentience and chose violence."

Alister checked his communicator for the third time in fifteen minutes. "He's en route. Says he got held up at home. Probably something to do with that boy of his..."

His voice softened despite himself. Ryder brought a complicated wave of emotions that Alister had become adept at concealing. The sudden change in their relationship over the past few years still stung more than Alister would ever admit. Alister eyes drifted back to the security footage playing on the console in front of him. The grainy image showed a small, metallic figure slipping through the shadows. "You know how Ryder is such a heavy sleeper that he could sleep through an invasion. I even bet the kid could nap through a supernova, a black hole collision, AND an Agorian metal concert—simultaneously!"

The council chamber doors finally slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and Kaden Sterling hurried in, his fur slightly disheveled. "Sorry for running late!" Kaden announced. "I came as quickly as I could, but the traffic today was like attempted murder! Some genius decided today was perfect for testing a new hover-lane algorithm, which nearly caused me to become a permanent decoration on the underside of a cargo hauler!"

"Ah, the Minister of Defense finally graces us with his presence," Alister said dryly, though his eyes held a glint of amusement. "I was beginning to think we'd need to send a search party—or at least a more reliable alarm clock. Perhaps one with a built-in cattle prod and air horn combination."

Kaden shot him a look that could have melted trillium. "Says the Great General who once showed up to the Galactic Summit wearing mismatched formal boots because he couldn't find the lights in his own closet. You told the Terachnoid Ambassador your heterochromatic footwear represented 'the duality of lombax innovation-"

"That was a bold fashion statement!" Alister retorted with dignity. "The Terachnoid ambassador is still copying my style. I saw him last month wearing different colored socks. I'm a trendsetter!"

Elder Councilman Trilby cleared his throat with the subtlety of a malfunctioning rocket engine. "Now that we're all present," he stated with pointed emphasis, "let's begin the emergency session. General Azimuth, please brief us on the security breach—preferably without any fashion advice. The last time I took style tips from you, my wife didn't speak to me for a week."

"That wasn't my fault," Alister muttered. "How was I supposed to know luminescent neckties weren't appropriate for funeral services?"

For the next three hours, and thankfully with another batch of coffee, they dissected every aspect of the security breach. The facts were troubling: an unidentified mechanical infiltrator had penetrated three security checkpoints before being cornered near the Dimensionator research lab. When capture seemed imminent, the device self-destructed, leaving little evidence beyond scorched metal fragments.

"The good news: no data was stolen," Mags reported. "The quantum encryption remains intact, and all prototypes are accounted for." He paused gravely. "But the fact it got so deep into the facility is deeply concerning... This wasn't some random probe. The infiltrator knew exactly where it was going and how to bypass our security protocols."

"So what you're saying is," Councilwoman Ferris interjected, "it was smarter than our security system? The one we spent 3.7 million bolts upgrading last quarter? The one you assured us could keep out 'everything short of an interdimensional deity with a vendetta'?"

"I'm saying," Mags replied with the patience of someone explaining quantum physics to a toddler, "that it was specifically designed to counter our measures. Almost as if someone had inside knowledge. It's like someone gave this thing our house keys, alarm codes, and the location of that emergency bolt stash we keep under the fake plant in the lobby."

A tense silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of Councilman Chalas nervously clicking his pen.

Kaden, who had been studying the fragmentation analysis, looked up with a frown. "These components... Some of these alloys aren't found in this galaxy. And this circuitry pattern—it's unlike anything in our database."

"Are you suggesting extra-galactic origins?" Elder Trilby asked, his brow furrowing deeply.

"I'm suggesting we consider all possibilities," Kaden replied carefully. "Including technologies we haven't encountered before. For all we know, this could be from another dimension entirely."

"Next you'll be telling us it's the work of interdimensional space ghosts," Councilman Paige scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous," Alister deadpanned, before turning increasingly sarcastic. "Everyone knows space ghosts can't operate technology—their ectoplasm messes up the wiring. It's basic spectral physics. I thought you took that class at the Academy, Paige. Or were you too busy failing Practical Applications of Intergalactic Lawn Care?"

Several councilmen chuckled, breaking the tension slightly, while Paige's ears flattened against his head in embarrassment. They debated security protocols, potential suspects, and preventative measures until Elder Trilby finally called for a lunch recess. The tension in the room was thick as the councilmen dispersed, breaking into small groups to continue their discussions in hushed tones.

Mags approached Kaden and Alister. "There's our old spot on Kestrel Boulevard—Warp Core Café. Care to join me? We hardly see each other outside these chambers these days. Last time was that disaster at the Honor Hall when Alister's speech caught fire—literally."

"Hey! It wasn't my fault the stage was made of combustible materials!" Alister protested.

"You were supposed to be demonstrating 'safe' plasma technology," Kaden reminded him with a smirk before responding to Mags. "Sounds good. I could use some fresh air and perspective. And possibly something to erase the memory of this morning from my brain!"

Alister nodded, tucking his datapad into his satchel. "I could use something stronger than council coffee. That last brew tasted like it was filtered through a Blargian's boot and then aged in a Sewer Mutant's armpit for three years before being stirred with a rusty spanner wrench. I'm pretty sure it's dissolving my stomach lining as we speak."

"That's oddly specific," Mags noted with raised eyebrows. "Should we be concerned about your recreational activities, Al? Is there a support group we should be looking into? 'Lombaxes Who Lick Strange Things Anonymous'?"

As they walked through the corridors, Alister nudged Kaden. "So, what really kept you this morning? You're usually the first one here."

Kaden sighed, running a hand through his head fur. "Ryder missed the transport to the academy. Again. I had to drive him myself, and then he spent the entire journey arguing with me."

"And this is why I don't have kids," Alister smirked. "I prefer to borrow other people's children and return them when they get difficult. All the fun, none of the responsibility!"

"You mean like that time you 'borrowed' my son for the weekend and returned him knowing three new swear words and with a sudden interest in experimental rocket fuel?" Kaden asked pointedly. "The school counselor still gives me concerned looks at parent-teacher conferences."

"Hey, that was educational," Alister protested. "Do you know how hard it is to calculate thrust-to-weight ratios while under pressure? That's practical mathematics! And the eyebrows grew back, didn't they? Mostly. The left one's still a bit patchy."

Kaden punched him playfully in the arm. "Well, you're not borrowing Ryder anytime soon. Not after he tried to take Aphelion off-world this morning without my permission—"

"He did what?" Alister's eyebrows shot up. "That ship's keyed to your genetic signature. How did he even start the engines?"

"That's what I'd like to know! He succeeded with one heck of an override that would make professional mechanics blush, swear, and then immediately offer him a job," Kaden muttered. "At this rate, I'll need retinal scans, blood samples, and a signed affidavit from three witnesses just to start my own ship!"

Mags chuckled as they stepped into the bright Fastoon sunlight. "Relax, Kaden. It's just the teenage years. We all went through them. Remember when you stole that trillium harvester and entered the gold tournament at the Agorian Battleplex?"

"That was different," Kaden protested, his ears flattening slightly. "I was sixteen, and most importantly, I WON! Against seven-foot-tall battle-hardened Agorians with names like 'Skull-Crusher' and 'The Disemboweler.' That's educational!"

"And you were grounded for three months," Alister reminded him with a grin.

"Totally worth it," Kaden replied without hesitation.

Alister's smile faded as he thought about how much Ryder had changed. The same boy who once begged to hear stories about the Praetorian Guard now refused to even be in the same room with him. The change had been gradual but unmistakable—starting around his twelfth birthday when Ryder began questioning lombax militaristic traditions. By thirteen, he was debating Alister at family dinners about the ethics of weapons development. Now, at fourteen, he was organizing sit-ins at military recruitment centers.

The painful irony wasn't lost on him—in this timeline, the boy he loved had grown to despise everything Alister stood for, while in another reality, Alister had nearly killed him in his misguided attempt to save their race. Perhaps this was cosmic justice, he often thought. A fitting punishment for sins the boy couldn't possibly remember, but that Alister would never forget.

The Warp Core Café was sleek and modern, with large windows overlooking the Fastoon cityscape. After they were seated, a waiter approached for their drink orders.

"Something strong," Alister requested. "A Latunic ristretto, dark brewed. The kind that makes your molecules vibrate. I want coffee so strong it needs a warning label and possibly a permit!"

"A Dusk agave tequila is very tempting, but just Sujina water for me," Kaden said. "I need to keep a clear head for the afternoon session. Last time I had alcohol at lunch, I approved funding for Councilwoman Ferris's 'self-aware toaster' project. We're still finding those things hiding in supply closets."

"And I'll have the Korthos tea," Mags added. "The one with the luminescent leaves that don't cause hallucinations... Last time I accidently ordered the special blend from Florana, and spent three hours convinced my tail was giving me financial advice. Surprisingly sound advice, actually—I made a killing on several mining ventures!"

Once the waiter departed, Kaden leaned back, finally relaxing.

"Feeling better now?" Alister teased. "Or are you mentally calculating how many security systems Ryder has probably bypassed since breakfast?"

Kaden chuckled lightly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "More like the acceptance stage of the five stages of grief, parenthood style," he replied, shaking his head. "I always imagined that kids would become easier as they grew older. I thought the sleepless nights and temper tantrums would be the hardest parts. 'Oh, it'll be better when he can talk,' they said. 'You'll be able to reason with him,' they said. Experience has corrected me. Violently. With a wrench to the expectations."

"Teenagers are a different species entirely," Mags offered sympathetically. "My sister has three. She says it's like living with alien lifeforms who occasionally remember how to speak Lombax when it's time for dinner or they need money. The rest of the time, they communicate exclusively in grunts, eye rolls, and door slams. She's considering hiring a xenolinguist."

"At least you three managed to stay friends since college," the waiter commented as he returned with their drinks. "It's rare to see the Minister of Defense, the General of Praetorian Guard, and the Director of Quantum Research together outside official functions and in our humble cafe."

"We're just too busy plotting galactic domination to socialize more often," Alister said with a straight face. "Today: lunch. Tomorrow: THE UNIVERSE."

"Aha..ha, ha..." The waiter laughed nervously, clearly unsure if he was joking, and hurried away, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Kaden smiled faintly, but his eyes remained troubled. He drummed his fingers on the table, clearly debating whether to share something.

"Actually, Mags," he finally said, lowering his voice, "I was hoping to ask you something. Ryder's been having some strange dreams lately, and he's having trouble separating them from reality. I was wondering if you could recommend a good psychologist. I know you're currently dating Doctor Varrlet. I heard she's renowned in child and adolescent psychology, but is hard to schedule an appointment with. Apparently, she's booked until the next galactic alignment."

"No problem, Kaden, I'll ask Sherry to squeeze in an opening for you," Mags replied, pulling out his communicator to make a note. "But what kind of dreams are we talking about? Night terrors? Sleepwalking? Sudden desire to become a holofilm star? Because if it's the last one, I know a great deprogramming facility on Korthos."

Kaden hesitated, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "He keeps insisting there's a robot named Clank in the Solana Galaxy that he needs to find. Says they're friends, that they've saved galaxies together. But Ryder's never even been to Solana. He talks about it like it's real—planets I've never heard of, villains with ridiculous names, adventures that sound like they're straight out of those cheesy holofilms he watches. Last week he tried to convince Mirabelle that he once fought a giant mutated protopet and now apparently hates them when he used to beg my mother to bring over Springy every time she visited."

"That is quite strange—" Mags began.

"What else has he said?!" Alister interrupted sharply, startling both lombaxes with his sudden intensity. His coffee mug froze halfway to his mouth, his ears perked forward with such alertness you could have balanced a quantum stabilizer on them.

Kaden blinked, taken aback by Alister's reaction. "...not much else. Just that this Clank is his best friend and they've had adventures together. He described him in detail—small robot, green eyes, an antenna on his head. He even sketched him for me..." Kaden pulled out his communicator, scrolling to find the image. "Here. It's quite detailed for an imaginary friend. Look at the precision in these servo joints—the kid can barely remember to put his dirty clothes in the hamper, but he can draw robotic anatomy with surgical accuracy?"

Alister stared at the sketch, his expression unreadable. The image was unmistakable—the same robot he'd seen during that fateful confrontation at the Great Clock. The robot who had tried desperately to save Ratchet after Alister had...

He pushed the memory away. That timeline no longer existed. Orvus had seen to that when he'd made the deal with Alister—a second chance to save the lombaxes, to stop Tachyon before he could rise to power. A chance to redeem himself for the greatest mistake of his life. But at what cost? The boy who had once looked up to him now couldn't stand the sight of him. The bitter irony wasn't lost on Alister—in saving the Lombaxes, he'd lost the one connection that had come to matter most to him.

"Alister?" Kaden prompted, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Do you know something about this? Because you've got that same look you had when I caught you using my quantum wrench to open a can of ravioli."

The arrival of their food provided a momentary distraction. As plates were set before them, Alister seemed deep in thought, turning over possibilities in his mind.

He's beginning to remember. After all this time, Ryder—no, Ratchet—is starting to remember his life from the alternate timeline. This is either fascinating or terrifying. Possibly both. Definitely both. What if remembers I had nearly killed him? What if he remembers how I betrayed him; betrayed everything, just to use the Clock? Would he hate me even more than he already does? Worse yet, what if he ALREADY knows-

"Alister?" Kaden repeated more firmly as he nudged Alister's forehead. "Fastoon to Azimuth. Come in, Azimuth!"   

Alister looked up, composing his features. He gently pushed away Kaden's finger.  "... ...I don't think there's anything wrong with your son, Kaden. The mind works in mysterious ways, especially during adolescence. Dreams can seem incredibly real. I had vivid ones at his age—thought I could fly for weeks after one particularly convincing dream. Jumped off the roof and broke my arm, remember?"

"Ah yes, and then you convinced me to try it too," Kaden said dryly. "My mother didn't let me see you for a month. She called you 'that delinquent with the death wish' for years afterward... but returning to the point: How can dreams be this specific? This consistent?"

Forcing his hands to remain steady, Alister picked up his utensils. "I agree with Mags, it's just a phase... A very PAINFUL phase, but it'll pass. Listen Kaden, you are already long suffering, but I strongly implore you to hold out a little longer. Continue to be patient with Ryder. VERY, VERY PATIENT as the boy is under enough stress. So listen to him without judgment and give him time to adjust..." Alister advised, as he began cutting into his meal with forced casualness. "This phase will pass on their own."

"And if they don't?" Kaden asked quietly. "What if these dreams get worse? What if he does something dangerous? Or something reckless?"

"You mean act the way you do most of the time-"

"I'm serious, Al!"

The strain between Kaden and his son had been taking a toll, made worse by the fact that Kaden was torn between his duty as a generational Keeper of the Dimensionator, and his love for his pacifist son. The recent protest demonstration that Ryder had organized had been particularly difficult—especially when images of his son holding a sign that read "DIMENSIONATORS DON'T SAVE LIVES, THEY DESTROY THEM" had been splashed across every news feed in Fastoon.

"Then we'll figure it out together," Alister promised him, meeting his friend's worried gaze. He placed a reassuring hand on Kaden's shoulder. "That's what friends are for. Even friends who occasionally break your arm with bad flying advice. Or friends who once convinced you that licking that weird fungus on Sargasso was 'totally safe' and 'probably not hallucinogenic at all.' Sorry about that, by the way. The doctors said your fur would grow back eventually, and it did." 

Kaden didn't look entirely convinced but nodded slowly. "...I appreciate that. Though I'm still not letting you babysit again until Ryder's at least thirty. Maybe forty."

As lunch continued, their conversation drifted back to the security breach. But Alister's mind remained elsewhere. If the boy's memories were indeed returning, everything could change—their friendship, the lombaxes' future, perhaps even the timeline itself. 

I need to be ready, Alister thought to himself. If he remembers Clank, then what about Nefarious and the Great Clock? What about me trying to... no, focus on the present. One crisis at a time.

As they prepared to return to the Center, Alister made a decision. As soon as Ryder was ungrounded, he would visit Kaden's home soon and speak with the boy directly. After 15 years in this altered timeline—where the lombaxes had never left, where Tachyon had been defeated before his rise to power—Alister had grown comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable.

The painful truth was that Alister had come to accept Ryder's rejection as a form of cosmic justice—punishment for what he had done in another life. Every protest sign, every heated debate, every cold shoulder from the boy was a reminder of the moment he had let his obsession cloud his judgment, the moment he had been willing to sacrifice everything—including Ratchet—for a chance to change history.

As they walked back to the Center, Alister discreetly tapped a command into his wrist communicator, activating a series of probes he had stationed near Veldin years ago—just in case. If there was any unusual quantum activity in that region of space, he would know about it.

Some precautions, after all, were worth taking. Even in a perfect timeline. Especially when dealing with a teenager who might just remember he once saved the universe. Repeatedly.

Chapter Text

The Novalian settlement was in disarray. Families hastily packed belongings while keeping a nervous eye on the sky, occasionally ducking at the sound of passing birds. The blarg attacks had become more frequent, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Drek's forces returned in greater numbers.

Clank was led to a makeshift hangar where three evacuation ships sat in various states of disrepair, looking like they'd been assembled from spare parts and optimistic thinking. A group of Novalians gathered around, eyeing the small robot skeptically, some whispering about whether he needed a booster seat to reach the controls.

"THIS is your mechanic?" one particularly large Novalian asked doubtfully, his voice booming like thunder. "He's barely taller than my toolbox! What's he going to do, cute the ships back to working order?"

"Size is not indicative of capability," Clank replied calmly, managing to sound dignified despite having to look almost straight up to make eye contact. "As the old proverb states: 'Judge not a robot by his casing, but by the processing power of his central core.'"

"That's not a proverb," muttered someone in the back.

"It is now," Clank responded, approaching the nearest ship with professional confidence. He conducted a quick visual inspection, identifying the problems immediately. "This vessel has a ruptured fuel line, damaged navigation array, and compromised shield generator. The stabilizers are also misaligned by approximately 3.7 degrees, and someone has inexplicably installed the bathroom sink upside-down. With the proper tools, I can have it operational within three hours."

The Novalians exchanged surprised glances, some looking impressed, others looking offended about the sink comment.

"Well, I'll be dipped in Blargian sewage," muttered one. "The little guy knows his stuff. And he noticed the sink! I told you it looked wrong, Harold!"

Clank set to work immediately, his precision and efficiency soon winning over the skeptical onlookers, even Harold who continued to defend his unconventional sink installation as "avant-garde plumbing." As he repaired the first ship, he engaged the Novalians in conversation, gathering information about recent events in the galaxy while occasionally asking them to hand him tools that some of them couldn't even pronounce.

"Have you encountered any lombaxes in your travels?" he asked casually, rewiring a damaged circuit board.

"Lombaxes?" A Novalian mechanic's assistant laughed so hard he nearly swallowed his gum. "Those are just legends, little robot! Like affordable healthcare or politicians who keep their promises! No one's seen a lombax in these parts—ever."

Clank paused, his gears turning so intensely you could almost hear them grinding. This was different from his original timeline. In his world, lombaxes were known to have existed but had disappeared. Here, they seemed to be considered mythical creatures, like dragons or customer service representatives who actually help.

"What about Veldin?" he pressed, trying to sound casual while reconnecting a power coupling that sparked dangerously. "Have you heard any news from there? Perhaps about a young mechanic with a penchant for reckless invention?"

"Veldin's been quiet," another Novalian replied, handing Clank a wrench that was comically oversized for him. "Just a backwater planet with nothing much happening except the occasional sand storm and terrible local cuisine. Though rumor has it the Blarg have it on their target list. Something about its orbital position being perfect for Drek's new world. Personally, I think he just hates planets that start with 'V.' Very petty, that Drek."

This aligned with Clank's memories. Drek had planned to destroy Veldin to make room for his new planet. Ratchet must be there, perhaps working on his ship, unaware of the danger approaching—and unable to leave without a robotic ignition system. The thought made Clank's circuits tingle with urgency.

By nightfall, Clank had repaired all three ships, earning the gratitude of the entire settlement and several marriage proposals from particularly impressed mechanics. The Novalian elder approached him as he was finishing the final calibrations, her ancient face creased with a smile.

"You've saved many lives today, little robot," she said warmly, patting him on the head like a pet. "As promised, we can offer you passage to any nearby planet. Where would you like to go?"

"Veldin," Clank replied without hesitation. "I must reach Veldin as soon as possible. It is a matter of universal importance, and I mean that quite literally."

The elder frowned, her wrinkles rearranging themselves into a new configuration of concern. "Veldin is quite far from our evacuation route. The closest we could take you is Aridia. From there, you might find other transportation. Though I should warn you, Aridia's tourist board greatly exaggerates the appeal of their 'magnificent sand dunes.' It's just sand. Lots and lots of sand."

Clank considered his options. Aridia wasn't ideal, but it was a start, and he'd faced worse detours—like that time with the space pirates and the karaoke machine. "That would be acceptable. Thank you for your assistance. I shall endeavor to avoid the sand dune tours."

As he prepared to board the evacuation ship, Clank found a quiet moment to examine the Plumber's part again. With some of the tools he'd borrowed from the Novalians (and fully intended to return, minus perhaps that nice calibrator that fit so perfectly in his chest compartment), he began to modify it, integrating it into a small device of his own design while occasionally muttering equations that would give most physics professors migraines.

"If my calculations are correct," he murmured, connecting a tiny wire with surgical precision, "This should allow me to track quantum signatures across vast distances, dimensions, and possibly through time itself. And if Ratchet retained his signature from our original timeline... and assuming the quantum entanglement principles still apply in this altered reality... and factoring in the possibility of dimensional bleed-through..."

The device hummed to life with a sound like a purring cat with hiccups, its small display showing a faint signal. Clank adjusted the settings, turning tiny dials and occasionally giving the device a good shake when it made stubborn beeping noises. The readings were confusing—showing two potential locations, one in Solana and one far beyond, possibly in the Polaris Galaxy.

"That cannot be right…" he whispered, his optical sensors narrowing in confusion. "According to these readings, there are two quantum signatures matching Ratchet's pattern. But that would mean..." His voice trailed off as the implications sank in. "Oh my. This is either a fascinating temporal anomaly or …a serious warranty issue."

His thoughts were interrupted by the call to board the evacuation ships, which was being announced by a Novalian with a megaphone and questionable volume control. Tucking the device away, Clank joined the Novalians, his mind racing with new questions and possibilities that ranged from "slightly concerning" to "existentially terrifying."

Aridia was a desert planet that made Veldin look like a tropical paradise, its barren landscape broken only by the occasional rock formation, the scattered remnants of ancient civilizations. The Novalian ship dropped Clank off at a small trading post before continuing on its evacuation route, the captain clearly relieved to be leaving the sand-covered wasteland.

"Good luck, little robot," the pilot called as Clank disembarked, trying not to sound too happy about leaving him behind. "And thank you again for your help. Remember, if you're ever in the market for a slightly used evacuation ship with an unconventional bathroom sink installation, you know who to call!"

"I shall keep that in mind," Clank replied politely, making a mental note to never, ever call.

The trading post was a haphazard collection of buildings that looked like they'd been assembled by someone who had only heard architecture described secondhand. It was populated by a diverse mix of species from across the galaxy, most of whom appeared to be either hiding from something or looking to sell something that had recently been "liberated" from its previous owner.

Clank made his way through the dusty streets, his tracking device occasionally emitting soft beeps that earned him suspicious glares from passersby who assumed it was either a bomb or an extremely annoying musical instrument. He refined its calibration as he walked, occasionally giving it a gentle tap.

Inside a rundown cantina that smelled like a combination of engine oil, cheap cologne, and questionable life choices, he found a group of smugglers discussing recent jobs with the subtle discretion of a parade. Clank approached their table, his polite demeanor at odds with the rough atmosphere that included at least three ongoing arm-wrestling matches and what appeared to be a knife-throwing contest using a waiter as the target.

"Excuse me," he said, having to repeat himself three times to be heard over someone's enthusiastic rendition of "Space Pirate Shanty #7: The One About The Tentacles." "I am seeking transportation to Veldin."

The smugglers looked down at him, then burst into laughter so loud it briefly paused the knife-throwing contest.

"What's a fancy service bot like you want in a dustball like Veldin?" one of them, a burly Agorian with more muscles than brain cells, asked between chuckles. "You lost your cleaning supplies? Or did your rich owner dump you there when the warranty expired?"

"I am not a service bot," Clank corrected patiently, standing as tall as his diminutive frame allowed, which was still roughly eye-level with the table. "I am searching for someone important to me. A friend who may be in grave danger, though he doesn't know it yet, which is admittedly a common state of affairs for him."

A Markazian woman at the table leaned forward, her interest piqued and her eyes sharp with the calculation of potential profit. "Important enough to pay well for passage? Because charity cases get left at the charity case depot, which is conveniently located in the middle of nowhere."

Clank studied her face, a surge of recognition flooding his circuits like a power surge. Talwyn Apogee. The daughter of the famous explorer Max Apogee. In another timeline, she had been their ally, their friend, a crucial part of their adventures. But here, now, she was just another smuggler who had never met him and who was eyeing him like he might be worth something if melted down for parts.

"I have limited funds," Clank admitted, keeping his voice measured despite his internal excitement at finding a familiar face, even if that face was currently looking at him with mercenary calculation rather than friendship. "But I am skilled in repairs and navigation. I could work for my passage. I am also proficient in 73 forms of card games, though I should warn you that my poker face is literally unchangeable."

The smugglers exchanged glances, considering the offer with all the deep thought of people deciding between two nearly identical lunch specials. Before they could respond, a commotion at the cantina entrance drew everyone's attention, including the knife-throwing target who took the opportunity to flee. A group of Blarg soldiers stormed in, weapons raised and looking like they practiced their scowls in the mirror each morning.

"ATTENTION, SCUM OF THE UNIVERSE!" their leader barked with the subtle diplomacy of a sledgehammer. "By order of Chairman Drek, we are conducting a search for fugitive robots from the Quartu manufacturing facility. All robots must submit to scanning immediately! Resistance will be met with extreme prejudice, moderate violence, and strongly worded citations!"

Clank froze, his processors calculating escape routes with the desperate speed of someone doing tax calculations on April 14th. Talwyn glanced at him, noting his reaction with the sharp eyes of someone who made a living noticing things others missed, then casually slid a tarp over him like she was covering a birdcage.

"Stay still," she whispered as she stood to confront the Blarg, her voice barely audible. "And if you make any robotic noises, I'll sell you for spare parts myself."

While she distracted them with exaggerated flirtation that involved hair-flipping, strategic leaning, and comments about how impressive their weapons were, Clank slipped from under the tarp and behind the bar, where he found a service entrance leading to the back alley.

Once safely away from the cantina, in an alley that smelled like poor waste management, Clank activated his tracking device again. The dual signals confused him—one appeared to be coming from Veldin, as expected, but the other was much farther away, beyond the bounds of the Solana Galaxy, possibly in Polaris or perhaps in another dimension entirely.

"Most peculiar," Clank muttered, adjusting the device's settings with the precision of a watchmaker with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. "Perhaps one is an echo or a false positive. Or perhaps the universe has developed a sense of humor even more questionable than the Plumber's."

A shadow fell across him, and Clank looked up to see Talwyn approaching, her hand resting casually on her blaster in a way that suggested she knew exactly how to use it and had done so on numerous occasions, some of which might even have been legal.

"You're pretty quick for a little guy," she remarked, leaning against the alley wall with practiced nonchalance. "And those blarg seemed mighty interested in finding you. What'd you do, short-circuit their boss's favorite coffee maker?"

"I believe there has been a misunderstanding," Clank began with diplomatic caution, calculating a 78.3% probability that she might shoot him if his answer displeased her. "I simply left my previous employment without providing the customary two weeks' notice."

She cut him off with a raised hand and an eye-roll that suggested she'd heard better lies from drunk space pirates. "Save it. I don't care what you did to tick off Drek. Anyone who's on his bad side is good in my book, which admittedly has a lot of names in it. Some with helpful notes like 'shoots first' or 'owes me money.'" She extended her hand, which Clank noticed had several interesting scars that suggested stories involving sharp objects and poor decisions. "Name's Talwyn Apogee. I captain a ship called the Arcadia.

Clank hesitated for just a microsecond, his processors running probability calculations faster than a gambler counting cards. In his timeline, he had met Talwyn much later, under very different circumstances. Their friendship had been forged through shared dangers and a quest to find the Lombax Secret—not in a smelly alley behind a cantina that apparently doubled as the galaxy's most enthusiastic health code violation.

"I am Clank," he replied, shaking her hand and deciding to keep his knowledge to himself, lest he be mistaken for a malfunctioning fortune-telling machine. "And I am most grateful for your assistance in the cantina. Your diversionary tactics were most... colorful."

"You haven't seen colorful until you've watched me negotiate with Goons-4-Less after they've had too much rum," she said with a wink. "But you seem... familiar to me somehow," Talwyn continued, studying him with narrowed eyes that missed approximately nothing. "Have we met before? Maybe at that robot rights convention on Endako? Or that underground tech swap on Snivelak where I definitely wasn't selling slightly illegal weapon mods?"

"I do not believe so," Clank answered carefully, his voice modulator maintaining perfect pitch despite the metaphorical sweat forming on his non-existent brow. "I would certainly remember meeting someone of your... reputation. My memory banks are quite thorough, except for that unfortunate incident involving a magnet and a very enthusiastic souvenir vendor."

Talwyn raised an eyebrow so high it threatened to leave her face entirely. "My reputation? What exactly have you heard about me? Because that thing with the Goon-4-Less leader's pet blargian slug-beast was completely blown out of proportion. It was already that color when I found it."

"Only that the Apogees are known for their explorations and discoveries," Clank replied smoothly, with the diplomatic skill of someone who regularly prevents interplanetary incidents. "Your father's work is quite renowned throughout the galaxy. His paper on 'Quantum Fluctuations in Ancient Lombax Technology' was particularly fascinating, even if most of the scientific community thought he was, as they say, 'one bolt short of a full chassis.'"

A shadow crossed Talwyn's face, darkening her features like someone had dimmed the lights on a previously cheerful party. "Yeah, well... Dad's been missing for years now. Went off on one of his expeditions and never came back. I've been looking for him, but..." She shook her head, visibly shoving the emotion back into whatever compartment she kept it in. "Anyway, you still need a ride to Veldin? Or were you just asking around the cantina for the ambiance and delightful aroma of spilled Blargian ale?"

"Yes, please," Clank nodded eagerly, his head bobbing like a dashboard ornament on a bumpy road. "It is of utmost importance that I reach there as soon as possible. The fate of the galaxy—possibly several galaxies—depends on it. No pressure, of course."

"Well, you're in luck, tiny and dramatic," Talwyn said with a crooked smile. "I've got a delivery heading that way tomorrow. Some 'agricultural equipment' that definitely isn't modified weapons for the resistance against Drek. You can tag along if you help with the cargo loading tonight." She eyed him curiously, her gaze calculating but not unkind. "What's so important on Veldin anyway? It's mostly sand, rocks, and people who couldn't afford to live somewhere better."

"I believe someone there needs my help," Clank said, his voice softening with an emotion that his manufacturers would have sworn was impossible for his model. "Someone who may not even know it yet. A friend who... matters more than my programming should allow."

Talwyn studied him for a moment, her expression softening slightly as if recognizing something in his words that resonated with her own experiences. "Sounds like you've got quite a story, little robot. Maybe you can tell me about it on the journey. I've got a bottle of premium-grade oil that's supposed to be the robot equivalent of aged Rilgarian whiskey. We can swap tales of questionable decision-making."

As Talwyn led him through the back alleys to a small warehouse where her crew was preparing crates for transport, Clank considered how much he could safely reveal. The timeline had already been altered significantly. Meeting Talwyn here, years before they should have crossed paths, was proof of that. Like finding the dessert course before the appetizer at a formal dinner—chronologically confusing and potentially messy.

While helping with the inventory, occasionally lifting boxes that made the crew stare in surprise at his unexpected strength, Clank continued to ponder the dual signals on his tracking device. If one was indeed coming from Veldin, that confirmed his theory that Ratchet was there. But what could the other signal mean? A copy? An echo? A dimensional variant? And how would this Talwyn—different from the one he had known, rougher around the edges and with more weapons concealed on her person—factor into their new journey?

"You look like you're calculating the meaning of life over there," Talwyn called, interrupting his thoughts as she tossed him a small crate that probably contained something illegal in at least seventeen systems. "Relax a little. We've got all night to load this 'completely legitimate agricultural equipment' before we head to Veldin tomorrow. Though if anyone asks, you're my new navigation system with a quirky personality module."

"I shall endeavor to appear more navigational and less existentially concerned," Clank replied with a small smile, catching the crate with surprising dexterity. "Though I feel compelled to point out that at least three of these crates contain modified Blargian pulse rifles, not farming equipment, unless agriculture has become significantly more combat-oriented since my last database update."

Talwyn's laugh echoed through the warehouse, genuine and warm. "I think you and I are going to get along just fine, little robot! Just fine indeed."

Planet Fastoon - Science Building Floor 03 - Lab C 19, Lombaxia High

Ratchet had faced many challenges in his life—battling planet-destroying supervillains, navigating deadly space stations, surviving gladiatorial combat on Dreadzone. But nothing had prepared him for the sheer terror of Advanced Galactic Quantum Chemistry II at 9:40 AM on a Monday morning.

"Now remember, class," Dr. Isotope warned, her safety goggles magnifying her eyes to comically large proportions, "when combining Liquiferrium extract with Gelatonium solution, precision is key. Too much heat, and—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence because Ratchet, who had been absentmindedly twirling his Bunsen burner like one of his blasters, accidentally cranked it to maximum power just as his lab partner added the Liquiferrium.

The resulting explosion wasn't technically large enough to be classified as "catastrophic" by Fastoon Safety Standards, but it was certainly impressive enough to trigger every sprinkler in the chemical laboratories.

"STERLING!" shrieked a soaking wet lombax named Percival, whose meticulously groomed tail had briefly caught fire before the sprinklers doused it. "I SPENT TWO HOURS BRUSHING MY FUR THIS MORNING!"

"MY NOTES!" wailed another student, watching as her carefully color-coded chemistry equations dissolved into a soggy rainbow mess.

"MY DIGNITY!" lamented a third, whose wet fur made him look like he'd been shrunk in the wash.

Dr. Isotope, somehow still perfectly composed despite being drenched, simply removed her goggles and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Sterling, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for chemical reactions, I prefer them to be intentional and, ideally, contained within the appropriate safety equipment."

"I-I am so, so sorry!" Ratchet stammered, looking around at his dripping classmates, most of whom were glaring at him with the special hatred reserved for people who make cats wet. "I didn't mean to—"

"MY TAIL!" Percival interrupted, holding up his singed appendage. "Look at this! I have a bald spot! A BALD SPOT, STERLING!"

"It'll grow back?" Ratchet offered helpfully.

"IN SIX TO EIGHT WEEKS!"

"Class dismissed," Dr. Isotope announced, her calm voice somehow cutting through the chaos. "Please dry yourselves off and change if necessary. Mr. Sterling, a word."

As the other students filed out, shaking water from their fur and shooting daggers at Ratchet with their eyes, he approached the professor's desk with the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution.

"Professor, I'm really sorry about the explosion and the sprinklers and Percival's tail and—"

Dr. Isotope held up a hand, silencing his rambling apology. To his surprise, she didn't look angry—just puzzled.

"Ryder, you've been my top chemistry student since you started your freshman year. Last semester, you corrected my equation on the quantum properties of Liquiferrium. You could practically teach this class." she studied him with scientific curiosity. "So I'm wondering why you suddenly seem to have forgotten basic lab safety protocols?"

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably. "Bad day?"

"Hmm." She didn't seem convinced. "Well, accidents happen, even to the best scientists. Clean up your station, and perhaps review the safety manual before Wednesday's class."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for not, you know, expelling me or feeding me to a Snagglebeast or something."

Dr. Isotope's lips twitched. "We save the Snagglebeast for students who fail to turn in their homework, Mr. Sterling."

Ratchet couldn't tell if she was joking.

The locker room was a special kind of humiliation—the kind that would make even a seasoned galactic hero wish for the sweet embrace of a black hole. As Ratchet squelched his way inside, leaving wet footprints on the gleaming floor like a slug with commitment issues, several other drenched lombaxes from his chemistry class turned to glare at him with the collective fury of a thousand irritated Agorians.

"Here comes the walking disaster," muttered one, his ears flattened against his head. "The lombax who puts the 'hazard' in 'hazardous materials.'"

"Nice one, Sterling," said another, wringing water from his tail with such vigor you'd think he was trying to extract raritanium from it. "Really living up to your reputation as the professor's pet today, huh? What's next—setting the cafeteria on fire for extra credit?"

"Hey, at least we got out of class early," offered a third, slightly more forgiving student, his whiskers still dripping. "And I was totally bombing that pop quiz anyway."

"Yeah, but at what cost?" Percival wailed dramatically, still cradling his singed tail. "My beautiful fur! I had a date tonight! How am I supposed to impress Sylvia Stardust with half my tail looking like a burnt matchstick?!"

"I said I was sorry," Ratchet muttered, making his way to what he hoped was his locker. He tried three combinations before giving up and moving to another locker that looked vaguely familiar from this morning. "Come on, come on... work with me here..."

"Need help remembering your own locker combination, genius?" Percival sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm thicker than Gadgetron industrial lubricant. "Maybe Professor Yosef can give you a memory enhancement serum—assuming you don't blow up the entire science wing trying to open it!"

"Lay off him, Percy," came a familiar voice that cut through the tension like a Plasma Striker through warm butter. Dex emerged from around the corner, already changed into athletic wear for his next class. He took one look at the soaking wet lombaxes and burst out laughing so hard he nearly doubled over. "What happened to you guys? Fall into the fountain while practicing synchronized swimming?"

"Your friend here," Percival jabbed a finger at Ratchet with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain, "decided to turn chemistry class into a sprinkler party. And set my tail on fire! MY TAIL!"

Dex's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Wait, seriously? Ryder 'Safety Goggles' Sterling caused a lab accident?" He turned to Ratchet with newfound respect. "Dude, are you feeling okay? Usually you're about as rebellious as a library book that returns itself early."

"I'm fine..." Ratchet grumbled, finally finding his locker and getting it open on the first try. "Just having an off day."

"Hey, everyone has those," Dex said, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make Ratchet stumble. "Besides, Percy's overreacting as usual. Remember when I accidentally set off the emergency evacuation alarm because I thought the big red button was for the vending machine?"

Dex turned to the group of still-glaring lombaxes and grinned wickedly. "And let's not forget when Trevor over there sneezed during the school photo and his image had to be digitally reconstructed because he looked like he was being electrocuted?"

Trevor's ears flattened against his head. "I had allergies..."

"And Marcus!" Dex continued, on a roll now. "Remember when you accidentally set off the anti-gravity generator in gym class and Coach Ironhide had to peel half the freshman class off the ceiling with that giant spatula?"

Marcus suddenly found his shoelaces fascinating.

"Oh, and Percy—before you get too high and mighty, wasn't it just last semester when you called Vice Principal Zephyra 'Mom' in front of the entire assembly?"

Percival's face turned a shade of red that clashed horribly with his fur. "That was... I was... It was a simple verbal miscalculation!" he spluttered, then pointed an accusatory finger at Ratchet. "And you! You clumsy, incompetent disaster! You're a walking safety hazard in chemistry class!"

"A walking safety hazard I may be, but at least I'm not named after a cragmite who tried to wipe out our entire species," Ratchet muttered just loud enough to be heard.

The locker room fell silent for three glorious seconds before erupting in snickers.

"It's a family name!" Percival protested, his voice rising an octave. "My great-grandfather was named Percival before that walking insect was even hatched!"

"Sure, sure," Dex nodded with mock sympathy. "And I'm sure it's just a coincidence that your middle name is 'Nefarious.'"

"IT IS NOT!" Percival shrieked as the other lombaxes howled with laughter.

Despite himself, Ratchet snorted a laugh.

"See? You're smiling already," Dex grinned, nudging Ratchet with his elbow. "Don't worry about Percy. His tail needed a trim anyway—"

"I can hear you!" Percival called from across the room, attempting to style his singed tail fur with emergency hair gel from his locker.

"I know!" Dex called back cheerfully, cupping his hands around his mouth for maximum projection. "That's why I said it out loud instead of sending you a private message on my Neural-Net!"

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously though, don't sweat it. By lunch, everyone will be talking about how Mr. Marsden got his bow tie caught in the probability generator again."

"Thanks, Dex," Ratchet said, genuinely grateful.

"No problem. That's what friends are for—talking you up when you're down, and mocking you mercilessly when you set classmates' tails on fire." Dex checked his chronometer. "Gotta run! See you at lunch?"

"Yeah, see you then," Ratchet agreed, pulling a dry shirt from his locker. "Save me a seat?"

"Always do," Dex called over his shoulder as he jogged off. "And hey—if you're planning any more impromptu science experiments, give me a heads-up! I want to be far enough away to watch safely but close enough to record it for posterity!"

The other lombaxes gradually dispersed, their collective annoyance diffused by Dex's masterful deployment of mutual embarrassment. As Ratchet changed into dry clothes, he made a mental note: in this timeline, he might not have his arsenal of weapons or his heroic reputation, but he had something just as valuable—a friend who had his back, even when he accidentally set their classmates on fire.

By the time Ratchet made it to Advanced Quantum Physics IV, he was dry but still nursing an emotional bruise from the chemistry disaster. He slid into an empty seat next to Cressida, who acknowledged him with a curt nod—chilly, but at least not openly hostile.

Professor Lunaire, a wiry lombax with spectacles so thick they made his eyes look like they belonged to different galaxies, paced excitedly at the front of the classroom. Holographic equations floated around him, their complexity making Ratchet's head spin.

"And so," the professor continued, his voice quivering with enthusiasm, "When we apply the Quantashrödinger principle to trans-dimensional particle acceleration, we can clearly see that the resulting probability matrix follows a predictable pattern of unpredictability!" He beamed at the class as if he'd just announced free ice cream for everyone.

Ratchet stared blankly at his datapad, which displayed equations that might as well have been written in ancient Latinish. Beside him, Cressida was rapidly taking notes, her fingers flying across her screen with practiced precision.

"Mr. Sterling!" Professor Lunaire suddenly called out, making Ratchet jump in his seat. "Perhaps you'd like to explain to the class how these findings might apply to practical applications of pocket dimension storage technology?"

Every head turned toward Ratchet. He froze, mouth slightly open, mind completely blank. In his own timeline, he'd learned mechanics through trial and error, not theoretical physics in a classroom. He knew how to fix a broken hyperdrive, not explain the quantum principles behind it.

"I, uh..." he stammered, frantically searching for something—anything—that might sound intelligent.

Professor Lunaire's expression shifted from expectation to confusion. "Ryder? This should be right up your alley. You wrote that brilliant paper on this very topic last semester."

Ratchet swallowed hard. "Well, you see, the thing about pocket dimension storage is... it's all about... the pockets?"

A few snickers rippled through the classroom. Cressida was staring at him with growing concern.

"And the... dimensions?" Ratchet continued weakly. "Which are... small? But also... big? On the inside?"

Professor Lunaire's whiskers drooped with disappointment. "Are you feeling alright, Mr. Sterling? This is quite unlike you..."

Before Ratchet could dig himself deeper, the bell rang, signaling the end of class. Never in his life had he been so grateful for a bell.

"Saved by temporal acoustics," Professor Lunaire sighed. "Don't forget, your five-thousand-word analysis of quantum entanglement as it relates to interdimensional communication is due tomorrow morning!"

Ratchet's heart sank. Five thousand words? On quantum entanglement? He barely understood what those words meant individually, let alone strung together.

As he gathered his things, Cressida approached, her pink fur almost matching the color of the datapad she clutched to her chest.

"Are you okay?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice. "Your performance in class was 87.3% below your usual standard. It's... concerning."

"Just tired," Ratchet replied, avoiding her gaze. "Didn't sleep well last night."

"You've been saying that all day," she pointed out. "And you've been acting strange. You're not focusing like you usually do. Plus, you're carrying your bag on your right shoulder instead of your left, you didn't bring your color-coded notebooks, and you haven't mentioned the Lombax Physics Olympiad once."

Ratchet blinked at her. "You're very... observant."

"We've been study partners since fifth grade, Ryder," she said with a hint of hurt in her voice. "I notice patterns. And right now, you're breaking all of yours."

Guilt twisted in Ratchet's stomach. This girl clearly cared about Ryder—possibly more than just as a study partner—and here he was, an impostor in her friend's body.

"I'm just going through some stuff," he said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Need to figure some things out."

"Well, if you need help with the quantum entanglement paper, we could meet at the library after school," she offered, pushing her glasses up. "Like we usually do on Tuesdays? The probability of finishing it alone the night before is approximately 22.7%, based on your previous attempts."

"I can't. I'm grounded," Ratchet said, then quickly added, "But thanks for the offer."

Cressida's eyes widened. "Grounded? You? What did you do, forget to alphabetize your sock drawer? Or was it that unauthorized extra credit project you've been hiding in your closet?"

"I tried to steal my dad's ship this morning," Ratchet confessed perhaps too earnestly.

Cressida's datapad clattered to the floor as her grip failed completely. "You attempted grand theft starship? But that's—that's—" she sputtered, her normally precise language centers clearly malfunctioning. "You did WHAT? But you hate flying! You got sick on the hover-carousel at the Spring Festival! You wrote a three-page paper on why the gravitational forces made you nauseous!"

"People change," Ratchet said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the door.

"People don't undergo complete neurological rewiring overnight!" Cressida called after him, hastily retrieving her datapad. "Ryder, wait! The statistical outliers in your behavior suggest either extreme psychological distress or—"

But Ratchet was already moving into the crowded hallway, desperate to escape before she could ask more questions he couldn't answer. He navigated through the sea of lombaxes, feeling increasingly out of place. This was his species, his people—yet he'd never felt more alien.

As he rounded a corner, his attention divided between escaping Cressida and checking his schedule for his next class, he failed to notice the janitor's hover-cart until it was almost too late. The cart, piled high with cleaning supplies, blocked most of the hallway as the elderly lombax janitor struggled with a mop.

Acting on pure instinct, Ratchet executed a perfect aerial flip over the cart, tucking into a roll and landing gracefully on the other side—only to immediately clutch his leg as a sharp cramp seized his calf muscle.

"Argh!" he groaned, hopping on one foot while massaging the cramping muscle. "What the—?"

The hallway had gone silent. Ratchet looked up to find at least twenty lombaxes staring at him in shock, including the janitor, whose mop had frozen mid-swipe.

"H-Hey!" Ratchet greeted the janitor, trying to act casual despite the pain. "How's the, uh, mopping going, sir?"

"Sweet mother of Orvus!" the old janitor breathed, his eyes wide. "Did you just... flip? Like, in the air?"

"Just a little hop," Ratchet said, wincing as he put weight on his cramping leg. "No big deal."

"No big deal?" a nearby student exclaimed. "Ryder, you've got a doctor's note excusing you from Phys Ed because you're 'physically allergic to athletics'!"

"I've been working out?" Ratchet offered weakly.

The Janitor whose name tag read: TORRIX shook his head in disbelief. "In all my years at this school, I've never seen anything like it. Normally, you tripped over your own shadow, and now you're doing acrobatics in this hallway?"

Before Ratchet could respond, a familiar voice called out from behind him.

"Ryder! Since when can you do that!?" Rivet demanded, parting through the crowd with Dex close behind.

"Do what?" Ratchet asked innocently, still rubbing his leg.

"That ninja move!" Dex exclaimed, eyes wide with admiration. "Dude, that was awesome! When did you become a secret agent?"

"It… it was nothing," Ratchet insisted, increasingly uncomfortable with the attention. "Just... reflexes."

"Reflexes?" Rivet repeated skeptically. "Ryder, your reflexes are usually limited to ducking when someone throws a paper airplane. Last Semester you walked into the same glass door three times in a row."

"…I'm a late bloomer?" Ratchet suggested.

The crowd began to disperse as the warning bell for the next class rang. Rivet and Dex flanked Ratchet as they continued down the hall.

"Seriously, what's going on with you today?" Rivet pressed. "First you stand up to Evalina, then you actually participate in Interdimensional Ethics, instead of sulking, later you cause a lab explosion, and now you're doing parkour in the hallways?"

"Maybe he's been replaced by a doppelgänger from another dimension," Dex joked, nudging Ratchet with his elbow. "That would explain the sudden interest in the Dimensionator too!"

Ratchet nearly tripped over his own feet. "What? No! That's ridiculous! Totally impossible! Absolutely not what happened!"

Rivet and Dex exchanged glances.

"Relax, it was a joke," Dex said slowly. "Though your reaction is weirdly defensive..."

"So what's your next class?" Rivet asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

Ratchet checked his schedule. "…Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics II with Professor Kline."

He groaned internally. Another science class he had no hope of understanding. At this rate, he'd be exposed as an impostor before lunchtime.

"I'm in that class too," Rivet said. "Though I'm surprised you're still taking it. You were complaining all last semester about how boring it was because you already knew everything."

"Yeah, well, maybe I forgot some stuff over the summer…" Ratchet muttered.

"You? Forget academic material?" Dex laughed. "Next you'll tell me you don't want to go to the Advanced Lombax Research Center Intern summer program! But seriously, bro, if you hate that class so badly, why don't you switch electives?"

Ratchet stopped walking. "Wait, I can change my classes?"

"Sure, until the end of the week," Dex replied. "As long as there's space in whatever you want to switch to."

A glimmer of hope sparked in Ratchet's mind. If he could drop all these advanced science classes for something more manageable, he might actually survive this school experience.

"Where do I go to do that?" he asked eagerly.

"Academic counselor's office," Rivet answered, looking at him strangely. "Second floor, east wing. But why would you want to change your schedule? You've been excited about these classes since last year."

"I'm... reassessing my priorities," Ratchet said carefully. "Trying new things."

"Like suddenly doing backflips?" Rivet asked dryly.

"Exactly!" Ratchet grinned. "Speaking of which, I should go talk to the counselor right now!"

"W-What? But we have class in three minutes!" Rivet protested.

"This is more important," Ratchet insisted. "Cover for me?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed toward the stairwell, leaving Rivet and Dex staring after him in confusion.

"Did he just ask us to help him skip class?" Dex asked incredulously. "Who is this lombax and what has he done with our Ryder Sterling?"

"I don't know," Rivet murmured, watching Ratchet's retreating form with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. "But I'm starting to think your doppelgänger theory isn't as crazy as it sounds..." 

"Weight Training and Fitness Fundamentals, Beginners Hoverboot Maneuvers I, Intro to Firearms & Heavy Ordnance, Ballroom Basics, Essential Piloting Skills for Future Aviators, and Artistry in Motion: The Craft of Origami… along with an interest in suddenly joining JROTC….?"

The academic counselor, Ms. Quantumleap, a middle-aged lombax with reading glasses perched on her nose, looked up from her datapad with an expression that suggested Ratchet had just proposed launching the school cafeteria into orbit.

"Mr. Sterling, is this some kind of elaborate prank? Because if so, I must inform you that your father's sense of humor has not, in fact, been genetically transferred to you."

"No ma'am," Ratchet replied, trying his best to look earnest while fighting back a smirk. "Those are the elective classes I'd like to switch to. Immediately. Like, yesterday-immediately."

"But these are completely different from your current schedule!" Ms. Quantumleap protested, waving her datapad as if it might somehow rearrange the offending course selections. "You're dropping Advanced Quantum Physics, Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics, Advanced Robotics, Advanced Chemistry, Calculus VII, and Advanced Galactic Quantum Chemistry... essentially every class with the word 'Advanced' in the title. All courses you've been excelling in, I might add, with the enthusiasm of a Leviathan at an all-you-can-eat plankton buffet."

"I'm just looking for a change," Ratchet explained, leaning back in his chair with a casual confidence that made the counselor's left eye twitch. "Something more... practical."

"Practical?" Ms. Quantumleap repeated, as if Ratchet had suggested they communicate via interpretive dance. "Mr. Sterling, you've been on the fast track to the Center for Advanced Lombax Research since before you learned to tie your own shoelaces. Your academic record is so impeccable it makes other academic records feel inadequate. Your father is the Minister of Defense and on the Elder Councilmen's Board of Directors in that very Center. One of the most respected scientists in Fastoon. And now you want to take... ballroom dancing?"

"I hear it improves coordination," Ratchet offered with a grin. "Plus, ladies love a guy who can foxtrot. At least, that's what the holovids say."

"The holovids also suggest that blowing up moons is an appropriate response to minor inconveniences," Ms. Quantumleap deadpanned. "Not exactly a reliable source of life advice."

She removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose so hard Ratchet worried she might actually push it through to the back of her skull. "Ryder, is everything alright at home? Is there something you'd like to talk about? Did you perhaps suffer a concussion that no one has reported to the school nurse?"

"Everything's fine," Ratchet assured her, trying to look as innocent as possible—which, given his track record of galaxy-saving heroics in another timeline, was not very innocent at all. "I'm just... exploring different interests. Broadening my horizons. Expanding my... horizonal... broadness."

"Horizonal broadness," Ms. Quantumleap repeated flatly. "I see your vocabulary skills remain as impressive as ever."

"Look," Ratchet leaned forward, deciding to try a different approach. "Haven't you ever felt like you were stuck in a rut? Like you were living someone else's life instead of your own?"

The counselor's expression softened slightly. "Ah, I see. This is about the Keeper Legacy, isn't it? The responsibility you've been so vocal about rejecting since the start of your freshman year…"

"Right! Yes! That thing! Exactly that thing that I definitely know all about!" Ratchet nodded enthusiastically, accepting the cop-out. "The Keeper Legacy! Well, I've decided that's not such a bad thing anymore! So I'm more opened to inheriting the responsibility!"

Ms. Quantumleap's eyes widened in disbelief before narrowing with scrutiny. "Ryder, you've been vehemently against following in your father's footsteps for years. You've written three separate essays arguing that the Dimensionator should be dismantled and the technology permanently sealed away. You've made your position quite clear and now you're out of the blue considering such a change of stance?"

"Well, maybe I'm developing a more nuanced view," Ratchet suggested, trying to recover. "People change, you know. Evolve. Grow. Sometimes overnight in completely inexplicable ways that definitely don't involve interdimensional displacement."

"And this sudden evolution involves abandoning all your academic interests and embracing military training?" Ms. Quantumleap asked skeptically. "The same military you once described as—and I quote from your rather passionate speech at last year's debate competition—'a fossil-fueled dinosaur of outdated thinking that perpetuates conflict rather than resolving it'?"

Ratchet winced. Apparently, Ryder had been quite the pacifist. "I'm... severely reconsidering my position?"

"Severely reconsidering your position…" Ms. Quantumleap repeated, each word dripping with disbelief. "The position you've maintained with such conviction that you once got into a shouting match with General Vivar during Career Day that ended with you calling him a 'warmongering relic' and him threatening to have you court-martialed for insubordination?"

"That sounds... intense," Ratchet admitted, struggling to imagine himself—or rather, Ryder—standing up to a general similar to Alister. "But maybe I've realized there's value in understanding something before criticizing it? You know, walk a mile in their combat boots before judging them?"

"Hmm." Ms. Quantumleap didn't look convinced. "Well, it's your education. I'll make the changes to your schedule."

Ratchet's heart soared, and he struggled to contain his overwhelming joy. He could feel tears of happiness prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Thank you so much!" he exclaimed, his voice a little too high-pitched.

As the counselor turned to input the data into her system, Ratchet silently celebrated with a tiny fist pump.

Goodbye Advanced Quantum Physics with your incomprehensible equations!

And Advanced Chemistry with your explosive tendencies? You definitely won't be missed!

Calculus VII, with your endless derivatives and integrals? I won't shed a tear at our parting!

No more pretending to understand concepts that made his brain feel like it was trying to escape through his ears. No more sitting through lectures that might as well have been delivered in ancient Fongoid for all he understood.

Ms. Quantumleap paused, noticing his reaction as she turned back, and hesitated for a moment. "Are you alright, Ryder?"

"Yes! I'm absolutely fine!" Ratchet assured her, his grin practically splitting his face in two. "Just... really happy about the classes!"

The counselor raised an eyebrow but nodded slowly, a small smile creeping onto her lips as she tousled her datapad. "Alright then. Your new schedule will be effective tomorrow. Now, do be careful, or I'll have to keep my stress balls under lock and key."

"Got it!" Ratchet responded, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. "Thanks again!"

"As for JROTC, the tryouts will be held near the end of the semester. You must go to one of their enrollment seminars to qualify," the counselor said, tapping at her datapad with perhaps more force than necessary. "You'll finish out today with your current classes. And Ryder?"

"Yes?"

"If you ever want to talk about what's really going on my door is always open. Though I recommend knocking first, as I've been known to throw stress balls at unexpected visitors."

"Noted."

"Good. Now, unless there's anything else you'd like to discuss—perhaps your sudden interest in origami, which I must admit has me the most puzzled of all your selections—I suggest you get back to class before your absence is noted."

"Right, yes, absolutely," Ratchet said, standing up. "Thanks for your help. And for not, you know, immediately calling the psych ward."

"The day is still young, Mr. Sterling," Ms. Quantumleap replied with a hint of a smile. "Don't give me reason to reconsider."

By the time the final bell rang, Ratchet was mentally exhausted. He'd managed to get through Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics by keeping his head down and pretending to take notes, narrowly avoided another catastrophe in Advanced Robotics III by letting his lab partner do most of the work, and somehow survived Advanced Temporal Mechanics despite understanding approximately zero percent of the lecture.

Farewell Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics and your mind-numbing theories about black holes!

So long Advanced Robotics where I almost electrocuted myself!

And Advanced Temporal Mechanics is no longer my problem as of now! 

Ratchet hummed a merry tune under his breath as he waited at the bus loop for his ride home, when Rivet appeared beside him, looking uncharacteristically excited. "So? Did you actually do it?" she demanded without preamble.

"Do what?" Ratchet asked, confused.

"Change your classes," Rivet clarified, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, that," Ratchet nodded. "Yeah, I did it. New schedule starts tomorrow."

"Really?" Rivet's eyes widened in genuine shock. "I thought you were joking! What classes did you switch to?"

"Let's see," Ratchet said, holding up his thumb. "Weight Training and Fitness Fundamentals—you know, for these noodle arms."

Rivet's eyebrows shot up.

"Beginners Hoverboot Maneuvers I," he continued, raising his index finger while Rivet's expression shifted to disbelief.

"Intro to Firearms & Heavy Ordnance," he added with his middle finger, and Rivet's jaw began to slacken.

"Ballroom Basics," he said, raising his ring finger as Rivet's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Essential Piloting Skills for Future Aviators," he continued with his pinky, and Rivet started making a strange choking sound.

"Artistry in Motion: The Craft of Origami," he finished, using his other hand's thumb, at which point Rivet's face was a perfect mask of stunned bewilderment.

"Oh, and I signed up for the JROTC info session," he added casually, as if mentioning he might try a new sandwich for lunch.

Rivet's jaw dropped completely. "... A-ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

"Nope," Ratchet said, folding his arms. "All official. Starting tomorrow! And I couldn't be ha-"

"But you HATE physical activity!" Rivet exclaimed, cutting him off. "You get winded climbing a flight of stairs! Remember that field trip to the Fastoon Historical Observatory last year? We barely made it up the first landing before you started wheezing like an overheated hovership! Dex had to carry you piggyback-style the rest of the way up those three hundred steps while you kept moaning about your 'impending death' the whole time."

"T-That wasn't entirely my fault!" Ratchet protested, though he had no memory of that embarrassing incident. "...uh, I probably had a cold that day. And anyway, people change!"

"Not overnight they don't!" Rivet countered. "And JROTC? You've been vocally anti-military since that documentary on the Cragmite War made you cry in seventh grade! You said the military-industrial complex was, and I quote, 'a festering boil on the backside of civilization.'"

"Maybe I'm developing a more nuanced view," Ratchet suggested.

"And ballroom dancing?" Rivet continued, ignoring his comment. "You have the coordination of a drunken Puffoid on land! Remember the Spring Festival from our last year in middle school? You tried to do the Electric Slide and ended up taking out the entire refreshment table!"

"I've been practicing," Ratchet lied.

"When? In your sleep?" Rivet's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's really going on, Ryder? You're signing up for classes that go against everything you've ever stood for? It's like you've been replaced by a pod person."

"Not a pod person," Ratchet muttered. "Just... expanding my horizons."

"Hey, what's going on?" Dex jogged up to them, backpack slung casually over one shoulder. "And why does Rivet look like she's about to explode?"

"Tell him," Rivet demanded, crossing her arms. "Tell him your new class schedule."

Ratchet repeated the list, watching as Dex's expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief to outright hilarity.

"Weight training!?" Dex wheezed, doubled over with laughter. "YOU? The guy who once asked for a doctor's note to get out of carrying your own backpack?"

"It wasn't that heavy," Ratchet protested.

"It had one datapad in it!" Dex howled. "And you said it was giving you 'acute spinal distress'!"

"And firearms?" Rivet added, warming to the theme. "You faint at the sight of blood! Remember when I got that paper cut last year and you had to put your head between your knees?"

"It must have been a really deep paper cut..." Ratchet muttered, his ears flattening against his head as he caught second, third, and fourth-hand embarrassment hearing about his alternative self. Ryder was literally a walking embarrassment that he would not have caught dead next to. Ratchet crossed his arms and his tail twitched agitatedly behind him as he asked, "Are you guys done making fun of me yet?"

"Not even close!" Rivet replied, but her expression softened slightly. "Look, if you really want to try new things, that's great. I'm just worried you're having some kind of... I don't know, identity crisis or something."

"I'm fine," Ratchet insisted for what may have been the 40th time today. "Just changing things up a bit."

"Well, if you're really committed to this new you," Dex said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "you should come with us to Galaxy Burger tonight. They've got this new challenge—the Supernova Burger. Six patties, four types of cheese, and sauce so spicy it comes with a legal waiver. The old Ryder would never have tried it, but the new, adventurous Ryder? I bet he would!

"That sounds awesome," Ratchet said sincerely—it really did—"but I can't. Grounded, remember?"

Rivet's ears perked up, her eyes widening in surprise. "Whoa, wait—grounded? You? Since when are you grounded?!"

"Yeah, what she said," Dex added, equally shocked. "Did the universe flip upside down today? Next you'll tell us Percival got detention for fighting-"

"And why am I just hearing about it now?" Rivet pressed, leaning forward with intense curiosity. "When did this happen!?"

"Since I tried to steal my dad's starship this morning," Ratchet replied with a shrug.

"WHAT?!" Dex and Rivet exclaimed in perfect unison, their eyes widening to comical proportions.

"You tried to steal Minister Sterling's ship?" Rivet gasped, looking completely blindsided. "The Aphelion? Are you INSANE?"

"Hold on," Dex held up his hands like a referee calling time-out. "Let me get this straight. You—Ryder 'I-won't-even-jaywalk' Sterling—tried to steal a military-grade starship from the Minister of Defense? Your own father?"

"The same Ryder who once turned himself in to the hall monitor for accidentally taking two napkins from the cafeteria?" Rivet added incredulously.

"It was more of a... borrowing attempt," Ratchet explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't quite work out."

"Didn't quite work out?" Dex repeated, looking both horrified and impressed. "Dude, that ship has more security protocols than the Galactic President's personal bathroom! How are you still alive?"

"My dad caught me in the act," Ratchet admitted. "He wasn't exactly thrilled."

"I can imagine," Rivet said, still looking stunned. "Ryder Sterling, certified pacifist, trying to steal a military-grade starship. What's next? Planning to rob the Planetary Defense Force armory?"

"Don't give him ideas," Dex stage-whispered, nudging Rivet with his elbow.

"Why would you even try something like that?" Rivet asked, genuine concern in her voice.

Ratchet shrugged, not wanting to explain his desperate need to find Clank. "Just felt like an adventure, I guess."

"An adventure that got you grounded," Dex noted, shaking his head with a grin. "Man, Ry, the one time you decide to do something wild, and I miss it. This is so unfair."

A sleek, high-class hover-car pulled up to the curb, its polished surface gleaming in the afternoon sun. An impeccably dressed lombax stepped out from the driver's side, his posture as stiff as his perfectly pressed uniform.

"Master Dexon," the driver called with practiced formality. "Your mother requested I collect you promptly today. The charity gala preparations require your attention."

"Hey, Reginald!" Rivet called out cheerfully, waving at the driver. "Still letting Dex control the hover-car's sound system?"

The driver's professional demeanor cracked slightly as he suppressed a smile. "Miss Silvermane, always a pleasure. And no, after last week's... incident with the bass-boosted Courtney Gears remix, I've implemented certain audio restrictions."

Ratchet stared at the luxury vehicle, then at Dex, suddenly realizing his friend must come from serious money. The casual way Rivet greeted the driver suggested this was a completely normal occurrence.

Dex groaned dramatically. "A charity gala? Today? But we were supposed to go to Galaxy Burger!" He turned to Reginald with pleading eyes. "Reg, couldn't we swing by Galaxy Burger first? Just for like, twenty minutes? Thirty tops?"

Reginald checked his watch with military precision. "I suppose we could accommodate a brief detour, Master Dexon. Your mother's exact words were 'get him home before he causes another public relations incident,' which does leave some room for interpretation."

"Yes!" Dex pumped his fist victoriously. "You're the best, Reg! See, this is why I keep arguing against replacing you with a robot."

"Your advocacy is noted and appreciated, sir," Reginald replied dryly.

"Need a ride, Ryder?" Dex offered, gesturing toward the hover-car. "We can drop you off after Galaxy Burger."

"Thanks, but I can't," Ratchet said, genuinely disappointed. "Grounded, remember? My dad would probably extend my sentence if I showed up late."

"Right, the whole 'attempted grand theft starship' thing," Dex nodded sympathetically. "Bummer."

The school transport for Ratchet's subdivision began pulling up to the curb, and other students started boarding. Ratchet spotted the grumpy-looking driver behind the wheel and sighed.

"That's my ride," he said, hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder. "See you guys tomorrow. Try not to have too much fun without me."

"Impossible," Dex grinned. "You're the entertainment! Who else am I going to watch nearly blow up the chemistry lab?"

"Or flip over a janitor's cart like some kind of ninja?" Rivet added with a smirk.

"Or attempt ballroom dancing tomorrow?" Dex finished, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Man, I should sell tickets to that class!"

"You're both hilarious," Ratchet deadpanned, but couldn't help smiling. Despite barely knowing them, he found himself genuinely enjoying their company. "Later, guys-"

"Wait a sec!" Rivet caught his arm before he could walk away. "All joking aside, are you sure you're okay? You've been acting strange all day..."

For a moment, Ratchet considered telling her the truth. In his timeline, he'd always valued honesty with his friends. But how could he possibly explain that he was from another reality, that he wasn't really Ryder Sterling but a version of him who had grown up alone on Veldin until Grim took him in out of pity?

"I'm fine," he said instead. "Just... figuring some stuff out."

"Well, if you need to talk..." Rivet offered, letting her sentence trail off as she released his arm.

"Thanks," Ratchet said, genuinely touched by her concern.

"Try not to get into any more trouble today," Rivet advised in all seriousness for once. 

"No promises!" Ratchet called back with a grin.

"Master Dexon, we really must be going," Reginald reminded, checking his watch again.

"Yeah, yeah," Dex sighed dramatically. "The life of high society calls. See you tomorrow, Ryder! Can't wait to see you attempt a pirouette in Ballroom Basics!"

"And I can't wait to see you attempt to explain that new dent in your dad's hover-car," Ratchet retorted, noticing a small ding on the passenger side that Reginald was pretending very hard not to see.

Dex's eyes widened comically. "Reginald! I thought we fixed that!"

"We applied what you called a 'temporary cosmetic solution,' sir. Also known as colored tape."

"Busted," Rivet snickered as she headed toward Dex's hover-car. "See you tomorrow, Ryder! Try not to steal any more spaceships before then!"

As his friends departed in Dex's fancy hover-car, Ratchet boarded the bus, greeting the scowling driver with deliberate cheerfulness.

"Afternoon, sunshine!" Ratchet called. "Beautiful day for driving, isn't it?"

The driver's scowl deepened. "Well, if it isn't the son of the great Minister Sterling," he said sarcastically. "Deigning to ride with the common folk again today?"

"Nice to see you too," Ratchet replied cheerfully, deciding to kill the driver with kindness. "How's your day been?"

The driver blinked, clearly taken aback by the friendly response. "Uh... fine?"

"Great!" Ratchet continued, taking a seat near the front. "Weather's nice today, isn't it? Perfect for driving a transport. You know, I've always wondered how these things handle. The gravitational stabilizers must be impressive to keep it so steady during turns."

The driver eyed him suspiciously in the rearview mirror. "What are you playing at, kid? You barely acknowledged my existence before, and now you want to chat about gravitational stabilizers?"

"Just making conversation," Ratchet shrugged. "Is that a new hat? It really brings out the color of your eyes."

A few of the other students on the transport snickered. The driver's ears flattened against his head in annoyance.

"Your father reprogrammed my navigation system to speak in pirate slang," he growled. "It took three weeks to fix, and I still occasionally get 'YARRR, TURN STARBOARD YE SCURVY DOG' when I'm trying to make a right turn."

"That does sound annoying," Ratchet agreed. "But technically, wouldn't starboard be a right turn? So the directions were still accurate."

More snickers from the other students. The driver's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.

"Just sit down and be quiet," he muttered. "Like father, like son—both of you think you're so clever."

"I'm already sitting," Ratchet pointed out helpfully. "And I'm being quiet... relatively speaking."

The driver's response was to slam on the accelerator, throwing everyone backward in their seats as the transport lurched forward. Ratchet grinned to himself. At least he'd found one similarity between himself and Ryder's father—they both enjoyed annoying authority figures.

The rest of the ride passed without incident, though the driver made a point of stopping so abruptly at Ratchet's stop that he nearly fell out of his seat. As he stepped off the transport, the driver called after him.

"Tell your father that if he messes with my transport again, I'll file a formal complaint with the Transportation Authority!"

"I'll be sure to pass that along," Ratchet replied with a cheerful wave. "Have a wonderful afternoon!"

The transport doors closed with unnecessary force, and the vehicle sped away, leaving Ratchet alone at the stop. He turned toward the Sterling residence—his home in this reality—and was surprised to see a sleek hover car pulling into the driveway. A female lombax emerged, carrying grocery bags.

Mirabelle.

His mother.

The concept still felt foreign to him. In his timeline, he'd grown up without parents, never knowing who they were or what had happened to them. It wasn't until he met Alister that he learned anything about his father, and even then, the details had been sparse.

But here she was—the mother he'd never known. And she was... struggling with her grocery bags.

Ratchet jogged over to help, reaching for the bags that looked in danger of spilling. "Let me get those for you!"

Mirabelle looked up in surprise, and Ratchet was momentarily struck by her appearance. Her cream-colored fur with elegant tan stripes seemed to glow in the afternoon light, and her striking lilac eyes held a warmth he'd never known.

"Oh, Ryder! You're home early," she said with a smile that transformed her already pretty face. She relinquished the bags gratefully. "Thank you, sweetheart. These groceries are apparently training for the Galactic Weightlifting Championship."

"No problem," Ratchet replied, easily balancing the bags that would have given Ryder's less athletic frame trouble. "Where do you want them?"

"Kitchen, please," she said, grabbing the remaining bags from the hover car. "Your father won't be home for dinner tonight, I'm afraid. There was some kind of emergency at the Center—a security breach, from what I gathered from his rushed call. So it's just us two criminals tonight."

"Criminals?" Ratchet asked, confused.

"Well, you tried to steal a military-grade starship, and I once stole your father's heart," she replied with a mischievous wink. "Though admittedly, your crime carries a slightly longer sentence."

Ratchet couldn't help but laugh. "How about I make it up to you by helping with dinner?"

"Hmm, attempting to reduce your sentence with good behavior? Smart move." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I was planning on making your favorite—cosmic chili with cornbread?"

Ratchet had no idea if that was actually Ryder's favorite meal, but it sounded delicious. "Sounds perfect."

Ratchet carried the bags inside, taking in the home he'd seen only briefly that morning. In daylight, the Sterling residence was even more impressive—spacious and elegant, yet comfortable, with large windows overlooking the Fastoon cityscape.

Holophotos lined the walls, showing a happy family through the years: Kaden and Mirabelle on what appeared to be their wedding day; a tiny infant Ryder in Mirabelle's arms; a young Ryder riding on Kaden's shoulders; the three of them at various landmarks and celebrations.

A life he'd never had. A life that should have been his.

"Ryder?" Mirabelle's voice broke through his thoughts. "The kitchen is this way, remember?" There was a hint of humor in her tone, but also confusion at his hesitation. "Unless you're planning to prepare dinner in the hallway, which would be an interesting culinary experiment, but terrible for the carpeting."

"Right, sorry," Ratchet said, following her to a large, modern kitchen. "Just... distracted."

He set the bags on the counter and began helping her unpack them, a strange domesticity to the action that felt both foreign and somehow right.

"So, how was school?" Mirabelle asked, storing vegetables in a cooling unit. "Did you ace Professor Lunaire's pop quiz? He always gives one on the first day back."

"It was... educational," Ratchet hedged, not wanting to admit he'd probably failed spectacularly.

"Educational? My goodness, that's diplomatic," Mirabelle remarked, arching an eyebrow. "When your father says something was 'educational,' it usually means someone nearly blew up a laboratory or accidentally created a miniature black hole."

"No black holes today," Ratchet assured her, then paused. "...though I may have caused a minor explosion in chemistry class."

"Ah, there it is," Mirabelle said with a knowing nod. "The Sterling family tradition of causing controlled chaos in educational settings continues. Was anyone injured? Besides Percival's pride, of course."

"How did you know Percival was involved?" Ratchet asked, surprised.

"That boy has been your academic nemesis since kindergarten when you corrected his coloring technique," she replied, deftly chopping an exotic-looking vegetable. "Some rivalries are written in the stars."

Ratchet laughed, finding himself instantly comfortable with her quick wit. "His tail may have gotten slightly singed."

"Well, his fur was always a bit too perfect anyway," Mirabelle said with a dismissive wave. "A little asymmetry builds character."

"That's one way to look at it," Ratchet grinned, accepting a vegetable to chop.

"So," Mirabelle began, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, "about this morning's grand theft starship attempt..."

Ratchet winced. "Yeah, about that..."

"I'm particularly curious about the 'why,'" she continued, stirring something that smelled increasingly delicious. "Most teenagers start with something simpler—sneaking out to a party, perhaps, or downloading unauthorized holovids. But you? Straight to felony spacecraft theft."

"Go big or go home?" Ratchet offered weakly.

"You certainly aimed high," Mirabelle agreed. "Though technically, you were already home, so half that expression doesn't apply."

"I just..." Ratchet searched for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "I needed to go somewhere. Important."

Mirabelle's expression softened. "Important enough to risk your father's wrath? That's quite the urgency."

"Yeah," Ratchet admitted. "It was."

"Well," she said after a moment, "next time you feel the need to commit grand theft starship, perhaps consider asking first? Your father might surprise you. He was quite the rebel in his youth, you know."

"Really?" Ratchet asked eagerly, hungry for any information about Kaden.

"Oh yes," Mirabelle smiled, her lilac eyes dancing with mischief. "Did he ever tell you about the time he decided to build a hoverboard from scratch as a tween, tested it off the roof of his school, and ended up stuck in a tree for three hours before anyone found him?"

"No," Ratchet replied, genuinely interested. "What happened?"

"The propulsion system worked perfectly—too perfectly, in fact. As I was told, it shot him fifty feet into the air before the steering mechanism failed. He landed in the tallest tree on the school's grounds and was too embarrassed to call for help," she chuckled. "Allegedly it was Alister who finally found him after Kaden missed three classes in a row."

"And Alister never let him forget it, I bet," Ratchet said, smiling at the thought.

"To this day, Alister gives him tree ornaments every Cosmic Solstice!" Mirabelle confirmed with a laugh. "Your father pretends to be annoyed, but he keeps every single one in his office drawer."

Ratchet laughed, imagining the dignified Minister of Defense stuck in a tree. "Sounds like something I would do."

"The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree—or in your father's case, doesn't stay in the tree," Mirabelle quipped. "Though I'd hoped you might have inherited some of my common sense along with his impulsiveness."

"Maybe it skips a generation?" Ratchet suggested.

"For your future children's sake, let's hope so," she replied, handing him another vegetable. "Now, make yourself useful and chop this before I decide to extend your grounding into the next century."

Ratchet accepted the vegetable and the knife, grateful for the simple task. "So... you're not mad about the ship thing?"

"Oh, I'm furious," Mirabelle replied cheerfully. "But I've found that simmering rage pairs wonderfully with cosmic chili. Besides, your father's handling the punishment, and I've always believed in letting natural consequences teach their own lessons."

"That's... surprisingly reasonable," Ratchet said.

"I'm full of surprises," she winked. "It's how I keep your father on his toes after all these years."

"So, what have you been up to lately?" Ratchet asked, trying to sound casual as he chopped vegetables with surprisingly competent knife skills. "Any interesting projects?"

Mirabelle looked up from the cosmic chili she was stirring, a flash of surprise crossing her face. "You mean besides the Heritage Festival I've been talking about non-stop for the past three weeks?"

"The Heritage Festival?" Ratchet repeated, genuinely curious now. "Right! That sounds... important."

"Well, yes, though I'm just taking a background role this year," Mirabelle explained, adding a generous pinch of some exotic-looking spice to the pot. "Coordinating the historical exhibits and helping with the traditional dance performances. Nothing as high-profile as your father's opening address or the Sterling family's traditional role in the ceremonial lighting."

"That sounds really interesting," Ratchet said, trying to cover his ignorance with enthusiasm. "I bet you'll do a great job with it."

Mirabelle paused her stirring, looking at him with undisguised shock. "Who are you and what have you done with my son? You're usually rolling your eyes and groaning dramatically whenever the festival comes up. Last year you called it 'an archaic celebration of outdated customs designed to reinforce arbitrary social hierarchies.'"

"Did I really say that?" Ratchet winced. "That sounds... pretentious."

"It was quite the dinner conversation," Mirabelle chuckled, returning to her stirring. "Your father nearly choked on his trillium soup. Then you two debated the cultural significance of traditional ceremonies for almost three hours while I quietly ate my dessert and contemplated taking up meditation."

Ratchet laughed, trying to imagine himself in a heated philosophical debate with Kaden. "Sorry about that. But hey, people change, right? Maybe I'm developing a new appreciation for cultural heritage and traditions."

"In the span of 24 hours?" Mirabelle raised an eyebrow, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, I certainly won't complain about the change. It's refreshing to have support instead of sarcastic commentary."

"You'll do great with the exhibits and the dancing," Ratchet said sincerely. "The whole festival will be better because of your work."

Mirabelle studied him for a moment, then, to his complete surprise, leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. That means more than you know."

The simple gesture of maternal affection hit Ratchet like a physical blow. In all his years, he'd never experienced anything like it—the casual, unconditional love of a mother for her child. His throat tightened with unexpected emotion.

"Are you blushing?" Mirabelle teased, returning to the stove. "My goodness, I haven't seen you get embarrassed by a mom-kiss since you were twelve! Should I start doing it in front of your friends again? I'm sure Rivet would find it adorable-"

"Please don't…!" Ratchet managed, his voice slightly hoarse as he tried to process the unfamiliar feelings washing over him. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"Yes, as the boy who tried to steal a military starship," Mirabelle replied dryly. "Quite the reputation indeed."

Looking at her—this beautiful, witty woman with her cream fur, tan stripes, and mischievous lilac eyes—Ratchet suddenly understood exactly why his father had fallen in love with her. Her sharp tongue and quick wit would certainly give anyone a run for their money, even the formidable Minister of Defense.

In another life, another timeline, she would have been the mother he'd always longed for.

And in this strange new reality, somehow, she was.

Chapter Text

The boys' locker room of Lombaxia High buzzed with early morning energy—the sound of slamming metal doors, boisterous conversations, and the occasional snap of towels filled the air. Ratchet—or Ryder, as everyone here knew him—stood before his assigned locker, fidgeting with the combination lock while trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. The metal door swung open with a familiar creak, revealing the neatly folded gym uniform inside.

First day of the new schedule, he thought, pulling out the blue and yellow trimmed athletic wear. Let's see how this goes.

His ears perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, confident strides that could only belong to one lombax.

"Ry!" Dexon Torque's booming voice echoed off the walls as he rounded the corner. "Are you ready for the burn!?"

Ratchet turned to face his friend, taking in Dex's impressive physique. The taller lombax's broad shoulders strained against his junior coach uniform, the silver whistle around his neck catching the light as he moved.

"Probably not, but that doesn't mean I won't give it my all," Ratchet replies, though inwardly he was calculating exactly how much strength his younger body might reasonably possess.

Dex's gold eyes widened with delight as he slung an arm around Ratchet's shoulders. "THAT'S THE SPIRIT! This is gonna be EPIC! Coach Steelbender nearly choked on his protein shake when he saw your name on the roster. Seriously, he was all—" Dex puffed out his chest and lowered his voice to a comical growl, "'Sterling? The same Sterling who argued that PE should be replaced with meditation classes?'"

"I suggested that?" Ratchet asked, genuinely horrified.

"Oh yeah! Complete with a twenty-slide presentation on 'The Violence Inherent in Competitive Sports,'" Dex confirmed with a grin. "You cited seventeen academic sources. It was both impressive and deeply, deeply sad." 

Ratchet groaned. "Well, people change."

"Apparently!" Dex laughed, playfully ruffling the fur between Ratchet's ears. "But hey, don't worry. Your bestie Dex is here to guide you through the terrifying world of actual physical activity. We'll put some real muscle on those noodle arms!"

"I'm not that bad," Ratchet protested, flexing experimentally. To his dismay, very little happened. In his original timeline, years of heroics had sculpted his body into a compact powerhouse. Here, Ryder Sterling was... well, significantly less impressive.

"Ryder, my friend," Dex said solemnly, poking Ratchet's bicep, "I've seen more definition in stick figure drawings. But don't worry! By the time I'm done with you, you'll be at least... hmm... a quarter as awesome as me!"

"Setting realistic goals, I see," Ratchet replied dryly.

"Always! Now hurry up and change. Coach hates tardiness even more than he hates proper grammar and vegetables that aren't protein-enhanced."

Ten minutes later, Ratchet stood in the weight room alongside fifteen other students, all listening to Coach Steelbender's opening speech. The coach, a mountain of a lombax with steel-gray fur and intimidating black eyes, paced before them like a drill sergeant.

"Weight training isn't just about looking good for the hover-prom," he growled, his tail swishing behind him with military precision. "It's about functional strength. Practical power. The kind that might save your life someday when you're dangling off a cliff with nothing but your own muscles between you and a very long fall into the gaping maw of a Sargasso sharktopus!"

The coach paused dramatically, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Ratchet. "Sterling! Never thought I'd see you willingly enter my domain. Last I heard, you were circulating a petition to replace the weight room with a—what was it again?—ah yes, a 'conflict resolution meditation garden.'"

Several students snickered. Ratchet's ears flattened in embarrassment. "Just trying something new, Coach."

"Well, we'll see if your body can cash the check your schedule change just wrote," Steelbender replied with a predatory grin. "Today we'll assess your baseline capabilities. Torque will demonstrate proper form, then you'll each perform the exercises to the best of your abilities—which in some cases," his eyes flicked meaningfully to Ratchet, "I suspect will be very limited. No showing off, no shortcuts."

As Dex stepped forward to demonstrate a perfect deadlift, Ratchet observed his friend's technique with genuine admiration. Despite his boisterous personality, Dex moved with surprising grace, his form impeccable as he lifted the loaded bar.

When it came Ratchet's turn, he approached the weights with confidence that quickly evaporated when he actually tried to lift them. His muscles—or rather, Ryder's muscles—strained pathetically against what should have been a manageable weight. His arms trembled, his back protested, and a humiliating grunt escaped his lips as he struggled to complete even one proper rep.

"Wow, Ry," Dex whispered as he spotted him, "I was joking about the noodle arms, but this is... something else. Have you been actively avoiding lifting anything heavier than a textbook your entire life?"

"Apparently," Ratchet gritted out between clenched teeth as he finally managed to complete the set, his pride hurting far more than his muscles.

Coach Steelbender made a note on his datapad, his expression somewhere between amusement and pity. "Sterling, I've seen more strength in a newborn Terachnoid. And they're basically sentient pudding with eyes."

"Sorry, Coach," Ratchet managed, trying to catch his breath.

"Don't apologize, just improve," the coach replied, not unkindly. "Torque, take Sterling through the beginner's circuit. And maybe consider starting him with the weights we usually reserve for rehabilitating elderly patients."

As the other students moved to their stations, Dex led Ratchet to a more secluded corner of the gym, his expression shifting from teasing to encouraging.

"Don't sweat it, Ry," he said, selecting a set of embarrassingly small weights. "Everyone starts somewhere. Even I could barely lift a hover-wrench when I first began."

"Somehow I doubt that," Ratchet muttered, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. The face looking back at him was frustratingly young, the body lean but untoned. He was used to being physically capable—to jumping impossible distances, wielding massive weapons, surviving falls that would kill most beings. Now he couldn't even properly bicep curl a weight that would have been his warm-up in his real body.

"No, seriously!" Dex insisted. "Ask my dad. I was a scrawny kid until about twelve. Then puberty hit me like a runaway freighter, and I haven't stopped growing since. The poor kitchen staff has to re-stock the pantry every other day."

Despite his frustration, Ratchet found himself smiling. "Thanks for not completely humiliating me in front of everyone."

"Oh, I'm saving that for next week," Dex replied with a wink. "Gotta give you time to build up some self-esteem before I utterly destroy it. I'm thoughtful like that."

What followed was a humbling but surprisingly enjoyable workout. Dex was an attentive instructor, correcting Ratchet's form with unexpected gentleness and offering genuine encouragement when he managed to complete difficult sets.

At least until they reached the third set.

"Come on, Ry!" Dex suddenly barked, his voice dropping to a drill sergeant growl that would have made Coach Steelbender proud. "My grandmother lifts heavier weights than that, and she's been dead for six years!"

"What happened to the gentle encouragement?" Ratchet gasped, struggling through another rep.

"That was for the first set," Dex replied, crossing his massive arms. "Now it's time for the Torque Treatment. Two more reps!"

"The set was only supposed to be ten!"

"It was ten for everyone else," Dex agreed with a wolfish grin. "But you're getting the VIP package. Very Intense Pain. Two more!"

Ratchet groaned but pushed through another repetition, his arms shaking.

"Last one!" Dex shouted, leaning in close. "Unless you want to admit that your quantum physics textbook is too heavy for you to lift! Maybe we should get you the digital version so you don't strain yourself turning pages!"

"You're... enjoying this... way too much," Ratchet grunted, forcing the weights up one final time before dropping them with a clatter.

"Absolutely!" Dex confirmed cheerfully, tossing Ratchet a towel. "But you did it, didn't you? Now move to the leg press. We need to work on those chicken legs that somehow support your massive brain."

By the end of the session, Ratchet's muscles were burning in a way they hadn't in years—or technically, ever, in this body. Every fiber screamed in protest, and he was fairly certain he'd discovered muscles he didn't know existed.

As he toweled off his sweat-dampened fur, he caught Dex watching him with a thoughtful expression.

"You know," Dex said, lowering his voice, "you've got good form for a beginner. Most newbies look like drunk grunthor trying to do ballet, but you actually understand the movements. It's just the strength that's missing."

Ratchet hesitated, then offered the closest thing to the truth he could. "I've watched a lot of... instructional videos."

Dex raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Instructional videos."

"Yeah."

"You?"

"Uh-huh."

Dex stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a grin. "Well, whatever bizarre personality transplant you've undergone, I'm here for it. I'll design a custom program, and have you from 'embarrassingly weak' to 'merely below average' in just a few months!"

"Your sales pitch needs work," Ratchet replied dryly, "but yes, I'd like that. You obviously know what you're doing."

Dex's chest puffed up with pride. "Dad always said a Torque should be as strong as the engines we build!" He clapped Ratchet on the shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling. "But fair warning—I won't go easy on you just because we're friends. In fact, I'll probably be harder on you. Much, much harder."

"Looking forward to it," Ratchet replied, surprised to find he actually meant it. The challenge of rebuilding this body's strength from scratch was daunting but oddly exciting.

"That's the spirit!" Dex exclaimed. "Now, let's hit the showers before Coach makes us do penalty burpees for loitering. Last time he made me do so many I was seeing through time by the end. Pretty sure I witnessed the birth of the universe. Spoiler alert: it was messy."

The firing range echoed with the rhythmic crack of practice weapons, the air tinged with the distinctive scent of discharged energy cells. Ratchet stood in his assigned lane, a standard-issue Lombax Defense Force training blaster held comfortably in his hands. The weapon felt almost laughably simple compared to the arsenal he'd wielded over the years, but he handled it with appropriate respect nonetheless.

"Sterling!" barked Professor Ballistic, a battle-scarred veteran with piercing eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. "Demonstrate proper disassembly and reassembly for the class."

Ratchet nodded, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency as he broke down the weapon into its component parts, laid them out in perfect order, and then reassembled them in a matter of seconds. The entire process was so ingrained in his muscle memory that he had to consciously slow himself down to avoid looking suspiciously proficient.

Even with his deliberate deceleration, the class stared in disbelief. Professor Ballistic checked his chronometer, his eyebrows rising toward to the top of his head.

"Seventeen seconds," he announced. "That's... unprecedented for a first-year student."

From two lanes over, Cadet Jenkins—the star of the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps—scowled. "Sir, request permission to attempt to beat that time."

"Granted, Cadet."

Jenkins set to work with military precision, his movements quick and practiced—but not quick enough. When he finished, Professor Ballistic announced, "Twenty-three seconds. Excellent, but not quite matching Sterling's time."

Jenkins shot Ratchet a competitive glare. "Just beginner's luck, sir."

"Luck?" Ratchet couldn't help responding. "Is that what they call it in JROTC when someone outperforms you? Because where I come from, we call it 'being better.'"

Several students snickered, while Jenkins' fur bristled visibly.

"That's enough, Sterling," Professor Ballistic warned, though Ratchet could swear he saw the hint of an amused smile. "We'll see about that luck. Range time. Three rounds, standard target at thirty meters. Jenkins, you're up first."

Jenkins stepped to the firing line, his posture rigid with determination. He fired three shots in rapid succession, all landing within the inner ring of the target, though none quite hitting the bullseye.

"Excellent grouping, Cadet," the professor nodded. "Sterling, you're up next."

Ratchet stepped up to the firing line, raised the blaster, and took aim. This would be trickier—he needed to be good enough to be impressive but not so perfect that it raised questions. He fired his first shot, deliberately aiming just slightly off-center.

The bolt struck the target's inner ring. Good, but not suspiciously perfect.

For his second shot, he allowed himself better accuracy, hitting just outside the bullseye. For his final shot, he decided to risk a perfect hit, squeezing the trigger with the precision that had saved his life countless times.

The bolt struck dead center, leaving a smoking hole in the target's bullseye.

"Impressive spread, Sterling," Professor Ballistic noted, studying the target. "Your stance needs work, though. Your weight distribution is all wrong for a lombax of your build."

Ratchet blinked in surprise. He'd been using the stance that had served him well through dozens of firefights, but of course, the professor wouldn't know that.

"Here," the professor said, approaching Ratchet and adjusting his position. "Widen your base, lower your center of gravity. Your current stance might work for you now, but it's putting unnecessary strain on your shoulders and will limit your accuracy at longer ranges."

Ratchet adjusted as instructed, immediately recognizing the improvement. It was a humbling reminder that even with his experience, he still had things to learn.

"Thank you, sir," he said sincerely.

Professor Ballistic studied him for a long moment, then made an unexpected announcement. "Sterling, from now on, you're my teaching assistant for this class."

"What?" Ratchet and Jenkins exclaimed simultaneously.

"But sir," Jenkins protested, "Sterling was against weapons training last semester! He wrote that whole editorial for the school paper about 'peaceful conflict resolution'! He called weapons 'the prehistoric tools of underdeveloped minds'!"

"I said that?" Ratchet muttered, genuinely appalled. "Wow, past me was kind of a pretentious jerk."

"What was that, Sterling?" the professor asked sharply.

"Nothing, sir. Just... reflecting on personal growth."

"People change, Cadet," Professor Ballistic said to Jenkins. "And talent is talent." He turned back to Ratchet. "You have good instincts, Sterling. Rough around the edges, but promising. I want you helping the struggling students with their form."

For the remainder of the class, Ratchet found himself in the awkward position of coaching his peers—many of whom clearly resented his sudden expertise. Jenkins, to his credit, eventually set aside his pride and asked for tips on improving his quick-draw technique.

"It's all in the wrist," Ratchet explained, demonstrating the subtle movement. "And don't tense your arm muscles—that slows you down."

"Where'd you learn all this?" Jenkins asked suspiciously. "Last semester you couldn't even hold a blaster without looking like you might faint."

"Would you believe instructional holovids?" Ratchet tried.

"No."

"Extensive reading on the subject?"

"Also no."

"Secret government training program?"

Jenkins snorted. "That's actually more believable than you suddenly becoming a weapons expert overnight."

"Then let's go with that," Ratchet grinned. "Very hush-hush. Can't talk about it. Might have to erase your memory if I tell you more."

Jenkins rolled his eyes but couldn't quite suppress a smile. "Whatever, Sterling. Just show me that wrist thing again."

By the end of the session, even some of the JROTC cadets who had initially dismissed him were surreptitiously copying his techniques, their ears swiveling in his direction whenever he offered advice to another student.

As the class wrapped up, Professor Ballistic pulled Ratchet aside. "Whatever caused your change of heart about weapons training, I'm glad for it. You have a natural gift, Sterling. Don't waste it."

Ratchet nodded, wondering what the professor would say if he knew just how many weapons Ratchet had mastered across how many galaxies.

"Though I am curious," the professor added, his voice lowering. "Last semester you gave an impassioned speech about how 'violence only begets more violence' and 'weapons are the crutch of those who lack the intellectual capacity for diplomacy.' What changed?"

Ratchet thought for a moment, then gave the most honest answer he could. "I realized that sometimes, when diplomacy fails, you need to be prepared to defend yourself and those you care about. Pacifism is admirable, but not always practical in a universe where some threats can't be reasoned with."

Professor Ballistic studied him thoughtfully. "That's... surprisingly mature, Sterling. Though I have to wonder what prompted such a philosophical shift."

"Let's just say I've gained some... perspective recently," Ratchet replied carefully.

"Well, whatever the reason, keep it up. You might actually have a future in tactical operations if you continue at this rate."

Ratchet smiled, thinking of all the "tactical operations" he'd already been part of. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."

The ballroom dancing classroom was a stark contrast to the firing range—all polished wood floors and mirrored walls, with classical music floating from hidden speakers. Ratchet tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his formal practice attire, wondering how he'd ended up here.

Oh right, mandatory elective credit that I am actually good at, he reminded himself. 

Professor Elegance (a name Ratchet was convinced had to be made up) glided to the center of the room, her silver-streaked fur immaculately groomed, not a strand out of place.

"Today," she announced in a melodious voice, "we begin our waltz unit. I shall pair you up based on height and previous assessment. Remember, ballroom dance is a conversation between partners—a silent dialogue of mutual respect and cooperation."

Ratchet's ears flattened slightly as he heard his name called. "Mr. Sterling, you'll be partnered with Miss Primrose," Professor Elegance announced with a pleased smile, gesturing toward the back of the room.

A collective gasp rippled through the room, followed by poorly concealed whispers. Ratchet turned to find Evalina Primrose approaching him, her expression a masterclass in disdainful resignation. Her cream-colored fur gleamed under the chandeliers, her ruby red eyes narrowed with thinly veiled contempt.

"She is one of my most talented students and has mastered every dance form we've studied. Her exceptional technique and natural grace will help elevate your beginner's performance. I expect you to pay close attention to her guidance, as she will help you refine those somewhat... unpolished movements of yours."

"Let's just get this over with," Evalina muttered as she took position opposite Ratchet. "And please don't step on my feet. These shoes cost more than your entire wardrobe, your hover-scooter, and probably your family's second vacation home combined."

Ratchet mirrored her look of disdain right back, causing her eyes to widen slightly in surprise. The old Ryder would have apologized profusely or stammered incoherently. This Ryder—or rather, Ratchet—had faced down intergalactic warlords. A spoiled high school queen bee didn't even register on his intimidation scale.

"Don't worry," he replied coolly. "I'll try not to scuff your overpriced footwear with my apparently worthless existence."

Evalina blinked, clearly thrown by his response. "Did you just... talk back to me?"

"Apparently so. Need a moment to recover from the shock?"

Before she could retort, Professor Elegance clapped her hands. "Positions, everyone! Gentlemen, left hand extended, right hand at your partner's waist. Ladies, right hand in his, left hand on his shoulder. And remember—posture is the foundation of elegance!"

As the music began, Ratchet closed his eyes briefly, summoning a different memory. Not Evalina's perfectly manicured hand in his, but Sasha's. Sasha Phyronix, with her warm smile and playful teasing as she'd guided him through his first formal dance at a celebrational ball held by President Phyronix after the defeated of Doctor Nefarious.

"Relax, hotshot," she'd laughed. "It's just dancing, not disarming a Blargian warhead. Though from the way you're sweating, I'm not sure you can tell the difference."

He remembered the feel of her waist beneath his palm, the patient way she'd corrected his steps, the pride in her eyes when he finally got it right. Where was she now in this timeline? Still in the Solana Galaxy? Still the mayor of Metropolis?

Lost in his memories, Ratchet's body moved on autopilot, executing the waltz steps flawlessly. One-two-three, one-two-three, guiding Evalina across the floor with confident precision. When the music called for it, he effortlessly twirled her, his smaller stature no impediment to perfect lead technique.

It wasn't until the music stopped that Ratchet realized the entire class had stopped to watch them. Professor Elegance stood with her hand over her heart, her expression one of delighted shock.

"Mr. Sterling," she breathed, "that was... extraordinary! Where on Fastoon did you learn to dance like that?"

Ratchet blinked, suddenly aware of Evalina still in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. He quickly released her and stepped back.

"I, uh... practiced a lot at home," he mumbled, uncomfortably aware of everyone's stares.

"Practiced?" Professor Elegance exclaimed. "My dear boy, that was beyond practice. That was artistry. The way you compensated for the height difference alone was masterful!"

"I'm not that short..." Ratchet grumbled under his breath.

Evalina smoothed her dress, her composure slightly rattled. "I... didn't know you could dance like that, Ryder."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Ratchet replied coolly before turning away, leaving Evalina staring after him with her mouth slightly open.

Ratchet suddenly found himself in high demand. Girls who had never given Ryder Sterling a second glance now lined up eagerly for a chance to dance with him. Even some who had already had their turn tried to cut back in line for a second dance.

"Remember when he tripped over his own tail at the middle school social and took down the entire refreshment table?" one boy whispered to another, both glaring at Ratchet with undisguised envy.

"Yeah, how does that guy suddenly dance like he's been doing it his whole life?" the other replied. 

"Must have taken some serious lessons over the summer," a third added. "No way that's the same klutzy Sterling who couldn't walk and chew gum simultaneously."

Unbeknownst to Ratchet, two familiar faces were pressed against the small rectangular window in the dance studio door, jaws hanging open in disbelief.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Dexon whispered, his golden eyes wide as dinner plates. "Or did Coach Steelbender's protein shake finally melt my brain?"

Rivet, crouched below him to peer through the lower portion of the window, nodded slowly. "That's definitely Ryder. Dancing. Like... actually dancing well. Not the 'stumbling around like his feet are on backward' dancing we've come to know and mock."

"Quick, I need to record this!" Dex fumbled with his communicator, nearly dropping it in his excitement. "No one will ever believe us otherwise!"

"You mean for blackmail," Rivet corrected, though she made no move to stop him.

"I prefer to call it 'leverage for future favors,'" Dex replied with a grin, finally managing to activate the recording function. "And... got it! Oh man, look at him go! Is that a reverse turn? Since when does Ryder know what a reverse turn even is?"

Inside the classroom, Ratchet executed a flawless sequence of steps, leading Evalina through a complicated pattern that had Professor Elegance practically swooning with delight.

Rivet didn't answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on Ratchet as he guided Evalina across the floor with effortless grace. There was something different about him—not just the dancing, but the way he carried himself, the confidence in his movements, the subtle authority in his posture. It was... attractive, in a way she'd never associated with Ryder Sterling before.

"He's standing differently," Rivet observed, her voice softer now. "Look at his posture—shoulders back, head up. He always used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear."

"Yeah, and he's actually making eye contact instead of staring at his feet and counting under his breath," Dex added. "I'm cool with this development, but seriously, what's gotten into Ry, lately? It's like someone downloaded a completely different personality into his brain."

"Who knows, but what I do know is that you owe me twenty bolts," Rivet said, tearing her gaze away to look up at Dex.

"What? Oh, right—the bet." Dex reluctantly dug into his pocket and produced the currency, passing it down to Rivet. "How did you know he could dance, though? Did he tell you?"

Rivet pocketed the bolts with a satisfied smirk. "I didn't. I just chose to believe in my friend."

"Even though you're as shocked as I am that he's pulling this off," Dex pointed out.

"Well... yeah," Rivet admitted, turning back to the window. "But I wasn't about to bet against him."

Inside, Professor Elegance was now pairing Ratchet with different partners, eager to showcase his unexpected talent. A line of girls had formed, each hoping for a chance to dance with the suddenly graceful Sterling.

"Mr. Sterling, perhaps you could demonstrate the reverse turn for the class?" Professor Elegance called. "Miss Stardust, would you partner with him for this?"

A tall, willowy lombax with lavender-tinted fur stepped forward eagerly, practically batting her eyelashes as she took position with Ratchet. Her tail swished provocatively behind her as she placed her hand in his. "My name is Sylvia," she purred, leaning in closer than necessary. "Let's get along wonderfully, Ryder!"

"Oh man, that's Percival's so-called girlfriend!" Dex snickered, continuing to record the scene with gleeful anticipation. "He is going to absolutely implode when he sees this footage!"

"I thought you said this was for blackmail purposes?" Rivet questioned, raising an eyebrow at him while never taking her eyes off the dancing pair.

"Well, now it's evolved into premium taunt mail!" Dex replied, zooming in on their joined hands. "I'm definitely posting this across the entire school network! This is social currency gold!"

They watched as Ratchet and Sylvia began to dance, her body pressing against his with each graceful turn across the floor.

"She's standing awfully close to him…" Rivet muttered, her ears tilting back with unmistakable irritation as she watched Sylvia lean in, whispering something that made Ratchet smile.

"Jealous?" Dex teased, nudging her with his elbow and flashing a knowing grin.

"What? No! I just—it's inappropriate for a class setting!" Rivet sputtered. "Look at how she's draping herself over him! That's practically assault!"

"I don't think Ryder minds," Dex observed with a smirk as Ratchet smoothly guided Sylvia through the steps, maintaining perfect form despite her obvious attempts to close the distance between them.

"Well, he should!" Rivet huffed. "He's trying to be a gentleman, but she's being a complete—"

"Careful," Dex warned with a grin. "Your jealousy is showing."

"I-I am not jealous!" Rivet insisted, though her lashing tail suggested otherwise. "I'm just... surprised. Since when do girls like Sylvia give Ryder the time of day? Last semester she literally pretended not to hear him when he asked to borrow a stylus."

"And now she's pretending she doesn't know how to do a basic box step so he has to hold her closer," Dex noted with amusement. "Funny how that works."

As they watched, Sylvia "accidentally" stumbled, forcing Ratchet to catch her. She giggled, placing a hand on his chest as she steadied herself, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

"OH, COME ON!" Rivet exclaimed, a bit too loudly. "What is she, allergic to personal space?!"

Several heads inside the classroom turned toward the door, forcing Dex and Rivet to duck quickly out of sight.

"Nice going," Dex whispered, crouching beside her against the wall. "You nearly blew our cover."

"Sorry," Rivet muttered, not sounding particularly apologetic. "It's just... weird, seeing all these girls suddenly interested in Ryder. Like, where were they when he needed a lab partner in chemistry? Or when he was sitting alone at lunch because we had that field trip? And now they're all over him just because he can dance? It's shallow!"

"As opposed to what? Being interested in him for his fascinating theories on quantum mechanics?" Dex raised an eyebrow. "Besides, I don't think it's just the dancing. Like you said earlier, he's more confident now, and less... Ryder-ish."

Rivet watched Ryder continue to dance, her eyes lingering on his confident movements. Something about the way he carried himself now stirred feelings she wasn't quite ready to examine. A question formed in her mind, one that had been nagging at her since this radical transformation began as of yesterday. Was he always like this underneath, and we just never saw it?

"I never thought I'd say this," Dex said, shaking his head in wonder, "but I might need to ask Ryder for some tips. The guy's suddenly smoother than a freshly waxed hoverboard."

Rivet rolled her eyes. "Girls flirt with you all the time, Dex. Why would you need tips from Ry?"

Dex looked away suddenly, his usual confidence faltering. "…well, the girls who like me only like me for my muscles and or my money. Who can blame them?" He flexed dramatically. "I am one fine specimen with both!"

Rivet punched his arm, hard enough to make him wince. "Your modesty is truly inspiring."

"H-Hey, these guns don't maintain themselves," Dex protested, rubbing his arm. "Do you know how many protein shakes I have to drink a day? My tongue permanently tastes like artificial vanilla."

"The great burden of being Dexon Torque," Rivet replied dryly. "How do you manage?"

"With great difficulty and exceptional fur products!" Dex shot back with a grin. His expression sobered slightly. "But seriously... all that attention doesn't mean much when the one person you want to notice you doesn't."

Rivet tilted her head, genuinely curious now. "Who?"

Dex hesitated, then shook his head. "No point saying. She doesn't like me... she's already into someone else."

"Who?" Rivet pressed again, nudging him. "Come on, you can't just drop a bombshell like that and not tell me."

Dex's eyes drifted back to the classroom window, where Ratchet was now dancing with yet another girl. "Doesn't matter," he said finally. "Let's just say I know what it's like to watch someone you care about not even look your way."

Before Rivet could respond, the classroom door suddenly swung open, forcing them both to scramble backward. Professor Elegance stood in the doorway, one elegant eyebrow raised in a perfect arch.

"Mr. Torque, Miss Silvermane," she said coolly. "I wasn't aware that hovering outside my classroom was part of your scheduled activities today."

"We were just, uh, passing by," Dex offered weakly.

"With your faces pressed against my door for the past ten minutes?" Professor Elegance's tone made it clear she wasn't buying it.

"We got lost?" Rivet tried.

"Indeed." The professor's gaze dropped to the communicator still recording in Dex's hand. "And I suppose that device accidentally activated itself as well?"

"It's a new feature," Dex said with a winning smile. "Random recording. Very annoying. I should really get that checked."

Professor Elegance sighed. "Since you two are so interested in ballroom dance, perhaps you'd like to join us? We're short a few partners."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly—" Rivet began.

"That wasn't a request, Miss Silvermane," Professor Elegance interrupted smoothly. "Consider it your punishment for disrupting my class. Inside, both of you."

Trapped, Dex and Rivet reluctantly followed the professor into the classroom, where their appearance caused a minor sensation. Ratchet's eyes widened in surprise, while Evalina looked positively gleeful at their discomfort.

"Class, it seems we have two volunteers," Professor Elegance announced. "Mr. Torque, you'll partner with Miss Juno for the next demonstration. Miss Silvermane..." She paused, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Ratchet. "You'll partner with Mr. Sterling."

Rivet's ears perked up despite herself as she made her way over to Ratchet, ignoring the disappointed looks from the girls who had been waiting their turn.

"Fancy meeting you here," Ratchet said with a smirk as she took position opposite him.

"Shut up," Rivet muttered, though there was no real heat in her words. "This is your fault somehow."

"My fault? You're the ones who were spying."

"We weren't spying. We were... conducting surveillance."

"On a dance class?"

"It was Dex's idea," Rivet insisted. "He wanted blackmail material."

"And what was your excuse?" Ratchet asked, his green eyes twinkling with amusement.

Before Rivet could answer, Professor Elegance called for attention. "Now, we'll demonstrate the waltz in three-quarter time. Remember to keep your frame strong but not rigid. Music, please!"

As the melody began, Ratchet took Rivet's hand in his, his other hand resting lightly at her waist. The touch sent an unexpected tingle up her spine.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.

Rivet nodded, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. This close, she could see flecks of gold in his green eyes that she'd never noticed before.

Ratchet led her into the dance with the same confidence he'd shown with Evalina and Sylvia, but there was a difference—a gentleness, a care in the way he guided her through the steps. Rivet, who had always considered herself fairly coordinated, found herself following his lead effortlessly, as if they'd danced together a hundred times before.

"Where did you learn to dance like this?" she finally managed to ask as he guided her through a turn.

"Would you believe me if I said I've always known how?" Ratchet replied with a small smile.

"No," Rivet said bluntly. "The Ryder Sterling I know has the coordination of a drunken war grok."

Ratchet laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Fair enough. Let's just say I've been... rediscovering some talents lately."

"Rediscovering?" Rivet raised an eyebrow. "That implies you had them in the first place."

"Maybe I'm full of surprises," Ratchet suggested, executing a perfect promenade that had Professor Elegance nodding in approval.

"You certainly are lately," Rivet agreed, studying his face. This close, she could see subtle differences she hadn't noticed before—a certain hardness around his eyes, a confidence in his jaw, tiny scars that seemed new. "It's like you woke up one day and became a completely different person."

Something flickered in Ratchet's eyes—a momentary hesitation, a flash of... what? Guilt? Concern? It was gone before she could identify it, replaced by his now-familiar easy confidence.

"Not completely different," he said softly. "Just... more myself, maybe."

Before Rivet could pursue that puzzling statement, the music ended, and Professor Elegance was calling for them to switch partners. Ratchet's hands slipped away from her, leaving a strange emptiness in their wake.

"Miss Silvermane, you'll partner with Mr. Brun for the next exercise," Professor Elegance instructed. "Mr. Sterling, please demonstrate the Viennese waltz with Miss Primrose."

As Rivet moved reluctantly toward her new partner, she caught Evalina's smug expression as she reclaimed Ratchet's attention. Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in Rivet's stomach at the sight.

Across the room, Dex caught her eye and mouthed, "Not jealous, huh?" with a knowing grin.

Rivet pointedly looked away, focusing instead on her new partner, who was already stepping on her toes. But her attention kept drifting back to Ratchet and Evalina, particularly the way Evalina was now gazing at him with newfound interest.

"This can't be right!" muttered Professor Halley, tapping at the flight simulator's readout screen with increasing frustration. "The machine must be malfunctioning."

Ratchet sat in the simulator cockpit, trying to look appropriately confused while the professor and a technical assistant ran diagnostics on the equipment.

"Everything checks out, Professor," the assistant reported. "The simulator is functioning within normal parameters."

Professor Halley turned to Ratchet with bewilderment written across her features. "Sterling, your previous flight assessments were... well, frankly, they were abysmal. The worst I've seen in twenty years of teaching. Yet today you've just completed the advanced course with a perfect score!"

The other students gathered around, murmuring among themselves. Ratchet recognized the looks of disbelief—after all, Ryder Sterling was notorious for his catastrophic simulator crashes.

"I've been studying," Ratchet offered lamely. "And practicing... mentally."

"Mentally," the professor repeated flatly. "You mentally practiced your way from failing basic straight-line flight to executing perfect combat maneuvers in under a month."

Put that way, it did sound ridiculous. Ratchet scratched behind his ear, searching for a plausible explanation.

"Maybe I was just nervous before?" he suggested. "Performance anxiety?"

"Performance anxiety," echoed the professor. "So you're saying that the time you somehow managed to crash a simulator into a virtual sun—in a training program specifically designed WITHOUT any stars in it—was just... nerves?"

"I did what now?" Ratchet asked, genuinely impressed by the magnitude of that failure.

"You also once programmed the simulator to play 'peaceful negotiation dialogue' every time weapons systems were activated," added a student from behind him. "Said it was to 'remind pilots of the moral implications of their actions.'"

"And don't forget when he reprogrammed the emergency eject sequence to launch peace treaties instead of escape pods," another chimed in.

Ratchet winced. "I was going through a phase?"

Professor Halley didn't look convinced, but she couldn't argue with the results displayed on the screen. "Well, whatever the reason, this is remarkable improvement. Perhaps you could assist some of your classmates who are still struggling with the basics?"

For the 30 minutes, Ratchet found himself guiding fellow students through flight simulations, offering tips on control sensitivity and navigation techniques that he'd learned through years of actual space combat. Most accepted his help grudgingly, clearly confused by his sudden expertise but unwilling to turn down assistance that might improve their grades.

"How are you doing this?" whispered Talia Gearshift, a studious lombax with midnight-blue fur who had always been kind to Ryder. "Last semester you crashed into the virtual hangar before even taking off."

Ratchet smiled sheepishly. "Let's just say something clicked for me recently. Flying suddenly makes sense."

Talia studied him with intelligent eyes. "People don't just suddenly understand complex flight mechanics overnight, Ryder. Something's different about you lately."

Before Ratchet could respond, the simulator pod next to them erupted with alarms as another student executed a spectacular crash. Professor Halley hurried over, sighing dramatically.

"Mr. Clockwise, the objective was to land the ship, not create a new crater large enough to be seen from orbit," she said, resetting the simulation. "Perhaps Mr. Sterling can demonstrate the proper approach vector?"

Ratchet nodded, slipping into the vacant simulator. As he expertly guided the virtual ship through a textbook-perfect landing sequence, he couldn't help but reflect on the irony. In his original timeline, he'd learned to fly by necessity—often with Clank shouting instructions as they escaped exploding facilities or pursued villains across the stars. Here, his hard-won skills were being treated as some kind of prodigy-level talent that had appeared out of nowhere.

"That was amazing, Ryder!" exclaimed a female student as he exited the simulator. "When did you get so good at flying?"

"Yeah," added another, batting her eyelashes. "And would you mind showing me that maneuver again? I'm having such trouble with it."

Ratchet noticed that many of the same girls who had been impressed by his dancing were now finding reasons to ask for his help with flying. It was a strange experience—in his original timeline, he'd never been the popular guy, as Clank was the charmer of their duo.

"Uh, sure," he replied awkwardly. "Just remember to compensate for gravitational drift when you're entering the landing pattern."

When class ended, Professor Halley held him back. "Sterling, I don't know what's happened or how you've improved so dramatically, but I'm nominating you for the Advanced Flight Program. With skills like yours, you could have a future with the Praetorian Guard's flight division."

Ratchet thanked her, wondering what Alister Azimuth would think of that particular career path. Alister… If Tachyon was thwarted, by him, no less, was this timeline Alister the same as the one he had known before the reset? If not, then what made the change?

The Hoverboot training field stretched out before Ratchet like a familiar friend—half obstacle course, half race track, designed to test both speed and maneuverability. He adjusted the straps on his boots, the weight and feel different from his personal pair but serviceable enough.

"Alright, rookies!" Coach Ironhide bellowed, his voice carrying across the field. "Today we're focusing on basic maneuvers—acceleration, turning, and most importantly, stopping without face-planting into the nearest solid object! Though I must admit, watching some of you eat dirt does brighten my otherwise dreary day."

The coach, a burly lombax with fur the color of burnished copper and eyes like polished amber, surveyed the class with the look of someone who expected disappointment but lived in eternal hope.

"Silvermane!" he called out. "Demonstration run, if you please."

Rivet jogged forward, her silver-white fur gleaming in the afternoon sun. She shot Ratchet a quick, curious glance before launching into a flawless demonstration run, her movements fluid and confident as she navigated the course. Her pigeon-blue stripes blurred as she accelerated, executing perfect turns and jumps before skidding to a controlled stop directly in front of the coach.

"That," Coach Ironhide announced, "is what proper hoverboot technique looks like. Silvermane has been working with me since freshman year, and it shows." He scanned the group. "Now, who wants to go first?"

Several students raised their hands, but Ratchet found himself volunteering before he'd fully thought it through. The coach raised an eyebrow.

"Sterling? Really?" He chuckled. "Well, points for courage, though your medical insurance provider might disagree. Let's see what you've got."

Rivet stepped aside, giving Ratchet an encouraging nod despite the skepticism in her eyes. "Remember to lean into the turns," she advised quietly. "And maybe avoid the advanced jumps. And the medium jumps. Actually, just try not to leave the ground at all, Ry."

"Your confidence in me is overwhelming…" Ratchet replied dryly.

He took his position at the starting line, feeling a familiar rush of adrenaline. Hoverbooting was second nature to him—had been ever since Alister Azimuth had first taught him the technique. He took a deep breath, activated the boots, and launched forward.

The world blurred around him as he accelerated, muscle memory taking over as he navigated the course with precision that came from years of practice. Each jump, each turn, each boost felt like a dance he'd performed a thousand times before. He was barely thinking, simply letting his body remember what his mind knew so well.

When he skidded to a stop in front of a slack-jawed Coach Ironhide, the entire class had fallen silent.

"What... the... heck... was THAT?" the coach finally managed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and excitement. "Sterling, where did you learn to boot like that!?"

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably, aware of everyone staring at him. "I've been practicing here and there in secret," he offered weakly.

"Practicing?" Coach Ironhide scoffed. "That was professional-grade booting!" He circled Ratchet, examining him as if seeing him for the first time. "Your technique is almost flawless—though you could improve your aerodynamics on the jumps by tucking your tail tighter."

Rivet approached, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Holy raritanium deposits, Ry! Since when can you move like that? Last time I saw you on hoverboots, you crashed into the girls' locker room and somehow managed to get your head stuck in a ventilation shaft!"

"That happened?" Ratchet asked, genuinely horrified.

"It took the maintenance staff two hours to extract you," Rivet confirmed with a grin. "The school newspaper ran a front-page story titled 'Sterling Demonstrates New Definition of Headstrong.'"

She was looking at him differently now, her blue eyes scanning him from head to toe as if seeing him for the first time. There was something new in her gaze—a mixture of amazement, curiosity, and something else that made Ratchet's fur tingle slightly.

"You're standing differently too," she observed, circling him much as the coach had done. "Shoulders back, head up... just like you were earlier when we danced..." she suddenly looked away, her ears twitching like a flutter of wings. 

Ratchet was taken aback by her reaction. "Is that a good thing...?"

"Definitely good," Rivet replied with a smile that seemed almost shy—an expression he'd never seen on her before. "It... uh, it suits you."

Coach Ironhide was still shaking his head in amazement. "I haven't seen natural talent like that since—" He stopped suddenly, a gleam of recognition in his eyes. "Wait a minute. Sterling... aren't you the kid who crashed into the principal's hover-car during the middle school demonstration? The one who somehow managed to get tangled in the school flag while simultaneously setting the groundskeeper's shed on fire?"

Ratchet's ears flattened in embarrassment. "That was a long time ago," he muttered what he hoped was an acceptable excuse. "And technically, the fire was already started when I crashed into it."

"How would you know about that anyway, Coach?" Rivet asked. "You teach high school."

Ironhide laughed heartily. "Are you kidding? That story made it all the way to the teacher's lounge at every school in the district! 'Sterling's Spectacular Stumble' is practically legendary. They show the security footage at faculty parties! I nearly ruptured something laughing the first time I saw it."

"Great," Ratchet groaned. "Glad my humiliation is a source of entertainment."

"Oh, it's not just entertainment," the coach assured him. "It's a cautionary tale they show to elementary school students. 'This is what happens when you don't pay attention in hoverboot safety class, kids!'"

The other students snickered, but there was a new note of respect mixed with the amusement. Ratchet tried to look appropriately embarrassed, though inwardly he was calculating how to modulate his performance for the remainder of the class.

"Alright, enough reminiscing about Sterling's greatest crashes," Coach Ironhide announced. "The rest of you, pair up and practice the basic maneuvers Silvermane demonstrated. Sterling, since you've apparently been replaced by a body-double with actual coordination, you can help the beginners."

As the session continued, Ratchet deliberately held back, focusing instead on helping other students who were struggling with basic maneuvers. Coach Ironhide watched him thoughtfully, occasionally offering corrections to Ratchet's teaching technique but otherwise letting him assist.

"You know," Rivet said as they watched a student attempt a particularly wobbly turn, "you're full of surprises lately..."

Ratchet managed a casual shrug. "Maybe I've just been hiding my light under a bushel."

"A bushel?" Rivet repeated with a laugh. "More like under an entire rainforest! Did aliens abduct you and replace you with a cooler version of yourself? Because if so, I'm not complaining, but I would like to know their technology. I've got a few people I'd like to upgrade."

Before Ratchet could respond, Coach Ironhide called them both over.

"Silvermane, Sterling," he said, his tone unusually serious, "we've got a problem. The hover-ball team is down six players thanks to that nasty Agorian flu going around. The match against Quantos Academy is tonight, and if we forfeit, it'll be our third straight loss this season."

"That's rough, Coach," Ratchet replied sympathetically.

"It's more than rough, Sterling. It's a disaster! Those Quantos snobs already think they're better than us. Their coach sent me a sympathy card last week. A sympathy card! Before the game was even played!"

"That's some creative trash talk," Rivet admitted.

"It's an insult is what it is!" the coach fumed. "And I refuse to give them the satisfaction of a forfeit." He fixed his gaze on Ratchet. "Sterling, based on what I just saw, you might be our only hope. How would you feel about joining the team for tonight's game?"

Ratchet hesitated. "I'm kind of grounded at the moment," he admitted. "School and home only."

The coach's face fell. "Ah. That's... unfortunate."

"Come on, Ry!" Rivet pressed, her eyes lighting up with sudden determination. "This is important! Our team gets crushed every game. Do you know what it's like to sit in the stands and watch your school get humiliated match after match? It's painful. Like watching a one-legged grunthor try to win a kickboxing tournament!"

"Vivid imagery," Ratchet commented.

"But accurate!" Rivet insisted. "Please? It's a school event, so technically you're not breaking your grounding. And I'll personally vouch for you if your parents get upset."

"I don't know..."

"Look," Rivet said, lowering her voice, "I've never asked you for anything. Well, except for help with that quantum mechanics project last semester. And that time I needed you to create a distraction while I snuck into the teacher's lounge to steal back my confiscated hoverboard. And maybe a few homework assignments when I was out sick..."

"So you've asked for quite a lot, actually," Ratchet pointed out with a smirk.

"Fine, yes, but this is different!" Rivet exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders. "This is about school pride! Team spirit! Not letting those Quantos jerks laugh at us again!"

Ratchet looked into her earnest blue eyes and felt something stir in his chest. He hadn't met Rivet in his original timeline, but something about her resonated with him deeply—perhaps some lingering emotional echo from Ryder's consciousness influencing his own. Her passion and determination were certainly impressive, regardless of which timeline he was in.

"Alright," he agreed with a smile. "Count me in."

"YES!" Rivet pumped her fist in the air, then impulsively threw her arms around him in a quick, fierce hug. "We might actually win for once!"

The sudden contact caught Ratchet off guard, and he found himself returning the hug before Rivet pulled away, looking slightly flustered by her own impulsiveness.

"Excellent!" Coach Ironhide clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Silvermane, get Sterling fitted for gear and show him the basic plays before tonight's game." He grinned broadly. "Lombaxia High might actually win for once!"

As Rivet led him toward the equipment shed, she gave him a sidelong glance. "Race you there?" she challenged. "Loser buys victory smoothies after we crush Quantos tonight."

"You're on," Ratchet replied, activating his hoverboots.

"Awesome!" Rivet cheered, launching forward. "But just so you know, I like the expensive ones with extra protein boost!"

Ratchet laughed and shot after her, the wind rushing past his ears as they raced across the field. For just a moment, he could almost forget the strangeness of his situation and simply enjoy the sensation of speed, the thrill of friendly competition, and the unexpected joy of making a friend all over again.

"He's still not answering his communicator," Mirabelle Sterling said, her brow furrowed with worry as she paced the kitchen between stirring a fragrant stew and checking her wrist device. "He knows to come home after school. And you're actually here for dinner! Such a rare event—alert the Observatory! 'Breaking news: Minister remembers family! Scientists baffled!'"

Kaden glanced up from his work, catching her barb but choosing to ignore it. He was home alright, but the work still followed him, as testament to the scattered blueprints covering the dining table. "He's probably just lost track of time at the library. You know how he gets when he's studying. It's one of the few things he took after me—"

"For three hours?" Mirabelle shook her head, tasting the stew before seasoning. "Needs more garlic, like you need awareness of your son's schedule. If you spent less time with dimensional thingamajigs and more with him, you'd notice he's changed lately. You'd spot a 0.002% quantum fluctuation but miss if he grew a second head!"

She crushed three garlic cloves forcefully, scattering papery skins. "Something's wrong. I'm tracking his communicator. Don't give me that look—yes, I put a tracker in it! No apologies. When you attend conferences without rescue teams extracting you from your office, then judge my parenting!"

She pulled out her own device and tapped a few commands with perfectly manicured claws. A small holographic map appeared, showing a blinking dot. "He's… still at school. Why would he still be at school at this hour? The only students there this late are either in detention or making questionable life choices in the supply closets!"

"Maybe he got detention?" Kaden suggested, though he looked concerned now too, his gloved fingers drumming impatiently on the table in a rhythm that matched the ticking of the antique clock Mirabelle had insisted on installing despite his protests that it was chronologically inaccurate by at least 4 seconds per day.

"Our son doesn't get detention," Mirabelle said firmly, turning down the heat. "He's a straight-A student with no prior trouble. Unlike his father, who likely holds the Fastoon detention record while graduating. Didn't your yearbook vote you 'Most Likely to Blow Up the Science Wing and Still Get a Scholarship'? Something's wrong, and I'll find out what."

Kaden sighed, dropping his tools forcefully. "Fine, let's go. If he's studying and we embarrass him, it's on you. But if he's goofing off..." His ears flattened. "He's in trouble. And I only blew up the science wing twice. The third was just a small fire."

"Whatever we find," Mirabelle said, hanging up her apron, "don't overreact. Though that's like asking Tachyon not to compensate for his height. 'Yes, we need a 60-foot throne with rockets, why?'"

"I don't overreact," Kaden protested as they headed for the door, grabbing his coat and nearly knocking over a vase in the process. "I respond appropriately to situations based on their severity and potential consequences!"

Mirabelle gave him a sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes, batting eyelashes that made Kaden's stomach flip despite his annoyance. "Remember grounding ten-year-old Ryder for being fifteen minutes late from Dexon's? That essay on punctuality was so reasonable I nearly submitted it to Lombax Parenting Journal—'How to Ensure Your Child Never Tells You Anything: by Kaden Sterling.'"

"...that was different," Kaden muttered, though his ears twitched with embarrassment. "He'd been warned. And it's not like it helped anyway, Ryder still runs late to this day. He'd be late to his own funeral!"

"Of course it was different," Mirabelle patted his arm condescendingly, her touch lingering. "And your hoverboots aren't compensating for anything. I love how you upgraded them by 20% after Alister mentioned his were fastest in Polaris."

Kaden's fur bristled, but he couldn't help smiling. Even when driving him crazy, something about Mirabelle still made his heart race. Maybe her sparkling eyes when teasing him, or how her tail swished when scoring a point.

"My hoverboots are a perfectly reasonable speed for someone of my position," he said with dignity, holding the door open for her. "And for the record, they're 22% faster than Alister's."

"Of course they are, darling," Mirabelle said, patting his cheek as she passed. "Just like your wrench is definitely bigger than his."

Kaden choked slightly, his ears burning. "B-Belle! That's not—I never—"

"Oh, look at you, all flustered," she laughed, her eyes dancing with mischief. "After all these years, it's still so easy. Come on, Minister of Defense, let's go find our wayward son!"

As they walked to their hover-car, Kaden found himself watching Mirabelle, admiring the graceful way she moved and the determined set of her jaw. For all her teasing, he knew she was genuinely worried about Ryder.

"You know," he said quietly as they got into the car, "I am worried about him. These dreams he's been having... they seem to be getting worse."

Mirabelle's playfulness vanished, worry taking over. "Three weeks ago, I found him at 3 AM building a 'Swingshot' from my bowls and your spanner. When asked why, he looked at me like I was crazy, saying he needed to 'cross the gap to the next platform.' What platform?!"

"Alister thinks it's just a phase," Kaden said, starting the engine. "But I'm not so sure. The things he describes—these adventures, these places—they're so specific. And that robot he keeps drawing. Now it has a name. Ryder has told me the other day that it's name is Clank."

"...Clank?" Mirabelle repeated, her voice soft as her eyes grew sad. "Ryder has told me stories about him and that little robot... Clank. He seemed so convinced that they were friends and had saved the universe together multiple times..." she trailed shaking her head." It broke my heart a little, Kaden. It's like he's living in another reality."

Kaden reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently. "We'll figure this out, Belle. I promise."

Mirabelle squeezed back, her usual sarcasm momentarily set aside. "I know we will. We always do, somehow. Even if you are impossibly stubborn and work too much."

"And even if you are impossibly sassy and never let me win an argument," he replied with a small smile.

"Oh, Kaden," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek, "I let you win plenty of arguments. You just never notice because you're too busy thinking you've won on your own merits."

As she pulled back, her tail brushed against his, the soft fur sending a pleasant tingle up his spine. Almost instinctively, his tail curled around hers, the familiar gesture of affection as natural as breathing after all these years together.

Mirabelle's expression softened, her eyes warming as their tails remained intertwined. "You know, for all your faults, I still find it impossible to stay annoyed with you when you do that."

"One of my many talents," Kaden replied with a grin, feeling the comforting weight of her tail wrapped with his. "That, and being right about scientific matters at least 97.3% of the time."

"And so modest, too," Mirabelle laughed, though she made no move to disentangle their tails as Kaden guided the hover-car toward Lombaxia High. "Truly, I'm the luckiest woman in the galaxy."

"I'm the lucky one," Kaden said softly, his usual scientific precision giving way to simple honesty. "Always have been."

Mirabelle's smile turned gentle, her free hand coming to rest on his knee. "Now who's being sappy?"

"Must be a temporary lapse in judgment," Kaden replied with a wink. "Probably due to prolonged exposure to your irrationally emotional influence."

"Ah, there's the cold, calculating scientist I married," Mirabelle said with a dramatic sigh, though her tail tightened around his affectionately. "For a moment I was worried you'd been replaced by a sentimental doppelgänger."

"Never," Kaden assured her. "Though speaking of replacements, let's go find out what's happened to our son."

They arrived at Lombaxia High just as evening was setting in, the school's exterior lights casting long shadows across the campus. The main building was mostly dark, but light spilled from the gymnasium, along with the muffled sounds of a crowd.

"What's going on in there?" Kaden wondered, following the noise.

A group of students hurried past them toward the gym entrance, chattering excitedly.

"...can't believe we might actually win for once!"

"...did you see that move Sterling pulled in practice? Insane!"

Kaden and Mirabelle exchanged puzzled glances.

"Sterling? Are they talking about Ryder?" Kaden asked, quickening his pace.

They reached the gym entrance, where a student was collecting tickets.

"Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling!" the student greeted them cheerfully. "Here to watch Ry play? He's been amazing in warm-ups!"

"Play?" Kaden repeated, confusion momentarily overriding his anger. "Play what?"

The student looked equally confused. "The hover-ball match? Against the Quantos Academy Quasars? It's starting in five minutes."

"There must be some mistake," Kaden said. "Our son doesn't play hover-ball."

The student shrugged. "Well, he's playing tonight. Coach Ironhide added him to the roster this afternoon."

Kaden's expression darkened. "So instead of coming home like he was supposed to, he joined the hover-ball team? Without telling us? When he's still grounded?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Mirabelle said, placing a calming hand on his arm. "Let's go in and see what's happening."

They entered the gymnasium to find it packed with spectators, the atmosphere electric with anticipation. The scoreboard showed zeros, the game not yet begun. On the court, both teams were warming up, performing practice runs and stretches.

"There he is," Mirabelle said, pointing to a familiar figure in blue and gold team colors.

Kaden's jaw dropped as he watched his son execute a perfect aerial maneuver, landing gracefully on a grind rail. "Since when can he do that? Ryder's never shown any interest in hover-booting before!"

"He was always falling off his boots as a kid," Mirabelle agreed, her expression a mixture of confusion and wonder. "Remember when he tried to follow you around the garden and ended up in the fountain?"

They found a pair of seats near the front row, still watching their son in disbelief as he performed increasingly complex maneuvers during warm-ups.

A parent sitting nearby noticed their expressions. "First time seeing your kid play, huh? Don't get your hopes up. They always lose, but at least they show up for the tail whooping!"

"Our son has never played before," Kaden said, still frowning. "And he's supposed to be at home right now."

The parent raised an eyebrow. "Really? Could've fooled me. He moves like he was born with boots on."

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the game. From the beginning, it was clear the Quantos Academy Quasars were the superior team, taking an early lead with aggressive play and superior teamwork. By halftime, they were ahead by twelve points, and the home crowd's enthusiasm had dimmed considerably.

"Well, at least he's not embarrassing himself," Kaden muttered as the teams took a break. "Though he's still in trouble for not coming home..."

Mirabelle placed a hand on his knee. "Look at him, Kaden. Have you ever seen him this focused before? This confident?"

Kaden's expression softened slightly. "No, I haven't. But that doesn't excuse—"

"I know, I know," Mirabelle interrupted gently. "But something's different about him. Can't you feel it? It's not just the hover-booting. He's been acting strange ever since that morning he tried to take your ship."

Before Kaden could respond, the whistle blew again, and the second half began. Immediately, there was a shift in the energy on the court. Ratchet and Rivet seemed to move in perfect sync, anticipating each other's movements with uncanny precision.

"Look at that!" Kaden exclaimed, his earlier anger momentarily forgotten as Ratchet executed a flawless aerial interception, stealing the ball from a Quasar in mid-jump. "Where did he learn to do that?"

The crowd began to stir, sensing the momentum shift. As Ratchet and Rivet continued to chip away at the Quasars' lead, the excitement in the gymnasium swelled like a tidal wave. Students who had been slouching in resigned defeat now leaped to their feet, their voices rising in a crescendo of renewed hope. Even the normally stoic teachers were caught up in the fervor, their professional demeanor cracking as they shouted encouragement. The air sparked with potential, turning a sure loss into what seemed like a historic comeback.

"They're actually coming back..." the skeptical parent from earlier said, leaning forward in his seat. "I can't believe it!"

With thirty seconds left, the home team was down by just two points. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a plasma sword.

Ratchet and Rivet shot forward for the final play, moving with a synchronicity that seemed almost supernatural. Rivet faked left, then right, confusing the defenders, while Ratchet built up speed. At the last moment, she launched the ball high into the air—impossibly high.

Ratchet hit the center ramp at full speed, rocketing upward. Time seemed to slow as he twisted in midair, snatching the ball at the apex of his jump.

"Oh, my little boy! Be careful, baby—" Mirabelle covered her mouth, her maternal instincts kicking in at the sight of her son suspended so high above the court.

The defenders could only watch as Ratchet spun back down, landing on a grind rail and sliding toward the goal as the countdown began.

"THAT'S MY BOY!" Kaden exploded, leaping to his feet, and pumping his fist in the air, all thoughts of punishment forgotten. "GET IT IN THERE!"

Three... two... one...! The buzzer sounded just as Ratchet flicked the ball into the net, tying the game and sending it into overtime.

The crowd erupted, with parents and students alike jumping to their feet, screaming and cheering. The previously subdued Lombaxia supporters transformed into a roaring sea of blue and gold, waving banners and stomping feet with enough force to make the bleachers tremble.

From the sidelines, the Lombaxia High cheerleading squad—who had spent most of the game performing increasingly desperate routines to boost morale—suddenly sprang into action with renewed vigor. Their captain, a sleek-furred lombax named Brittany with perfectly coordinated blue and gold ribbons on her ears, grabbed her megaphone.

"L-O-M-B-A-X-I-A!" they chanted in perfect unison, forming a pyramid so quickly it seemed to materialize out of thin air. "STERLING AND SILVERMANE SAVE THE DAY!"

Pom-poms blurred into streaks of blue and gold as they executed a series of flips and jumps that sent glitter raining down on the court. "STERLING, STERLING, HE'S OUR MAN!" shouted half the squad, while the other half responded with "SILVERMANE CAN, YES SHE CAN!"

The head cheerleader finished the routine by landing directly in front of Ratchet, somehow managing to make direct eye contact while simultaneously doing a split. "You're showing real talent out there, Sterling," she declared, her voice deliberately loud enough for Rivet to overhear. "I'm amazed by what you can do!"

"Uh, ahem! Thanks," Ratchet replied awkwardly, quickening his pace.

Rivet's expression darkened as she watched this display, her tail lashing behind her with barely contained irritation.

"Great galaxies!" Principal Neutrino shouted from his seat, his normally composed demeanor completely abandoned as he jumped up and down like an excited child. "Did you see that, Minister Sterling? Your son's a natural!"

"I always knew he had it in him!" Kaden replied with shameless revisionist history, conveniently forgetting his shock from mere minutes ago. He high-fived the principal with such enthusiasm that his wedding ring nearly flew off.

"Since when?" Mirabelle muttered under her breath, even as she beamed with pride. "Last week you said our son had the athletic ability of a sedated sloth."

"That was before I knew he was a prodigy in disguise!" Kaden retorted, unable to take his eyes off the court. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "THE STERLING GENES FINALLY KICKED IN! THAT'S MY BOY!"

"Careful, dear!" Mirabelle shouted over the noise, even as she bounced on her toes with excitement, "your ego is showing more than your pride!"

"Let it show!" Kaden replied with a wild grin. "Did you see that move? That's my signature aerial twist from the '06 championship! I never taught him that!" His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, but the thought was quickly washed away by another wave of paternal pride as Ratchet smoothly intercepted a pass. "He must have studied my old game holos. I knew those championship recordings would come in handy someday!"

"Yes, because clearly he's been secretly watching your glory days footage instead of reading quantum physics textbooks," Mirabelle teased, but her eyes shone with the same wonder as her husband's. Their son—their bookish, clumsy, sometimes frustratingly pacifistic son—was suddenly performing athletic feats that professional players would envy.

In overtime, Ratchet and Rivet were unstoppable. Their opponents couldn't keep up with their improvised plays and perfect coordination. The Quantos coach, a stern-faced feline with perpetually narrowed eyes, threw his clipboard to the ground in frustration as Rivet executed a perfect behind-the-back pass to Ratchet.

"What's the matter, Whiskerton!?" Coach Ironhide called across the court, his copper-colored fur practically glowing with vindication. "Forgot to pack your victory speech?"

"Game's not over yet, Ironhide!" Coach Whiskerton snarled back, though his twitching tail betrayed his anxiety.

"Neither is your losing streak!" Ironhide retorted with a savage grin.

A Quantos player attempted an aggressive block against Rivet, only to find himself spinning in midair as she deftly sidestepped his charge.

"Hey ref!" a Quantos parent shouted from the stands. "Are you going to call any fouls on the home team, or did Lombaxia pay for your new hover-car-"

"Oh, put a muzzle on it, Barnaby!" Mirabelle fired back, surprising herself with her sudden ferocity. "The only foul I see is that tacky jacket you're wearing!"

Kaden's tail, still loosely entwined with hers, tightened affectionately at her outburst. "That's my Belle," he murmured with a proud grin. "Always ready to insult someone's outerwear."

"Well, the Sterling household has never backed down from a fight," she replied, giving his tail a gentle squeeze with her own. "Whether it's against Agorian armies or obnoxious hover-ball parents!"

When the final buzzer sounded, Lombaxia High had won by six points, breaking the Quasars' three-year winning streak.

The gymnasium erupted into a cacophony of jubilation that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. Students leapt to their feet in the bleachers, creating a thunderous roar as they stomped and cheered in a sea of school colors. The rhythmic pounding reverberated through the polished court, waves of sound crashing against the walls in a symphony of unbridled emotion.

Teachers, who had maintained stoic professionalism through countless disappointments, now abandoned their carefully constructed facades—some pumping their fists wildly in the air, others embracing colleagues with tears glistening in their eyes.

Parents who had spent years offering consolatory pats on shoulders and rehearsed phrases like "there's always next time" leapt to their feet in collective disbelief, their shocked expressions quickly melting into radiant smiles. Some clutched their chests as if to contain hearts threatening to burst with pride, while others captured the historic moment on their phones with trembling hands.

The cheerleading squad, who had long since grown accustomed to performing enthusiastic routines for inevitable defeats, suddenly found themselves at the center of an actual victory celebration.

"Give me an 'L'!" screamed Brittany.

"L!" the crowd roared back.

"Give me an 'O'!"

"O!"

"What does that spell?"

"LOMBAXIA!" the crowd thundered, though technically it only spelled "LO" so far.

"STERLING AND SILVERMANE!" chanted another group of cheerleaders, performing a perfectly synchronized flip sequence. "BRINGING THE QUASARS PAIN!"

Coach Ironhide immediately made a beeline for his counterpart, extending his hand with exaggerated politeness.

"Good game, Whiskerton," he said loudly. "I had a sympathy card all ready to send you, but I guess I'll have to save it for next time. Oh wait—I think you sent me one last week! Mind if I return it?"

The Quantos coach grudgingly shook his hand. "Enjoy it while it lasts, Ironhide," he growled back. "One lucky game doesn't make you champions."

"No, but it does make you losers for tonight!" Ironhide replied cheerfully, slapping the other coach on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Maybe you can put that on your résumé: 'Specialized in losing to previously winless teams.'"

As Whiskerton stalked away, Ironhide turned back to his team with a broad grin that threatened to split his face in two. "Sterling, Silvermane—you two are starting next week against the Polaris Prep Panthers!" He jabbed a triumphant finger toward the rest of the team. "The rest of you—try to absorb some of whatever cosmic talent these two are radiating! Alright, we're celebrating tonight at Pizza Palace! All you can eat on me!"

Team Lombaxia cheered in celebration, a tidal wave of blue and gold jerseys bouncing and cheering. Rivet launched herself at Ratchet, wrapping him in a fierce hug that nearly knocked the remaining breath from his lungs. When she pulled back, her eyes sparkled with victory as she raised her hand for a high-five, which he enthusiastically returned despite his trembling muscles.

"I can't believe we actually did it!" Rivet shouted over the cacophony, her silver fur practically glowing under the gymnasium lights. "We beat the unbeatable Quasars!"

"Was there ever any doubt?" Ratchet replied with a cocky grin that belied the burning in his lungs. His chest heaved with each breath, sweat matting his fur as Ryder's untrained body screamed in protest. The physical limitations had nearly betrayed him in those final minutes—his legs wobbling, lungs burning, muscles quivering—but pure determination and muscle memory had carried him across the finish line. Now, riding the adrenaline high of victory, he could almost ignore how desperately his body needed rest.

"Uh, YES!" Rivet laughed, punching his arm playfully. "We've lost to those smug Quantos jerks seventeen times in a row! They call our team the 'Lombaxia Losers'!"

A fellow teammate rushed up to them, eyes wide with disbelief. "We just made school history!" he shouted. "They're going to have to rename the trophy case after us!"

"Or at least dust it off for once!" another player called out, triggering an eruption of laughter throughout the team.

The Quantos players stood in stunned silence, their usual post-game swagger replaced by shell-shocked expressions. Their team captain, a tall lombax with jet-black fur, approached Ratchet with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant respect.

"Where did you come from, Sterling?" he demanded. "Last I heard, you were organizing protests against competitive sports for promoting 'toxic aggression dynamics.'"

"I decided to promote some toxic aggression dynamics right into your goal," Ratchet replied with a grin, surprising himself with the quick comeback.

The captain's eyes widened before he let out a surprised bark of laughter. "Well played!" he conceded, offering his hand. "Both the game and the comeback."

From the stands, a chant began to build: "STERLING! SILVERMANE! STERLING! SILVERMANE!" The rhythm pounded through the gymnasium as students stomped their feet in unison, creating a thunderous beat that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.

"I think I'm having heart palpitations," Mirabelle confessed to Kaden, clutching her chest even as she continued to cheer. "Is this what sports parents feel like all the time? How do they survive?"

"Welcome to my world when I was in college," Kaden replied with a laugh, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Though I have to say, watching our son play might be even more nerve-wracking than playing myself."

"Our little boy," Mirabelle whispered, her eyes suddenly misty. "When did he grow up enough to be a sports hero?"

"Sometime between breakfast and dinner today, apparently," Kaden replied, his own voice thick with emotion and pride.

The cheerleaders formed a tunnel with their pom-poms raised, through which the team ran triumphantly. When Ratchet passed through, several of the cheerleaders made their admiration abundantly clear. One winked at him suggestively, another "accidentally" brushed her tail against his arm, and a third somehow managed to position herself so that her chest was precisely at his eye level as he passed.

"Great game, Sterling!" Brittany purred, making Ratchet's ear tips heat up as she eyed him. "I never knew you possessed such... impressive moves."

Before Ratchet could respond, his teammates hoisted both him and Rivet onto their shoulders, parading them around the court as the crowd chanted their names. Rivet beamed with pride, pumping her fist in the air, while Ratchet found himself grinning despite his confusion about this whole situation. For a moment, he forgot about being in the wrong timeline, about Clank, about everything except the pure joy of victory.

Kaden and Mirabelle pushed through the crowd, finally reaching their son as the team celebration continued around them. Seeing his parents approach, Ratchet signaled his teammates to let him down, sliding off their shoulders and landing with surprising grace despite his exhaustion.

"M-Mom! Dad!" Ratchet's expression shifted from elation to apprehension as he spotted them.

"That was incredible!" Kaden exclaimed, clapping Ratchet on the shoulder, his earlier frustration completely forgotten. "Where did you learn to boot like that? That triple spin move in the third quarter—I haven't seen execution that clean since my championship days at Fastoon Tech!"

"I, uh, just picked it up," Ratchet said, avoiding his father's gaze. "...from you...?"

"Picked it up from me?" Kaden repeated incredulously. "Son, I've been trying to teach you basic hover-booting since you were five! You cried when I made you wear the boots for family photos!"

"They pinched," Ratchet muttered defensively.

"They were custom-fitted by the same bootmaker who supplied the Praetorian Guard!" Kaden exclaimed. "The Emperor of Bogon doesn't get boots that comfortable!"

"Well, maybe the Emperor of Bogon has less sensitive feet," Ratchet retorted, surprising himself with the quick comeback.

Mirabelle snorted with unexpected laughter before composing herself. "We were worried sick when you didn't come home," she interjected, though her stern tone was softened by the pride in her eyes. "But I suppose we can overlook it just this once, considering the circumstances."

"Sorry," Ratchet replied, genuinely contrite. "I should have called."

"Yes, you should have," Kaden agreed, then broke into a grin. "But that was one heck of a game, son. One heck of a game! Though I'm still wondering how you went from 'hover-boots are tools of the military-industrial complex' to... whatever that performance was!"

"People change, Dad," Ratchet offered with a shrug. "Sometimes overnight, apparently."

"Overnight?" Mirabelle raised an eyebrow. "I'm starting to think we should check the attic for a pod that might have replaced our son with an athletic doppelgänger..."

Rivet, who had been chatting with teammates nearby, overheard this last comment and laughed as she approached. "If there is a pod, Mrs. Sterling, can we keep it? This version of Ry is pretty awesome on the court. Did you see that last play? Your son is amazing!"

Her eyes lingered on Ratchet a moment longer than necessary, a subtle blush coloring her cheeks under the fur as she spoke. Mirabelle, ever observant, noticed the change in the silver-furred lombax's demeanor immediately—the slightly nervous flick of her tail, the way her ears perked up when she looked at Ryder.

"We certainly did," Mirabelle smiled, though her eyes held questions. "I didn't know you two played so well together."

"Neither did I," Rivet admitted, giving Ratchet a curious look. "It's like we've been practicing together for years. I'd move, and Ryder would already know exactly where I was going to be. I've never experienced anything like it."

"It just... clicked," Ratchet said with a shrug, trying to downplay his abilities. The truth was, years of combat alongside allies had given him an instinctive understanding of team dynamics and spatial awareness that translated perfectly to hover-ball.

"Well, whatever 'clicked,'" Rivet said, nudging him with her elbow, "I told you trying out was a good idea. You're a natural!"

"Thanks for pushing me to do it," Ratchet replied, meaning it. For the first time since arriving in this timeline, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

"Pushing you?" Kaden asked, his eyebrows raising. "I thought you said you volunteered."

"Well, technically Rivet had to convince me," Ratchet admitted. "I was worried about breaking my grounding though..."

"And you decided to do it anyway?" Mirabelle asked, her tone sharpening slightly.

"That's on me, Mrs. Sterling," Rivet jumped in quickly. "I practically begged him. We were desperate for players, and after seeing him in hover-boot class today, I knew he could help us win."

"Hover-boot class?" Kaden repeated, his confusion growing. "Since when are you taking hover-boot class? I thought you were focused on theoretical physics and political science this semester."

"I, uh, made some schedule changes…" Ratchet said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Schedule changes," Mirabelle echoed flatly. "Without discussing it with us?"

"It was kind of a last-minute decision," Ratchet explained weakly.

Kaden and Mirabelle exchanged looks—the kind of silent communication that only comes from years of marriage.

"We'll discuss this at home," Kaden finally said, his tone making it clear that the conversation was far from over. "For now, go shower and change. We'll wait for you in the car."

As his parents walked away, Ratchet let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Ouch," Rivet winced sympathetically. "Sorry if I got you in more trouble."

"It's not your fault," Ratchet assured her. "I made the choice to play."

"And thank the cosmos you did!" she grinned, bumping her shoulder against his. "That was the most fun I've had in ages! You're full of surprises lately, Ry."

"You have no idea," Ratchet muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I should go get changed before my parents decide to ground me until graduation."

"Good call," Rivet agreed. "Though for what it's worth, I think your dad was more impressed than angry. Did you see his face when you made that final shot? I thought he was going to explode with pride."

Ratchet smiled, a warm feeling spreading through his chest at the thought. "Yeah, I noticed."

"Anyway, you'll be missing the party at Pizza Palace, but how about we grab celebration shakes at Cosmic Shakes as soon as your grounding ends?" Rivet asked hopefully. "First round's on me—it's the least I can do for my new star teammate."

There was something different in the way she looked at him now—a softness, an admiration that hadn't been there before.

"You still owe me from our bet earlier," Ratchet reminded her with a smirk, referencing their race to the storage shed.

"Oh please," Rivet scoffed, flicking her tail dismissively. "Those hoverboots of yours were practically smoking before I even said 'go.'"

"Excuses, excuses," Ratchet teased. "The scoreboard doesn't lie, Silvermane. Besides, it was YOU had the head start, not me."

"Fine," she conceded with an exaggerated eye roll. "I'll throw in a burger and fries too. But only because you managed to make Brittany's pom-poms fall out when you scored that last point. The look on her face was worth at least a side of onion rings."

"Deal," Ratchet grinned. "Assuming I'm not locked in my room for the next decade, sure," he replied with a laugh.

"Great!" Rivet's face lit up, and she impulsively reached out to squeeze his arm. "It's a date—er, I-I mean, not a date-date, just, you know, a team thing... with shakes. And... I'll stop talking now."

With an awkward wave, she hurried off to join her teammates, leaving Ratchet staring after her in bewilderment.

As he headed to the locker room, Ratchet couldn't help but reflect on the strange turn his day had taken. He'd gone from struggling to lift basic weights in the morning to winning a hover-ball game in the evening. From being a nobody to being the hero of the match.

It was disorienting, to say the least. But also... kind of amazing.

For all the confusion and frustration of being trapped in Ryder's life, there were moments—like the exhilaration of that game-winning shot, his friendship with Rivet and Dexon, and seeing the pride in Kaden's eyes—that made him wonder if perhaps being stuck here wasn't entirely a bad thing.

Chapter Text

The first amber light of Fastoon's dawn crept across Ratchet's bedroom, painting geometric patterns through the half-drawn blinds in the morning glow. The distant calls of desert hoppers—those strange native creatures that sang only at daybreak—filtered through the window, a gentle symphony that went completely unappreciated by the unconscious lombax sprawled across his bed. The alarm clock on his nightstand suddenly shrieked with the relentless determination of a Goons-4-Less debt collector, its electronic wailing carving through Ratchet's peaceful dreams like an Omniwrench through Blargian armor.

One arm shot out from beneath the covers, fumbling blindly for the source of the noise. "Five more minutes…" he mumbled into his pillow, which had somehow become the most comfortable object in the known universe overnight. "...just five..."

Ratchet's fingers finally found the alarm's silencing button, but as he pressed it, a bolt of white-hot pain shot through his arm like he'd just high-fived a Tesla coil. "GAAAH!" The simple motion triggered a chain reaction of agony that rippled through his entire body, instantly catapulting him from half-asleep to painfully, regrettably awake.

Then it hit him: Weight training. Firearms class. Ballroom dancing. Hoverbooting. And to cap it all off, that intense hover-ball game where he'd pushed Ryder's untrained body far beyond its limits.

"Oh no…!" he groaned, the realization dawning on him with horrible clarity.

With the grim determination of someone about to voluntarily walk into a Agorian torture chamber, Ratchet attempted to sit up. His muscles immediately protested with a synchronized rebellion that sent a white-hot bolt of pain shooting through his entire body.

"YEEOWCH!" he yelped, falling back against the mattress. "Son of a Qwark! I've been hit with Groovitron grenades that hurt less than this!"

He lay there, breathing heavily, as his muscles throbbed in a symphony of agony. After a moment of recovery, Ratchet steeled himself for another attempt.

"Okay, take two," he muttered. "Just... slower this time. Like disarming a Qwark-brand toaster. Careful... and methodical..."

Inch by excruciating inch, Ratchet managed to lever himself into a sitting position, his teeth gritted against the pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort, his fur feeling damp and uncomfortable.

"Not so bad," he lied to himself. "Just need to... stand up now. The easy part. Totally."

His feet touched the floor, and for one glorious moment, he thought he might actually make it. Then his left calf seized with a cramp so intense it felt like someone had replaced his muscle with molten raritanium.

"ARRRGH!" Ratchet howled, grabbing at his leg. "Who replaced my muscles with angry leviathan rubber bands?!"

The sudden movement triggered a cascade of spasms across his body, and before he could react, he toppled sideways off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud that rattled his already protesting muscles.

"This is fine…" he wheezed, staring up at the ceiling. "Totally... fine. Just taking a strategic floor break. Very tactical."

He tried to roll over, only to discover that his glutes had apparently transformed overnight into two burning spheres of pure agony. "GAH! My butt!" Ratchet yelped, freezing mid-roll. "Why does my BUTT hurt? I don't remember exercising my butt! Is there a class for that? 'Advanced Posterior Conditioning 101'?"

The bathroom beckoned from across what now seemed like an insurmountable distance—perhaps fifteen feet that might as well have been fifteen light-years. Ratchet began the undignified process of dragging himself across the floor, using his elbows to inch forward like a soldier crawling under barbed wire.

"Come on, Ratchet," he encouraged himself through gritted teeth. "You've survived space pirates, killer robots, and Qwark's cooking. You can make it to the bathroom."

He made it approximately three feet before his right bicep seized up, followed immediately by his left shoulder. With a strangled yelp, Ratchet collapsed face-first onto the carpet, his body betraying him with yet another wave of muscle spasms.

"Okay," he gasped, "new plan."

With monumental effort, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling again. The ornate light fixture seemed to mock him with its distant, unreachable presence.

"Help," he croaked weakly, though he knew no one could hear him. "I've fallen and I can't... everything-"

His tail twitched involuntarily, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting up his spine. "Seriously, tail? You too? Et tu, appendage? I thought we had an understanding!"

As another cramp twisted through his lower back, Ratchet couldn't help but reflect on the cosmic irony of his situation. He'd survived countless deadly situations across multiple galaxies, only to be defeated by something as mundane as muscle soreness.

"Clank would have never let me live this down," he muttered, closing his eyes against a fresh wave of pain. "He probably would quote some statistic about proper exercise protocols while chuckling at my expense..."

Meanwhile, in the kitchen downstairs, Kaden Sterling paced back and forth with his tail swishing agitatedly behind him like a metronome set to "panic." In one hand, he clutched his datapad; in the other, a mug of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago when he'd first discovered his son's radically altered class schedule.

"Ballroom dancing? Firearms training? Weight training... ORIGAMI!?" he exclaimed, waving the datapad like it had personally insulted his mathematical equations. "I already checked the house for alien pods, but I'm seriously considering a second sweep!"

Mirabelle calmly flipped a pancake, the golden disk arcing perfectly through the air before landing back in the pan with a satisfying sizzle. "Yes, dear, I remember your thorough investigation of the crawlspace. Very dignified, the Minister of Defense on his hands and knees with a scanner, muttering about 'invasion protocols.'"

"Mock all you want," Kaden replied, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "But when the history books record the Sterling family's brave resistance against pod people infiltration, they'll note your skepticism as a tactical weakness!"

"I'll be sure to wear my 'I doubted the pod people' t-shirt to all future family gatherings," Mirabelle deadpanned. "Your mother will love it. She can pair it with her 'my son married a sass machine' brooch."

"Mother adores you and you know it," Kaden scoffed. "She's always saying how you 'keep me grounded.'"

"Evelyn appreciates anyone who can puncture your ego when it threatens to achieve orbit," Mirabelle replied with a smirk. "Speaking of which, your coffee's gone cold while you've been planning your anti-pod resistance movement."

Kaden glanced at his mug with surprise, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. "The coffee is irrelevant in the face of this crisis!" he declared, setting it down dramatically. "Our son has apparently lost his mind, and this guidance counselor enabled him!"

He furiously tapped at his datapad, composing what was surely the most scathing message a Minister of Defense had ever sent to a high school employee.

"'Dear Ms. Quantumleap,'" he dictated as he typed, "'I am writing to express my profound confusion and concern regarding the radical alterations to my son's academic schedule. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!'" he typed in all caps, his fingers stabbing the keys with enough force to endanger the datapad's structural integrity.

"'While I appreciate your dedication to student development, I must question what catastrophic brain malfunction led you to approve these changes. Did you perhaps suffer a concussion? Inhale experimental laboratory fumes? Get body-swapped with a deranged fitness instructor? Because there is simply NO LOGICAL EXPLANATION for why a previously studious young man would suddenly pivot to courses that include—'"

He paused for dramatic effect, his ears twitching with barely contained outrage.

"'—Ballroom Basics and Weight Training! Is he preparing for some bizarre career as a muscular wedding entertainer? Perhaps planning to become the galaxy's first dancing bodyguard who can waltz elegantly while bench-pressing the bride and groom SIMULTANEOUSLY?'"

"Don't forget the firearms class!" Mirabelle helpfully reminded him, sliding the perfect pancake onto a growing stack.

"I was building to that as my dramatic finale," Kaden protested. "You've ruined the rhetorical flow of my outrage!"

"Oh, my deepest apologies!" Mirabelle replied, placing a hand over her heart in mock contrition. "Please, continue your manifesto. I'll try to contain my helpful interruptions."

Kaden harrumphed before continuing his dictation. "'I am requesting an immediate explanation for this unprecedented shift in curriculum, as well as your professional assessment of whether my son has exhibited any signs of neurological impairment, personality disorder, or possible alien mind control—"

"Alien mind control?" Mirabelle repeated, turning to face him with spatula in hand. "Really, Kaden?"

"It's a valid scientific concern!" he insisted, his ears flattening defensively. "Remember that incident on Sargasso where those spores made the entire research team believe they were dessert pastries? Professor Spencer still sometimes accidentally introduces himself as 'Cream Puff' at faculty parties!"

Before Mirabelle could respond, Kaden's datapad pinged with an incoming message. "Ha! That was fast. The counselor must have sensed my ministerial displeasure."

He opened the message, his expression shifting from smug satisfaction to confusion as he read. "She says... Ryder's doing exceptionally well in all his new classes? His instructors are... all impressed with his natural aptitude and focus?"

"My, how terrible," Mirabelle deadpanned, returning to her pancakes. "Our son excelling at new subjects. Clearly a sign of the apocalypse!"

"But that's not—he shouldn't be—" Kaden sputtered, scrolling through the attached reports with increasing bewilderment. "Professor Ballistic wants him as a teaching assistant? Coach Ironhide is strongly recommending him for the hover-ball team? Professor Elegance says he has 'extraordinary natural grace'?"

"Wait, what? As much as I love my precious little boy, how does Ryder and grace go in the same sentence?" Mirabelle asked, genuine surprise coloring her voice.

"It normally doesn't…" Kaden muttered, still scrolling. "But Belle, did you see him at the game last night? Absolutely incredible!" His eyes lit up with genuine excitement, his parental concern momentarily forgotten. "And that final goal! The way he twisted in mid-air—pure artistry! The control, the precision! It was like watching a master lombax from the golden age of hover-ball!" He gestured wildly, nearly knocking over his coffee mug. "The team might actually have a shot at the championship this year with Ryder playing like that! I haven't seen natural talent like that since... well, since ME, if I'm being honest!"

"Yes, dear, I was there, remember?" Mirabelle reminded him gently. "Though I'm still wondering how our son suddenly became an expert hoverbooter overnight. Especially considering your last attempt to teach him ended with him stuck in that fountain at the hoverboot rink!"

"And the municipal council still brings that up at budget meetings..." Kaden winced. "But that's what I don't understand! I spent years trying to teach him the basics, and he couldn't even maintain balance for more than three seconds. Now he's suddenly pulling off moves I didn't master until my college years!"

"Oh, look," Mirabelle said, peering over his shoulder at the datapad. "There's a video attachment that has been posted to the school network."

Kaden tapped the file, and a holographic video projected into the kitchen space. Both parents watched in stunned silence as their son—their chronically clumsy, perpetually awkward son—glided across the dance floor with effortless grace, leading his partner through complex steps that professional dancers would envy.

"Great galaxies," Mirabelle whispered, the spatula hanging forgotten in her hand. "That's... that's OUR Ryder?"

The video continued, showing a line of female students eagerly waiting their turn to dance with him. Two particularly determined girls began arguing over who was next, their disagreement escalating until they were practically ready to pull out each other's fur. Professor Elegance quickly intervened, separating the two with practiced efficiency while shooting Ryder an exasperated look that somehow also contained a hint of approval.

"Would you look at that!" Kaden crowed, laughing, "That's my boy! A ladies' man, just like his old man!"

"Oh please," Mirabelle rolled her eyes. "Need I remind you of the Great Terachnoid Mixer Disaster? When you tried to impress Dr. Quinn with your 'molecular gastronomy knowledge' and accidentally created a foam that dissolved her exoskeleton?"

"That was a simple chemical miscalculation," Kaden sniffed. "And she forgave me! Eventually. After the transplant."

"And what about the Valkyrie commander's daughter? The one who declared a blood feud against our entire genetic line because you said her battle axe was 'cute and dainty'?"

"How was I supposed to know 'cute and dainty' was a mortal insult in Valkyrie culture?" Kaden protested. "Besides, she eventually came around. After I saved her mother from that black hole incident, she downgraded it from 'blood feud' to 'mild generational grudge.' I consider that a diplomatic victory!"

Kaden's attention returned to the video, where the comments section was scrolling rapidly beside the footage. "Look at these comments! 'Sterling's got moves!' 'Who knew the protest kid could dance?' Oh, and this one's interesting – 'PercyPrimeTime: THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND STERLING! CEASE AND DESIST THIS UNAUTHORIZED PHYSICAL CONTACT IMMEDIATELY!'"

"That one must be Percival," Mirabelle noted, peering at the screen. "Isn't he the one who filed a formal complaint when the cafeteria served his carrot sticks touching his sandwich?"

"The very same," Kaden confirmed with a grin that steadily grew wider. "And look at the responses: 'Sorry Percy, your girlfriend's getting the Sterling-silver treatment now!' 'Hey Percy, while you were alphabetizing your sock drawer, Sterling stole your girl!'—Oh, and this next one's brutal!" Kaden winced, though he couldn't suppress his laughter. "'Breaking news: Percival's relationship status officially changed to "it's complicated with his right hand"!'"

"Our son, the unexpected heartbreaker," Mirabelle mused, shaking her head in disbelief.

Kaden's datapad pinged again with another message. "It's from Professor Glint. The Ethics and Discourse teacher."

"The one Ryder got into a shouting match with over the Dimensionator last semester?" Mirabelle asked, her brow furrowing. "What does she want? Compensation for emotional damages?"

"No, she..." Kaden's voice trailed off, his expression shifting to one of pure shock. "She commends Ryder for defending his new point of view in past Monday's debate. As he has completely reversed his position on the Dimensionator. He's now arguing in favor of it as a valuable tool for cross-dimensional research and exploration."

"WHAT?" Mirabelle nearly dropped her spatula. "Our son? The same boy who organized a sit-in outside the Center for Advanced Lombax Research with signs reading 'Dimensionators Are For Dingbats'?"

"The very same," Kaden confirmed, his voice barely above a whisper. "And there's more… Ms. Quantumleap says he's expressed interest in... in taking on the role of Keeper someday…"

The kitchen fell silent as the weight of this revelation settled between them. For years, Ryder had been vocally, passionately opposed to the Sterling family's traditional role as Keepers of the Dimensionator. His rejection of that legacy had been a constant source of tension between father and son.

"Kaden..." Mirabelle said softly, seeing the emotion in her husband's eyes.

"I never would have forced him," Kaden said, his voice thick. "You know that, right? I always told him the choice was his. But to hear that he might actually want to... to continue the legacy..."

"I know," Mirabelle said gently, moving to his side and placing a comforting hand on his back. "There, there. It's a lot to process."

Kaden blinked rapidly, clearly fighting back tears of joy. "If this is a dream, Belle, don't wake me up! First the hover-ball heroics, now this? It's like all my paternal wishes are being granted at once!"

"It is rather sudden," Mirabelle noted, her own expression thoughtful. "If Ryder's no longer protesting against the Dimensionator, then either he's had a genuine change of heart, or..."

"Or what?" Kaden asked, looking up from the datapad.

"Or something significant has happened to change his perspective," Mirabelle finished carefully. "People don't usually reverse deeply held convictions overnight without a catalyst."

Kaden's brow furrowed as he considered this. "You think something happened that we don't know about?"

"I think," Mirabelle said slowly, "that our son has been acting very differently since the morning he tried to steal your ship. And I'm starting to wonder if those two things might be connected somehow."

Before Kaden could respond, his datapad pinged yet again. "Now what? Has he suddenly developed an interest in quantum harmonic oscillation too?"

"Don't tempt fate," Mirabelle warned with a smile.

Kaden's ears perked up as he read the new message. "It's from Professor Halley. She's recommending Ryder for the Advanced Flight Program. Says he has natural talent that could lead to a future with the Praetorian Guard's flight division."

"The Praetorian Guard?" Mirabelle repeated incredulously. "The same organization our son once described as 'militant dinosaurs with outdated philosophical constructs about conflict resolution'?"

"Those were his exact words at dinner last month..." Kaden confirmed, looking dazed. "I had to look up 'philosophical constructs' to properly be offended."

"This is getting stranger by the minute," Mirabelle murmured, glancing at the chronometer on the wall. Her eyes widened. "Speaking of minutes, your son is running late. Again. Some things never change…" She raised her voice, calling toward the ceiling. "Ryder! Breakfast is ready! You're going to be late for school!"

Silence answered her call.

"Ryder!" she tried again, louder this time. "The transport will be here in fifteen minutes!"

Still no response.

"I'll go check on him," Mirabelle sighed, untying her apron. "Make sure he hasn't fallen back asleep. That boy could sleep through a Blargian invasion."

As she headed upstairs, Kaden returned his attention to the datapad, scrolling through his son's new class evaluations with a mixture of confusion and grudging pride. The firearms instructor's comments particularly caught his eye: "Shows remarkable proficiency with targeting systems and weapons handling, despite having previously declared firearms 'the prehistoric tools of underdeveloped minds' during last semester's Ethics debate."

"...who are you, really, son?" Kaden murmured to himself. "And where did you suddenly learn all this?"

His musings were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream from upstairs.

"MY POOR BABY!!!"

The datapad clattered to the floor as Kaden bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time with the speed and agility that had once made him the pride of the Praetorian Guard. His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenaline flooding his system as worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind.

He skidded into Ryder's bedroom to find Mirabelle on the floor, cradling their son's limp form in her arms. Ryder's fur was matted with sweat, his face contorted in pain even in unconsciousness.

"What happened!?" Kaden demanded, dropping to his knees beside them.

"I don't know!" Mirabelle cried, her usual composure shattered. "I found him like this on the floor! He's burning up, Kaden!"

Kaden pressed a hand to his son's forehead, feeling the heat radiating from him. "Call Dr. Castleberry," he ordered, his voice shifting instantly to the authoritative tone he used in crisis situations. "Tell her it's an emergency."

As Mirabelle fumbled for her communicator, Kaden gently lifted his son from the floor. Ryder groaned in pain at the movement, his muscles visibly spasming beneath his fur.

"It's okay, son," Kaden murmured, carefully placing him back on the bed. "We've got you. Just hold on."

Dr. Castleberry, a tall, elegant lombax with striking amber fur and the efficient demeanor of someone who had dealt with every medical emergency imaginable, completed her examination with methodical precision. Her specialized scanner hummed as she passed it over Ryder's still form, the holographic readout displaying a cascade of biological data.

"Well?" Kaden demanded the moment she straightened up. He and Mirabelle had been hovering anxiously at the foot of the bed, barely breathing as they watched the doctor work.

Dr. Castleberry tucked the scanner into her medical bag before answering. "Your son is suffering from severe overexertion, Minister Sterling. Every muscle in his body is in a state of extreme fatigue and inflammation."

"Overexertion?" Mirabelle repeated, her brow furrowing. "From what?"

"Based on these readings, I'd say from doing everything short of wrestling a War Grok while simultaneously juggling Agorian battle axes," the doctor replied dryly. "His muscle tissue shows micro-tears consistent with intense physical activity far beyond what his body is conditioned for. His lactic acid levels are off the charts. His electrolytes are severely depleted. In layman's terms, he's pushed himself way too hard physically without proper conditioning."

"The hover-ball game," Kaden realized, exchanging a look with Mirabelle. "And before that, the weight training, ballroom dancing, and the hoverboot class..."

"All in one day," Mirabelle added, her eyes widening. "After years of barely doing any physical activity at all."

"That would explain it," Dr. Castleberry nodded. "It's like taking a hover-engine that's been sitting idle for years and suddenly pushing it to maximum thrust. Something's bound to give out."

Ratchet groaned, his eyes fluttering open. "...did someone get the number of that warship that hit me?" he mumbled, his voice weak and raspy.

"Ryder!" Mirabelle was instantly at his side, stroking his forehead. "How are you feeling, baby?"

"Like I've been used as a punching bag at a Valkyrie's training ground," Ratchet replied, wincing as he tried to move. "Everything hurts. Even my fur hurts. Is that possible? Can fur hurt?"

"With the level of inflammation you're experiencing, yes," Dr. Castleberry answered matter-of-factly. "Your pain receptors are hypersensitized. Even the weight of your fur follicles can trigger discomfort."

"Great," Ratchet groaned. "So I'm not even imagining it. That's... comforting, I guess-"

"What were you thinking, son?" Kaden asked, his relief at seeing Ryder conscious quickly giving way to parental concern. "Going from zero to hero in a single day? Even I know better than to push that hard without proper training!"

"I got... carried away," Ratchet admitted, avoiding his father's gaze. "It felt good to be good at something... physical for once. Instead of just being the weird kid who writes manifestos about the ethical implications of hoverboot-ball."

Something in his tone made Mirabelle's expression soften. "Oh, sweetheart," she said gently. "You have nothing to prove to anyone."

"She's right," Kaden agreed, his own voice gentling. "Though I must admit, that last-second goal was pretty impressive."

Despite his pain, Ratchet managed a small smile. "Worth it," he whispered. "Did you see Coach Whiskerton's face when we won?"

"I sure did," Kaden chuckled. "Pure athletic devastation! Whiskerton's been bragging about his 'unbeatable strategy' at every Defense Force fundraiser for the past three months. Now he'll have to hide behind that ridiculous mustache of his whenever we pass in the hallway!"

Dr. Castleberry cleared her throat pointedly. "As fascinating as sports rivalries are, I should explain the treatment plan. Your son needs complete bed rest for at least two days. No school, no physical activity whatsoever. I'm prescribing anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, a specialized electrolyte solution and a three day Nano-Acceleron Rx treatment. It can be taken with or without food 3x a day."

She handed Mirabelle a small medical device. "This is a targeted neural inhibitor. It will help manage the pain without the mental fog of traditional painkillers. Apply it to the base of his skull every six hours."

"Two days?" Ratchet protested weakly. "But I have classes! And hover-ball practice!"

"The only thing you'll be practicing is lying still," Dr. Castleberry replied firmly. "You will feel significantly better after the first day of treatment," she continued with a knowing look, "but resist the temptation to resume normal activities until the fourth day. I've seen far too many young lombaxes decide they're 'cured' after 24 hours, only to end up back in my office with twice the damage and recovery periods measured in weeks rather than days. The Nano-Acceleron is rapidly rebuilding your muscle tissue at the cellular level—interrupt that process, and you'll be reacquainting yourself with that spot on your bedroom ceiling for a very long time."

"She has a point, son," Kaden said, trying not to smile at the doctor's bluntness. "Besides, this gives you time to explain your sudden interest in firearms training. I'm particularly curious about that one, considering last month you compared weapons to 'the prehistoric tools of underdeveloped minds.'"

"It's... practical knowledge?" Ratchet offered lamely. "And, uh, helps with... self-defense?"

"Hmm," Kaden hummed skeptically. "We'll discuss your entire curriculum shift when you're feeling better. Along with the proper protocols for informing your parents before making major academic decisions. Hint: it involves actually informing your parents."

"Yes, sir," Ratchet mumbled, looking appropriately chastised.

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably, then looked up at Dr. Castleberry with determination in his eyes despite the pain. "Doctor, is there something I can take—some kind of supplement or treatment—that would help me get stronger safely but quickly? Once I'm better, I mean. I don't want to go through this again, but I also don't want to give up on the physical training."

Dr. Castleberry raised an eyebrow, studying him thoughtfully. "There are some options. Nano-enhanced protein supplements designed for lombax physiology that can accelerate muscle recovery and growth. Sargassian Leviathan Enzyme-infused electrolyte solutions that optimize cellular regeneration. But they require parental approval for minors."

"Are they safe?" Mirabelle asked immediately, her maternal concern evident. "What exactly do these supplements do?"

"They're perfectly safe when used as directed," Dr. Castleberry assured her. "The nano-proteins bind to muscle tissue during repair, strengthening the cellular structure beyond normal parameters. The Leviathan Enzyme compounds—in trace amounts, of course—enhance mitochondrial function for improved energy production. Both are standard treatments for Praetorian Guard cadets during their intensive training periods."

"Side effects?" Kaden asked, his scientific mind immediately jumping to potential complications.

"Increased appetite is usual the minor one. Rarer side effects are occasional mild insomnia as the body adjusts, and temporary fur discoloration—usually a slight bluish tint to the tips," Dr. Castleberry replied. "Nothing dangerous or permanent."

Kaden looked at his son, seeing the determination in his eyes despite his current physical state. It was a look he recognized—the same stubborn resolve he'd seen in the mirror countless times during his own training days.

"If it's safe," Kaden said slowly, "then I approve. But," he added, holding up a warning finger, "you follow the doctor's instructions exactly. No shortcuts, no overdoing it. Understood, Ryder?"

"Understood," Ratchet agreed eagerly, relief evident in his voice. "Thank you."

Dr. Castleberry nodded. "I'll include the prescriptions with the others. They should be delivered within the hour. In the meantime, stay hydrated and absolutely no movement unless absolutely necessary. And by 'absolutely necessary,' I mean 'the building is literally on fire and you must evacuate.' Follow my instructions precisely and you'll will be back at hoverboot practice by the end of the week."

"I'll make sure he does," Mirabelle promised, already adjusting Ratchet's pillows to make him more comfortable. "Even if I have to tie him to the bed."

"That won't be necessary," Ratchet assured her quickly. "I physically can't move anyway. Pretty sure my muscles have gone on strike. They're probably forming a union as we speak. Demanding better working conditions and reasonable hours."

"I'll check back tomorrow," the doctor said, heading for the door. "Call me immediately if his condition worsens or if he develops a fever above 102. And Ryder? Perhaps consider a gradual approach to physical excellence next time. Axiom City wasn't assembled in an astro-minute, and neither are hover-ball champions."

After she left, Mirabelle sat on the edge of Ryder's bed, gently brushing his fur back from his forehead. "You gave us quite a scare, you know," she said softly. "Finding you unconscious on the floor... my heart nearly stopped."

"Sorry," Ratchet replied, genuinely contrite. "I didn't mean to worry you. I was trying to get to the bathroom when everything just... seized up."

"Just promise me you'll be more careful in the future," she said. "Bodies need time to adjust to new demands. Even heroically stubborn Sterling bodies."

"I promise," Ratchet agreed, though privately he wondered how long it would take to get Ryder's body anywhere close to the physical condition he was used to.

Kaden moved to stand beside Mirabelle, his expression thoughtful as he studied his son. "You know, this reminds me of my first week of Praetorian Guard training. I pushed so hard trying to impress General Braxton that I couldn't move well for days afterward. Alister had to carry me to the mess hall over his shoulder."

"Really?" Ratchet asked, genuinely surprised by this admission.

"Oh yes," Kaden chuckled. "Humiliating at the time, but a valuable lesson. Excellence isn't achieved overnight, son. It's built gradually, through consistent effort and proper technique. Even geniuses like us have to respect the laws of biology."

"I'll remember that," Ratchet promised, touched by his father's attempt to make him feel better.

"Good," Kaden nodded. "Now, I need to call the school and let them know you won't be attending for a few days. Your mother will bring up some breakfast, assuming you feel up to eating?"

"Starving, actually," Ratchet admitted, suddenly realizing he was ravenous despite the pain. "I could eat a whole Troglosaur or at least a medium-sized space minnow!"

"I'll bring up some pancakes," Mirabelle said, standing with a gracious smile. "And don't worry about missing school. I'll have your assignments forwarded by your teachers later."

Ratchet nodded gratefully, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment at the thought of missing his new classes. At least this forced rest would give him time to figure out his next steps in this strange timeline.

"This medical situation doesn't change your grounding status, by the way," Kaden added, as if reading Ratchet's thoughts about potential freedom. "Though perhaps we can review the terms once you're recovered. Assuming, of course, there are no more attempts at grand theft starship in the meantime."

"No promises," Ratchet replied with a weak grin. "Though at the moment, I couldn't steal a stationary paper clip, so Aphelion is safe."

As his parents left the room, Ratchet sank back against his pillows with a groan. The pain was excruciating, but somehow less bothersome than the realization that he'd be confined to bed for days. Time he could have spent searching for Clank or figuring out how to fix this timeline.

"Great job, hero," he muttered to himself. "Way to overdo it on day one. Even Qwark would call this plan 'poorly executed,' and he once tried to use a nuclear detonator as a back scratcher."

He stared up at the ceiling, counting the ornate geometric patterns in the molding to distract himself from the throbbing pain. Twenty-seven triangles. Forty-two circles. Eighteen hexagons arranged in a pattern that reminded him vaguely of a Nanotech distribution matrix.

His thoughts drifted to Clank. Was his friend somewhere in this timeline too? Experiencing the same confusion? The same displacement? Or was Clank still in their original reality, perhaps searching for him?

The questions swirled in his mind, unanswerable and frustrating. But as the pain medication began to take effect, dulling the sharp edges of his discomfort, Ratchet found himself reflecting on the strange new connections he'd formed here. Dex's boisterous friendship. Rivet's competitive camaraderie that felt somehow familiar despite being new. And most surprisingly, the warm family dynamic with Kaden and Mirabelle—something he'd never experienced in his original timeline.

For all the confusion and challenges of this new reality, there were moments—like Mirabelle's gentle concern or Kaden's reluctant pride—that made him wonder if being stuck here was entirely a bad thing after all.

As his eyelids grew heavy with the combination of medication and exhaustion, Ratchet's last conscious thought was a quiet acknowledgment: for the first time in his life, he knew what it felt like to have parents who worried about him, who cared for him when he was hurt.

It was a strange feeling. But not an unpleasant one.

One day later in F-Sector, Solana Galaxy - Aboard the Arcadia

The journey to Veldin took two days, during which Clank made himself useful aboard Talwyn's ship, the Arcadia—a vessel that appeared to be held together by equal parts engineering genius, stubborn determination, and what might have been actual adhesive tape in several concerning locations.

He repaired damaged systems (some of which seemed to have been damaged since before the ship was built), optimized the engine performance (increasing efficiency by 27% and reducing the alarming rattling noise to a merely concerning hum), and even helped the cook prepare meals that weren't entirely inedible—a significant improvement, according to the grateful crew who had previously considered "slightly less than lethal" to be the benchmark for culinary success.

"Whatever you did to the food synthesizer, keep doing it," one crew member told him, actually finishing a meal for the first time in months. 

In his spare moments, Clank continued to refine his tracking device, trying to make sense of the dual signals while occasionally having to hit it with a small wrench when it displayed readings like "SUBJECT LOCATED IN YOUR CHILDHOOD MEMORIES" or "ERROR: UNIVERSE MAY IMPLODE."

The one from Veldin, while the distant one on Fastoon, raising Clank's suspicions that somewhere, somehow, there might be another version of his friend existing simultaneously.

"Two versions of Ratchet?" Clank mused quietly as he worked in his small cabin, which had previously been a storage closet until Talwyn had evicted several mops to make room for him. "Or perhaps one is an anomaly caused by the temporal disturbance that brought us to this altered timeline? Maybe the universe has developed a sense of humor even more questionable than the Plumber's plumbing metaphors."

On the final day of their journey, as Veldin's dusty surface came into view through the viewport—looking like someone had spilled orange juice on the universe's carpet—Clank approached Talwyn on the bridge, where she was engaged in what appeared to be a heated argument with the navigation computer.

"I don't care what your calculations say," she was telling it firmly. "We are NOT taking a 'scenic route' through the Blargian defense perimeter just because it has 'interesting views of military technology!'"

"Captain," Clank began once the computer had sulkily agreed to the direct route, "I am curious about something that may seem like an unusual question coming from a small robot with no apparent connection to interstellar politics."

"Hit me," Talwyn replied, leaning back in her captain's chair with casual authority. "After the week I've had, 'unusual' sounds refreshingly normal. Did you know our refrigeration unit started playing love songs to the waste disposal system? That's a relationship I did NOT see coming."

"Have you ever encountered beings called lombaxes in your travels?" Clank asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the importance of the question.

Talwyn nodded with immediate recognition, surprising Clank with her lack of confusion. "Of course. The lombaxes are renowned throughout the galaxy for their engineering prowess, combat skills, and inexplicable obsession with wrenches as weapons."

"You seem quite knowledgeable about them," Clank observed, his optical sensors widening slightly in surprise. This was a significant deviation from his timeline, where lombaxes were thought extinct or dimensionally displaced.

"They're important trading partners for many systems," Talwyn explained, punching coordinates into her console with more force than strictly necessary. "My father had dealings with them when I was younger. Used to bring me along sometimes. Brilliant engineers, but they prefer to stick with their own kind unless it's business-related. Not the most welcoming bunch to outsiders—they're perfectly polite, but there's always that sense you're being kept at arm's length. They've earned a lot of allies because of their noble approach to commerce and diplomacy, though. That, and they got rid of the Cragmites many years ago. To this day Polaris still thanks them for it, mostly by naming sports arenas after famous lombax generals."

She paused, a strange mix of admiration and discomfort crossing her features. "Can't really blame them for being reserved though, not after the Tachyon incident. They thawed that little cragmite egg thinking they were doing something noble, and he nearly wiped them out in return. Since then, the Lombaxes have been... let's say cautious about who they trust. Fastoon might as well have a sign at the spaceport saying 'Visitors Welcome, Just Don't Expect An Invitation Home For Dinner.'"

"Cautious seems a mild term," Clank ventured.

"Well, there's cautious and then there's popularizing Drophyd fillets across Polaris," Talwyn said with a grimace. "Those fish-faced mercenaries sided with Tachyon, you know. Would have helped him exterminate the Lombaxes if given the chance."

"Drophyd... fillets?" Clank repeated, his voice modulator unable to fully hide his shock.

"Oh yes," Talwyn confirmed, almost casually. "Drophyd was already consumed in some small parts of Polaris, but the lombaxes made it fashionable after the Tachyon incident. It's practically their national dish now. They serve it to every visitor as both a delicacy and a warning. Dad and I were 'honored guests' at a state dinner once. The main course was Drophyd, prepared six different ways."

Clank's optical sensors widened to their maximum aperture. "But Drophyds are sentient beings! Consuming them would be—"

"Ethically questionable? Absolutely," Talwyn nodded. "But try telling that to a race that nearly faced extinction. Besides, many species in Polaris had already developed a taste for them—the lombaxes just turned it into a cultural statement."

"And the... consumption of Drophyds is widely accepted?" Clank asked, clearly struggling with this information.

Talwyn shrugged. "Most species in Polaris don't bat an eye. Some even consider it a delicacy now. I'll admit," she lowered her voice slightly, "they're actually quite delicious when prepared properly. Something about the combination of their natural oils and the spices the lombax chefs use."

Seeing Clank's horrified expression, she quickly added, "Hey, I'm not proud of it! But when you're a guest of the lombax high council, you eat what they serve or risk diplomatic incident. The message is pretty clear: Never cross a lombax. They have long memories and creative revenge tactics that involves a grill and with a pinch of salt!"

"I see," Clank replied thoughtfully, his processors whirring as he integrated this new information. In his timeline, the lombaxes had fled to another dimension to escape Tachyon, leaving Ratchet as the last of his kind in their universe. But here, they still existed as a thriving civilization—albeit one with some disturbing culinary practices born from trauma and vengeance.

"What was it like when you visited Fastoon besides the questionable food choices?" he asked, trying to sound merely academically interested rather than existentially shaken.

"It's a remarkable place—their technology is generations ahead of most civilizations. I saw a public transit system that actually ran on time, which I'm pretty sure violates several universal constants." Talwyn gave him a curious look, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Why the interest in lombaxes? Don't tell me you're collecting data for some kind of robotic tourism guide. 'Top Ten Places Organics Like To Visit But Won't Let Robots In'?"

"The individual I am seeking has connections to them," Clank answered carefully, walking the fine line between truth and temporal catastrophe. "It is... complicated."

"Isn't everything?" Talwyn replied with a knowing smirk.

Before he could inquire further or attempt to explain quantum temporal displacement theory in layman's terms, the ship's alarms blared with all the subtlety of a drunken brass band. Talwyn leapt from her chair, cursing in what sounded like three different languages simultaneously.

"Blarg patrol ships, closing fast!" she announced, her voice shifting instantly from conversational to command. "Everyone to battle stations! And someone please tell Engineering that now is NOT the time to test that 'experimental thruster modification' they've been tinkering with since Aridia!"

"Can we outrun them?" Clank asked, moving to her side and already calculating trajectories with the speed of a supercomputer with performance anxiety.

"Not with a full cargo hold of definitely-not-weapons," Talwyn replied grimly, her fingers flying across the controls like a concert pianist on stimulants. "And they're between us and Veldin. We'll have to fight our way through, which is exactly why I should have listened to my mother and become a nurse instead of a smuggler with questionable cargo choices."

The Arcadia shuddered as the first volley of blarg weapons fire struck their shields, causing several non-essential systems to short out. Talwyn's crew responded with impressive coordination and creative profanity, returning fire while executing evasive maneuvers that seemed to defy several laws of physics and good sense.

"Their ships are faster, but we've got better armor," Talwyn explained as she piloted, occasionally slapping a console that was emitting alarming beeping noises. "If we can take out their lead vessel, the others might scatter. Blarg commanders aren't known for their bravery when the odds even out. They're more the 'overwhelming force against helpless civilians' type."

Clank analyzed the tactical display, his processors working overtime. "The lead ship has a weakness in its port shield array—a fluctuation pattern consistent with an improperly calibrated harmonic resonator. A concentrated burst of fire at these coordinates might penetrate their defenses and cause a cascade failure in their primary systems."

Talwyn raised an eyebrow so high it threatened to achieve orbit. "You know a lot about ship combat for a little helper bot. Next you'll be telling me you can recite the entire Blargian Defense Fleet command structure and their favorite breakfast cereals."

"I have... diverse experience," Clank replied modestly. "And for the record, Admiral Gortch prefers Frosted Blarg-O's with extra sugar."

She snorted with surprised laughter and relayed the coordinates to her gunners. The strategy worked like a charm wrapped in a miracle—their next volley struck the blarg ship's vulnerable spot, causing it to veer off with a trail of smoke billowing from its engines like an industrial revolution fever dream. The remaining ships, suddenly more cautious, fell back to regroup and presumably reconsider their career choices.

"That bought us some time," Talwyn said, checking the damage reports with a grimace that suggested they weren't writing poetry about puppies. "But they'll be back with reinforcements. We need to get you to the surface fast, before they call in the big guns or worse, file an incident report that requires paperwork." She turned to her first mate, a burly Agorian with more scars than unmarked skin. "Prepare the drop pod."

"Drop pod?" Clank echoed, suddenly concerned and calculating the statistical probability of experiencing yet another crash landing in the same week. The numbers were not encouraging.

"It's our emergency escape vessel," Talwyn explained, leading him toward the rear of the bridge. "Small, fast, and equipped with stealth technology that we definitely didn't steal from a Blargian research facility during a midnight raid that officially never happened. It'll get you past the blarg blockade and down to Veldin. Probably in one piece, though no promises about the comfort level. The suspension was designed by someone who apparently hated passengers."

"But what about you and your crew?" Clank asked, genuine concern in his voice. In his short time aboard, he'd grown fond of the ragtag group of misfits who seemed to operate on a combination of luck, skill, and spectacular disregard for safety regulations.

"We'll lead the Blarg on a merry chase, then jump to hyperspace once we're clear of Veldin's gravity well." She grinned confidently, the expression of someone who had escaped death so many times they were on a first-name basis. "Don't worry about us—this isn't our first run-in with Drek's goons. Last month we outran three patrol cruisers with a damaged engine and a navigation system that kept trying to direct us into the nearest sun. This is practically a vacation by comparison."

Minutes later, Clank found himself strapped into the tiny drop pod, which was barely larger than a personal escape capsule and seemed to be held together by optimism and possibly chewing gum. Talwyn gave him final instructions through the communication system, which occasionally cut out and replaced her words with what sounded like Agorian opera.

"The pod is programmed to land near Kyzil Plateau. Once you're down, activate the self-destruct sequence—it'll leave no evidence for the Blarg to find. Good luck finding your friend. And if anyone asks, you've never heard of me, this ship, or our surprisingly effective tax evasion strategies."

"Thank you for everything," Clank replied sincerely, his voice module conveying genuine emotion. "Please be careful. And perhaps consider a career that involves fewer people shooting at you."

"Always am careful," Talwyn winked before closing the hatch. "And where would the fun be in that? Besides, I've already printed the business cards."

The drop pod detached from the Arcadia with a soft thud and what sounded suspiciously like a prayer from the ship's engineer, its stealth systems immediately engaging. As it accelerated toward Veldin's surface, Clank watched through the small viewport as Talwyn's ship drew the blarg patrol away, executing maneuvers that seemed to defy both physics and common sense, buying him the precious time needed to slip through their blockade undetected.

The pod's descent was smooth at first, gliding through space with the grace of a dancer, but as it entered Veldin's atmosphere, turbulence began to rock the small vessel violently, like a blender with rocks in it. Warning lights flashed across the control panel, indicating system failures in multiple areas and possibly a coffee maker that had never been installed.

"STEALTH SYSTEM FAILURE," announced the pod's AI in a voice that managed to sound both bored and panicked simultaneously. "HULL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. NAVIGATION OFFLINE. LIFE SUPPORT FUNCTIONAL. BRACE FOR IMPACT! ALSO, IN CASE OF WATER LANDING, YOUR SEAT CUSHION CAN BE USED AS A FLOTATION DEVICE, THOUGH WHY YOU'D WANT TO FLOAT THE CHARRED REMAINS OF THIS VESSEL IS BEYOND MY PROGRAMMING."

"Not again..." Clank sighed with the weary resignation of someone experiencing an unfortunate pattern in their travels. "Perhaps I should consider alternative transportation methods that has a significantly lower crash rates."

The pod crashed into the desert surface of Veldin with all the grace of a piano falling down stairs, skidding across the sand before coming to rest against a rock formation. The impact was less severe than his landing on Novalis, but still jarring enough to temporarily disrupt Clank's systems and cause his internal clock to briefly believe it was next Tuesday.

When his optical sensors came back online, accompanied by a reboot jingle he'd never managed to disable, Clank found the pod's hatch had been torn off in the crash. He carefully extracted himself from the wreckage, surveying his surroundings with the cautious optimism of someone who has survived yet another statistically improbable crash landing.

The barren landscape of Veldin stretched in all directions like an orange carpet that desperately needed vacuuming, with Kyzil Plateau visible as a distant silhouette against the horizon, shimmering in the heat like a mirage or possibly a hallucination brought on by one too many impact landings.

"This planet appears to be approximately 75% sand, 20% rocks, and 5% questionable geological formations," Clank observed to himself, already feeling grit working its way into his joints. "I can see why real estate values remain affordable."

Clank activated his tracking device, which immediately began beeping rapidly with the enthusiasm of a metal detector at a coin factory. The Veldin signal was strong now—very strong. Ratchet was close, probably tinkering with that ship of his, completely unaware that the universe had been fundamentally altered or that his best friend was trudging across a desert to find him.

"Hold on, old friend," Clank murmured, beginning his journey toward the plateau with determined steps. "I am coming. And this time, I hope you have installed proper safety protocols in that ship of yours. My crash landing quota has been thoroughly exceeded for this temporal cycle!"

As he walked, Clank couldn't help but wonder about the other signal—the one far away in what was likely the Polaris Galaxy. If lombaxes still existed on Fastoon in this timeline, and if one of those quantum signatures belonged to a Ratchet there... what did that mean for the universe? For their friendship? For the destiny that had once seemed so certain?

These philosophical questions occupied his processors as he trudged across the desert, occasionally having to detour around sleeping sand sharks or particularly suspicious-looking cacti. The journey would be long, but Clank was determined. After all, the universe itself seemed determined to bring them together, across time, space, and apparently multiple crash landings.

Some friendships, it seemed, were simply meant to be—even when the universe itself was rewritten.

Planet Quartu - Skorg City, Drek Industries Headquarters

Meanwhile, in a darkened laboratory on Quartu that would have benefited greatly from better lighting and perhaps a motivational poster or two, Chairman Drek paced impatiently before a bank of monitors. Each screen showed a different planet in the Solana Galaxy, with detailed analyses of their composition and resources, along with unhelpful little notes like "Nice beaches!" and "Terrible local cuisine—avoid the seafood unless you enjoy emergency stomach pumping."

"The scouting reports from Veldin are promising," Drek announced to a shadowy figure seated at a control console, his voice carrying the smug satisfaction of someone who enjoys destroying worlds for profit. "Its orbital position is perfect for our needs. Once we extract the necessary components from Novalis and Eudora, we can proceed with the final phase." He clapped his hands together with childlike glee. "I'm thinking of adding a water park to the new planet. Every evil overlord needs a water park—with those unnecessarily steep slides that make people scream in terror. It's good practice for when they live under my rule-"

"And what of the escaped defect?" the figure asked, his voice carrying a mechanical resonance that suggested either robotic origins or someone who'd swallowed a synthesizer. "Has it been located? Or shall I prepare another strongly worded memo about security protocols that no one will read because your minions have the collective reading comprehension of a decorative houseplant?"

Drek's expression soured like milk left in the sun during a heat wave. "Not yet. It evaded our patrols on Aridia and has seemingly disappeared. But it's just one malfunctioning robot—hardly a threat to our operation. Probably wandering around trying to calculate pi or writing angsty poetry about the existential crisis of being a defective appliance."

The figure swiveled in his chair with dramatic flair, moving partially into the light to reveal a metallic face with glowing red eyes that would have sent small children running for their parents and adults running for the nearest interplanetary transport. Dr. Nefarious regarded Drek with barely concealed contempt, the kind usually reserved for people who talk during movies.

"Do not underestimate this particular 'malfunctioning robot,' Chairman," he warned, his voice dripping with condescension thicker than maple syrup on pancakes. "My intelligence suggests it may be more than it appears. Much more. It's not just any defect—it's THE defect. The one that should not exist in this timeline but somehow does anyway, like plot holes in a poorly written holovision drama!"

"Your 'intelligence' has been questionable lately, Doctor," Drek retorted, making air quotes with his fingers in a way he knew annoyed Nefarious to the point of mechanical twitching. "You assured me the Lombaxes on Fastoon would have information about this so-called Dimensionator that could open portals, yet your agents returned empty-handed or, more amusingly, completely combusted. I had to send sympathy fruit baskets to three families. Do you know how expensive interstellar fruit delivery is these days? The shipping costs alone nearly bankrupted my 'Minion Morale' budget."

Nefarious's mechanical fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair, the metal groaning in protest like a teenager asked to clean their room. "The lombaxes are more cautious than anticipated. They've hidden their secrets well, but every security system has its weakness—we merely need to find the right pressure point. Or the right sledgehammer. I'm flexible on methodology, though I do prefer the options that involve more explosions."

He turned back to his console, bringing up an image of a young lombax on one of the monitors. The lombax appeared to be in his mid-teens, with distinctive gold fur and brown stripes.

"Perhaps the key is not in their archives, but in their bloodlines," Nefarious mused, zooming in on the image with unnecessary dramatic flair and sound effects he'd added himself. "This one—Ryder Sterling—is the son of Kaden Sterling, the lombax who keeps the Dimensionator. The father is cautious, but the son..."

The screen displayed a series of surveillance photos: Ryder at a protest holding a sign that read "DIMENSIONATORS ARE FOR DINGBATS," Ryder arguing with what appeared to be a teacher, Ryder rolling his eyes so hard at his father that it looked physically painful.

"A rebellious teenager with daddy issues," Nefarious continued, his metallic features twisting into something resembling glee. "Such a classic weakness! It's like the universe handed us a gift-wrapped vulnerability with a bow made of adolescent angst!"

He tapped a few keys, bringing up another file—a fragmented security recording from the Center for Advanced Lombax Research. The timestamp showed it was from a week ago, before the strange behavioral shift in the Sterling boy. The footage was incomplete, with digital artifacts and data corruption throughout, as if someone had attempted to erase it entirely.

"Ah, my dear Chairman," Nefarious said with smug satisfaction, "what we're seeing here is something the lombaxes themselves don't even know happened. Their security logs showed nothing unusual that night because young Sterling didn't just break in—he rewrote the security footage in real-time. Quite impressive for a teenager."

"And you know this how?" Drek asked skeptically.

Nefarious's eyes glowed with self-satisfaction. "Because I had my own surveillance device planted near their security hub months ago. A little mechanical spy fly of my own design—records everything it sees on a separate system. The lombaxes scan for electronic intrusions, but they never think to check for actual mechanical insects buzzing around their precious facility."

In the grainy, partially corrupted footage, a hooded figure that was unmistakably Ryder Sterling could be seen slipping into the research center through a maintenance entrance, bypassing security with surprising expertise.

"Now this is interesting," Nefarious murmured, his optical sensors narrowing as he analyzed the footage. "Our young rebel appears to have been conducting his own investigation into the Dimensionator. Against his father's wishes, no doubt. The footage shows him accessing restricted archives, downloading classified files on dimensional theory... but why?"

He fast-forwarded through several minutes of footage, stopping when Ryder reached a secure terminal. The young lombax glanced nervously over his shoulder before inserting a data drive and downloading files labeled "DIMENSIONATOR: STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY PROTOCOLS" and "DIMENSIONAL BREACH CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES."

"Fascinating," Nefarious murmured, his optical sensors widening slightly. "Not the actions of a typical rebellious teenager. This is methodical, targeted. He's not vandalizing or protesting—he's gathering specific technical information. Almost as if he's planning to... what? Build his own? Sabotage the existing one?" He tapped his metallic chin thoughtfully. "And look at this—he's also erasing his digital footprint as he goes. Deleting access logs, looping security camera feeds, rerouting alarm triggers. This is professional-grade infiltration!"

The footage showed Ryder carefully replacing everything as he found it before slipping out, leaving no trace of his intrusion.

"I should have approached the boy directly," Nefarious grumbled, crossing his arms in annoyance. "Formed an alliance with him instead of wasting resources on those incompetent spies who couldn't infiltrate a Qwark fan club meeting if they were wearing autographed merchandise and carrying limited edition action figures. The boy clearly has more technical expertise than my entire field team combined! He managed to get information I've been trying to access for months!"

"So the lombax teen is good at breaking and entering," Drek said with a dismissive wave. "That hardly seems revolutionary-"

"You simpleton!" Nefarious snapped. "It's not just that he broke in—it's what he took! Detailed schematics of the Dimensionator's core functions. The very information I've been trying to acquire! And he did it without triggering a single alarm or leaving a trace that the lombaxes could detect. Their security systems registered nothing unusual that night. NOTHING!"

Nefarious leaned back in his chair, drumming his metallic fingers against the console. "And then, three days later, our little Sterling suddenly changes his tune completely," he continued, pulling up school records showing Ryder's dramatic shift in class selections and his sudden reversal on the Dimensionator debate. "From vehement opponent to passionate advocate overnight. The timeline is definitely fluctuating around this boy. It's as if two different versions of him are fighting for control..."

"Original timeline?" Drek echoed skeptically, rolling his eyes so hard they threatened to fall out of his head and roll across the floor. "Your obsession with parallel dimensions and time travel is becoming tiresome, Doctor. Next you'll be telling me about your theory that we're all game characters in some cosmic video game controlled by acne-ridden adolescents! I'm interested in concrete results, not theoretical physics or your increasingly bizarre fan fiction about alternate realities where you're not a complete failure!"

Nefarious's eyes flashed dangerously, glowing brighter for a moment like overheated coals. "Mock me if you wish, Chairman, but remember who provided the technology that makes your planet-harvesting possible. Without my genius, you'd still be selling real estate timeshares on asteroids nobody wanted to visit!"

He leaned forward, his mechanical face inches from Drek's. "The temporal anomaly I detected five years ago was real, and it has given us a unique opportunity—one I intend to exploit fully. In another timeline, we were defeated by a lone teenage lombax and his robot companion. In this one, we will be victorious! It's like getting cosmic cheat codes to the universe. And I, for one, am not above using cheat codes when the stakes involve galactic domination rather than a simple high score."

"You know," Drek said, narrowing his eyes, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you… Why are you so obsessed with these lombaxes? They're just another species, only with an unhealthy attachment to wrenches and unnecessarily tight pants."

Nefarious's mechanical features contorted into something resembling outrage. "Because, you single-minded corporate drone, there's a prophecy—a prophecy that says the lombaxes will be our undoing! They are destined to thwart our plans unless we act first!"

"A prophecy?" Drek laughed. "Really? You're basing your strategic decisions on some ancient mumbo-jumbo? What's next, reading tea leaves to determine our stock options? Consulting a crystal ball for quarterly projections?"

"Laugh all you want," Nefarious hissed, "but these 'superstitions' as you call them have an uncanny way of coming true. The lombaxes are a threat—perhaps the only real threat to our operation."

Drek waved a dismissive hand. "The lombaxes stay in their own galaxy in Polaris and rarely venture into Solana. They're too busy with their advanced technology and unnecessarily complicated coffee orders to care about what we're doing here."

"Your lack of vision is staggering," Nefarious muttered. "But no matter. I have ways to deal with those meddling furries, and you'll be part of that plan whether you like it or not! Sometimes the best cogs in the machine don't even realize they're turning."

Despite his outward dismissal, a small doubt began creeping into the back of Drek's mind like an unwelcome houseguest. His probes and scouts had been researching low-key Polaris planets along the border of Polaris and Solana for additional resources, carefully avoiding alerting the lombaxes.

It had been easier getting around the Polaris Defense Force with their predictable patrol routes and susceptibility to bribery, but since the Lombax Defense Force was mobilized to join forces with them, things had been getting more complicated.

Drek sighed impatiently, checking his watch as if he had more important meetings to attend, possibly with more reasonable megalomaniacs who didn't believe in prophecies and timeline mumbo-jumbo. "Fine. Pursue your lombax obsession if you must. Follow the teenager around. Maybe get his autograph or join his fan club. But remember our agreement—my new planet takes priority! Once it's completed, you can have all the resources you need for your... other projects. Including that robot petting zoo you keep talking about that frankly sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"Of course, Chairman," Nefarious replied smoothly, his metallic features arranged in what passed for a pleasant expression but looked more like someone who'd just bitten into what they thought was chocolate only to discover it was actually liver. "Our partnership remains mutually beneficial." Under his breath, he added, "For now. Until I figure out how to download your consciousness into a toaster oven. The kind that always burns the bread no matter what setting you use."

"What was that last part?" Drek asked, narrowing his eyes to suspicious slits.

"I said our partnership is the cornerstone of my professional growth!" Nefarious replied without missing a beat, his voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have evil plans to refine and a robot uprising to schedule. Tuesday looks good. Nobody likes Tuesdays anyway—they're the lukewarm coffee of weekdays."

As Drek left the laboratory, muttering something about "hiring normal evil scientists next time—maybe one who doesn't talk to his appliances," Nefarious turned back to the monitor showing Ryder Sterling. His metallic features twisted into what might have been a smile on an organic face but on him looked like a mechanical malfunction requiring immediate technical support.

"Soon, lombax," he whispered to the image on the screen. "Soon you'll remember who you truly are. And when you do, I'll be waiting. With a trap. And possibly cookies, if that's what it takes to lure teenagers these days. Evil genius must adapt to changing demographic preferences."

The screen flickered, showing another image—a small robot making its way across Veldin's desert, occasionally stopping to shake sand out of his joints with visible annoyance. Nefarious's eyes narrowed as he recognized the figure, his circuits practically buzzing with vindictive glee.

"So, the timeline tries to reassert itself," he murmured, watching Clank's determined trek. "How fascinating. And how utterly futile. It's like watching a toy car try to drive up a waterfall while being chased by a herd of angry magnets. Adorable, but doomed to failure-"

His musings were interrupted by an incoming transmission. The holographic projector on his desk flickered to life, displaying the portly figure of Abercrombie Fizzwidget, CEO of Megacorp, his mustache quivering with what appeared to be nervousness.

"Ah, Dr. Nefarious!" Fizzwidget boomed with forced joviality. "What a fortuitous coincidence that I should reach you during your standard evil plotting hours! I hope I'm not interrupting anything particularly nefarious, har har!"

"Fizzwidget," Nefarious acknowledged coldly. "I assume you're calling with good news about our little project? Because if you're calling to waste my time with corporate pleasantries, I have a special setting on my death ray specifically calibrated for CEOs with excessive facial hair."

Fizzwidget's smile faltered, his mustache drooping slightly. "Well, you see, that's precisely why I'm calling. The project is proceeding... somewhat slower than anticipated. Our scientists are working around the clock, of course! But without the complete picture of what they're building—"

"WHAT?!" Nefarious screeched, his voice rising to a pitch that threatened to shatter nearby glassware. "I delivered precise specifications! Are your scientists so incompetent that they can't follow simple instructions? Or perhaps their organic brains are too busy thinking about lunch breaks and bathroom visits to focus on revolutionary dimensional technology!"

"Now, now," Fizzwidget said placatingly, raising his hands. "My team is the best in the business! Angela Cross, one of my youngest and brightest scientists, alone has made remarkable progress with the quantum stabilization matrices. But if we could just tell them what they're actually building—"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Nefarious slammed his fist on the console, causing several monitors to flicker. "The compartmentalized approach is essential to security! If the lombaxes on Fastoon discover what we're building, they'll mobilize against us faster than you can say 'hostile takeover with extreme prejudice'!"

"But surely—"

"No 'buts,' Fizzwidget! Unless it's the one you'll be kissing goodbye if this project fails!" Nefarious leaned toward the hologram, his eyes glowing menacingly. "And speaking of failures, where is that research data I requested? The one YOU promised would accelerate the development process?"

Fizzwidget tugged at his collar nervously. "We're still compiling the data from the ancient lombax texts. Translation is proving... challenging."

"Challenging?" Nefarious repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "I'll tell you what's challenging, Fizzwidget. Trying to orchestrate a multi-galactic conspiracy while surrounded by incompetents who couldn't orchestrate a children's birthday party! At least the clowns at a birthday party KNOW they're clowns!"

"Now see here—" Fizzwidget began, his mustache bristling with indignation.

"No, YOU see here!" Nefarious cut him off. "I've had to endure Drek's planet-sized ego all morning, and now I have to deal with your excuses! Double the research team, triple the security, and get me results before I decide Megacorp would function more efficiently with a robotic CEO who doesn't need bathroom breaks or corporate retreats!"

"That's quite enough!" Fizzwidget finally snapped, his jovial facade cracking. "Megacorp has upheld its end of the bargain! We've provided the facilities, the scientists, and the resources. If you would simply allow us to brief the team on the full scope—"

"The full scope is on a need-to-know basis, and they don't need to know!" Nefarious hissed. "Just have your little organic scientists follow the instructions and leave the big picture thinking to those with superior mechanical minds!"

With that, Nefarious slammed his finger on the disconnect button, cutting off Fizzwidget mid-protest. The hologram vanished, leaving Nefarious alone with his monitors and his increasingly volatile mood.

"Organics," he muttered disgustedly. "Always needing the 'why' when all that matters is the 'how.' Next they'll want dental insurance and motivational posters."

He turned back to his surveillance of Clank, watching as the small robot navigated the treacherous terrain of Veldin. Despite his outward contempt, Nefarious couldn't help but feel a twinge of... something. Not respect, certainly. Perhaps recognition of a worthy adversary? Or maybe just the mechanical equivalent of indigestion.

"Enjoy your little journey while you can, XJ-0461," he said to the screen. "Because this time, the ending to your story has already been rewritten. And spoiler alert: it doesn't end well for you or your furry friend!"

His finger hovered over the emergency dispatch button, ready to send Drek's Blarg forces swarming to Veldin. But then he paused, his mechanical mind calculating all probabilities with cold efficiency.

"No…" he muttered to himself, withdrawing his hand. "By the time those bumbling Blargs arrive, the little defect will be long gone. They couldn't catch a cold in a petri dish factory, let alone a robot who has proven to be clever and resourceful. Besides..."

He zoomed in on Clank's determined trek across the desert, noting the purposeful way the small robot moved.

"Hmm... he's clearly heading somewhere specific. Tracking his movements will be far more valuable than a failed capture attempt." Nefarious tapped a series of commands into his console, activating a network of dormant surveillance satellites. "Let's see where you're going, little robot. And more importantly, who you're trying to find though I already have an inkling who."

He opened a secure channel to a different unit altogether. "Surveillance Team Alpha, this is Dr. Nefarious. I'm sending coordinates for immediate covert observation. Target is a small robot, designation XJ-0461. Do not engage—I repeat, do not engage. Shadow only. I want to know every place he goes, everyone he talks to, and especially if he attempts to contact any lombaxes. Maintain absolute stealth protocols."

A mechanical voice responded promptly: "Acknowledged, Doctor. Deploying stealth drones now."

"And make sure they're the new Q-series stealth drones," Nefarious added sharply. "Not those obsolete P-series models that make more noise than a Blargian death metal concert. The last thing we need is to alert our little friend that he's being watched."

"Of course, Doctor. Q-series deployed."

With a satisfied nod, Nefarious leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes the best way to catch your prey is to let it run... straight into a much larger trap!"

He rose from his seat with calculated menace, sweeping his cape behind him in a dramatic flourish that had no audience but himself. The metallic fabric billowed impressively as he strode deeper into his laboratory, where the real work awaited—work that would ensure that this time, the villains would finally win. And maybe buy that beachfront property on Pokitaru he had been eyeing for some time. Evil geniuses deserved vacation homes too—preferably with excellent wifi and a reinforced laboratory bunker beneath the sand.

Planet Veldin - Kyzil Plateau

The trek across Veldin's desert was more than arduous—it was the mechanical equivalent of a root canal performed by a hyperactive Blargian with a rusty spoon. Sand worked its way into Clank's joints with the determination of a tax collector at year-end, causing his every step to sound like someone crushing potato chips in slow motion. The planet's merciless sun beat down on his metal frame, threatening to turn his cooling systems into a malfunctioning sauna.

"Oh my," Clank muttered to himself, pausing to shake a small dune's worth of sand from his foot. "I do believe I've discovered why robots don't typically vacation on beach planets. My brochure failed to mention the exfoliating properties of having one's gears sandblasted from the inside."

But he pressed on, following the strengthening signal from his tracking device like a moth to a particularly stubborn flame. As Kyzil Plateau loomed ahead, familiar landmarks began to appear—the same twisted rock formations that resembled Chairman Drek after a bad haircut, the same winding paths that had once led him to his best friend's home.

"Statistically speaking," Clank reasoned aloud, his voice echoing across the empty landscape, "the probability of finding Ratchet at this location is approximately 76.07%. However, the probability of me becoming permanently sand-encrusted if I continue this journey is rapidly approaching 100% certainty. Perhaps I should have packed a miniature vacuum cleaner. Or a hazmat suit. Or possibly an entirely different mode of transportation."

The signal led him directly to a small, ramshackle structure nestled against the plateau wall—exactly where Ratchet's garage had stood in their original timeline. It looked like someone had taken a standard-issue garage and dressed it in desert camouflage, with patches of mismatched metal siding and a roof that appeared to be held together by optimism and industrial adhesive.

Clank felt a surge of hope that threatened to overload his emotional circuits. Despite the timeline changes, some things remained constant—like this garage's stubborn refusal to look professionally built.

He approached cautiously, servo motors whirring softly. The garage door was partially open, just enough for a small robot to slip through, and Clank could hear the symphony of mechanical work inside—the percussion of tools against metal, the hissing aria of a welding torch, and the colorful libretto of curses that would make a Goons-4-Less employee blush.

"Ratchet?" Clank called, stepping into the doorway, already knowing the answer but hoping against hope.

The mechanical sounds ceased with the abruptness of a Qwark speech interrupted by facts. A large figure emerged from beneath a half-assembled ship that looked like it had been designed by someone who'd only had spaceships described to them verbally. The figure wiped grease-stained hands on a rag that had long ago forgotten its original color.

It was, as Clank had expected, Grimroth Razz—the gruff fongoid mechanic who had raised Ratchet in another life. His face was a topographical map of wrinkles and scowl lines, with one broken tusk giving him a perpetually lopsided grimace. Despite knowing exactly who this was, Clank maintained his façade of ignorance.

"Who the blazes are you?" Grimroth demanded, eyeing Clank with the suspicion typically reserved for door-to-door salesmen selling timeshares on Orxon. "And how'd you get all the way out here on foot? Last I checked, the desert taxi service went out of business due to a severe case of no customers and all the sand sharks developing a taste for meter readers."

Clank's shoulders drooped in a practiced display of disappointment. "I... I apologize for the intrusion. I was searching for someone named Ratchet. My tracking device led me here."

Grimroth's expression shifted from annoyance to curiosity faster than a Blargian credit card hitting its limit. "Ratchet, eh? Ain't heard a name like that in years. Sounds like something you'd call a lombax with a socket wrench fixation." He wiped his hands more thoroughly on the rag, somehow managing to spread the grease more evenly rather than removing it.

"Name's Grimroth Razz. Friends call me Grim, which is ironic given my sunny disposition and cheerful outlook on life's endless disappointments." He gestured broadly around the cluttered space. "This here is my private garage—my home away from home. Got another one closer to civilization, but a man needs a place where he can tinker in peace without customers asking ridiculous questions like 'Will my ship be ready today?' or 'Is it supposed to be on fire like that?' or my personal favorite, 'Wasn't this supposed to be a refrigerator repair?'"

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Razz," Clank replied with practiced politeness, though his processors were racing faster than a Hoverboard on a greased track. "I am Clank. It is a rather straightforward name, but I find it suits me. Unlike some robots who insist on being called things like 'Destructinator 9000' or 'Supreme Overlord of Toaster Functions.'"

Grimroth circled Clank, studying him with narrowed eyes that missed nothing. "You're not one of Drek's spy bots, are you? Been seeing more of those snooping around lately... Last one I found tried to convince me it was a 'self-propelled egg timer' until I caught it scanning my blueprints."

"I assure you, I have no affiliation with Chairman Drek," Clank said firmly, standing as tall as his diminutive frame allowed. "In fact, I am attempting to prevent his planet-destroying schemes, which I realize sounds rather ambitious coming from someone who could be mistaken for a sophisticated toaster."

Grimroth barked out a laugh that sounded like an engine backfiring. "Big ambitions for a little fella! But I like your spunk!" His expression softened slightly, revealing the same kindness Clank remembered from their original timeline. "Look, I don't know who this Ratchet is you're looking for, but if your tracker brought you here, there might be a reason. I've been around long enough to know coincidences are just the universe being too lazy to explain itself properly."

He beckoned Clank to follow him deeper into the garage, past the half-built ship. "Come on, Short Circuit, I might have something that'll interest you. Just watch your step—I organized this place using a system I call 'eventual discovery through accidental injury.'"

The back of the garage was a mechanical hoarder's paradise—parts from a dozen different spacecraft models, tools that defied identification, and what appeared to be a collection of mugs emblazoned with slogans like "World's Okayest Mechanic" and "I Fix Things You Break Because You're Too Cheap To Replace Them."

"Is that a Thruster-Pack being used as a hat stand?" Clank asked, pointing to a corner.

"No, it's a hat stand being used as a Thruster-Pack," Grimroth corrected. "I'm very particular about proper terminology in my workshop of chaos."

Grimroth rummaged through a pile of parts that threatened to achieve sentience through sheer mass, before pulling out a dusty metal container that looked distinctly out of place among the chaos—its sleek, advanced design a stark contrast to the utilitarian clutter surrounding it.

"Found this buried in the sand behind the garage when I first set up shop here, maybe fifteen years ago," he explained, placing the container on a workbench with surprising gentleness. "Never could figure out how to open it. Has some kind of fancy lock that doesn't match any key I've ever seen, and I've tried everything short of asking it politely and taking it out to dinner first. Figured it might be important to someone someday, so I kept it around. Makes a decent paperweight."

Clank examined the container, immediately recognizing the distinctive lombax technology—elegant curves, precision engineering, and a subtle glow that persisted even after years of dormancy. Etched faintly into its surface was a symbol he knew as well as his own reflection: Ratchet's personal insignia, the one he'd used to mark his tools and occasionally inappropriate places throughout the galaxy.

But there was something else about the container—something that made Clank's circuits hum with recognition. A faint, almost imperceptible resonance that reminded him of the Great Clock. Could it be...?

"May I?" Clank asked, reaching toward the container, his voice modulator barely containing his excitement.

Grimroth shrugged with the casual indifference of someone who had long ago given up on understanding the universe's quirks. "Be my guest. That thing's been collecting dust for years. At this point, I'd be impressed if you could open it, disappointed if it wasn't filled with rare Bolts, and utterly unsurprised if it contained nothing but a fifteen-year-old sandwich. The usual emotional rollercoaster of my existence."

Clank placed his hand on the container's lock mechanism, feeling a familiar tingle as it scanned his energy signature. The lock responded immediately with a soft beep that sounded almost happy, followed by a click that echoed in the cluttered space.

"Well, I'll be a Cragmite's uncle at a family reunion," Grimroth muttered, his broken tusk catching the light as his jaw dropped. "How'd you do that? You got some kind of universal skeleton key built into those little hands of yours? Or maybe a really persuasive electronic smile? Because I tried blowtorches, acid, and once a very determined crowbar named Bessie."

"It appears to be keyed to my specific energy signature," Clank replied, feigning surprise while his internal systems hummed with anticipation. "As if it was designed to be opened only by me, which is statistically improbable given that we have never met before this moment." He added the last part perhaps a bit too quickly, with all the subtlety of Qwark attempting ballet.

"Uh-huh," Grimroth said, eyeing Clank with renewed suspicion. "And I'm Captain Qwark's personal fitness trainer with a side hustle as a professional opera singer. But go on, let's see what's inside this mystery box that's apparently been waiting for you all these years like an overly patient birthday present."

Clank carefully lifted the lid, revealing a small holoprojector that looked like it had been designed yesterday, a folded piece of paper yellowed slightly at the edges, and a softly glowing crystalline object that Clank immediately recognized as a temporal anchor—a fragment of the Great Clock's essence, containing a quantum signature remarkably similar to Ratchet's. As the former caretaker of the Clock, Clank could sense its power, its connection to the fabric of time itself.

"Well, that's anticlimactic," Grimroth said, peering over Clank's shoulder. "Was hoping for treasure maps or at least some vintage magazines with articles you actually read. What's that doohickey?" He pointed at the holoprojector.

Clank activated it without responding, and a flickering blue image materialized above it—a lombax that bore a striking resemblance to Ratchet, but with subtle differences that spoke of maturity and hardship.

This lombax was taller, more muscular, with additional striping around his ears and face that gave him a distinguished appearance. His eyes held the weight of responsibility, and his stance was that of a warrior who had seen too much. He wore a modified Praetorian Guard uniform with custom modifications, and the wrench holstered at his side was an advanced model Clank had never seen before.

"Great galaxies!" Grimroth whispered, his usual gruffness momentarily replaced by genuine awe. "Is that a—"

"Greetings, XJ-0461," the lombax began, his voice deep and resonant. "If you are viewing this message, then the temporal disruption I have been anticipating has thankfully occurred. My name is Kaden, and in another timeline, my son, Ratchet, as you call him, would have grown up here on Veldin away from his people. He would have met you when your escape pod crashed nearby, and together, you would have embarked on a journey that would save countless lives."

"XJ-what-now?" Grimroth whispered, but Clank silenced him with an uncharacteristically stern look that could have wilted a Rilgarian steel-flower.

"Please," Clank whispered, "this is important."

"Fine, fine," Grimroth muttered. "But I'm keeping a running list of questions that's already longer than my ex-wife's list of my character flaws."

The hologram continued: "But something has changed. The timeline has been altered, and my son now grows up with me and his mother on Fastoon, unaware of his destiny. The universe still needs both of you, together. Find my son, XJ-0461. Remind him of who he truly is. And be wary—whoever altered our timeline will not want it corrected."

Clank's processors whirred with shock. Kaden knew? He had anticipated the time reset? The implications were staggering, like trying to calculate pi while being shot out of a cannon.

"There's something else you should know," Kaden added, his eyes glistening with emotion. "In that other timeline, you became more than just my son's companion. You became his conscience when his impulses ran wild, his voice of reason when the path forward seemed unclear. And he, in turn, showed you what it means to live with passion, to embrace the unexpected, to find joy in the journey."

A small smile crossed his face. "Orvus showed me recordings of your adventures together. The way you two moved—it was like watching a perfectly calibrated machine, each part complementing the other. Two souls from different worlds, creating something greater than the sum of their parts."

Clank's optical sensors widened. The name of his father sending an electronic pulse through his circuits. "He knew my f-"

"ORVUS?!" Grimroth exclaimed, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. "By the ancient traditions, he mentioned Orvus!"

"You know of Orvus?" Clank asked him. 

"Every fongoid does," Grimroth whispered, suddenly reverent. "He's the Zoni who gave our ancestors the gift of time travel—which, admittedly, we completely botched by creating about a thousand paradoxes. Not our finest moment as a species. Most folks think he's just a myth nowadays, but my grandmother used to tell stories..." He trailed off, staring at the hologram with newfound respect. "If this lombax knew Orvus, then... this is bigger than I thought!"

"The bond you forged transcends timelines, XJ-0461," Kaden's voice grew more urgent. "It's written in the very fabric of the universe. My son may not remember you, but somewhere deep in his soul, he knows you. When you find him, you'll know it too."

He took a deep breath. "And when you do find him, please tell him something for me—something I never got to say in that other life. Tell him that I am immeasurably proud of the hero he became. Tell him that every time he raised his wrench to defend those who couldn't defend themselves, every time he risked everything to save worlds that weren't his own... his mother and I were with him in spirit, cheering him on across the stars."

A single tear escaped, rolling down his golden fur. "Tell him that a father could ask for no greater legacy than a son who stands tall when the universe needs him most."

The message ended, leaving the garage in a silence so profound that Clank could hear the individual grains of sand settling on the roof.

"...well," Grimroth finally said, scratching his head with enough force to rearrange his thoughts, "that's about the strangest thing I've ever seen, and I once watched Qwark try to autograph a black hole. The pen went in, the pen didn't come out, and somehow he still charged the black hole for the signature." He looked at Clank with newfound curiosity. "You understand any of that temporal mumbo-jumbo? Because I feel like I just watched a holovision show where they skipped straight to the season finale without bothering with the rest of the episodes!"

"Yes," Clank replied quietly, picking up the folded paper with hands that weren't quite steady. "I understand completely now." The paper contained coordinates—precise directions to Fastoon in the Polaris Galaxy, along with what appeared to be a personal note in lombax script that Clank couldn't fully translate.

He carefully lifted the temporal anchor, feeling its resonance with his own systems—a connection to the Great Clock, to his father Orvus, and somehow, inexplicably, to Ratchet as well. "This is a temporal anchor," he explained to Grimroth. "A fragment of the Great Clock's essence. It contains a quantum signature similar to Ratchet's, which is why my tracking device led me here."

"The Great Clock?" Grimroth repeated, looking impressed despite himself. "My grandmother used to tell stories about that too—said it was built after my ancestors nearly broke the universe with our time-traveling shenanigans. Never thought I'd see a piece of it sitting on my workbench next to a half-eaten sandwich and what I think used to be a spark plug."

The dual signals on his tracking device suddenly made sense like the punchline to a cosmic joke. One was from the temporal anchor in the container, designed to lure him here. The other, far distant signal was the real Ratchet—on Fastoon, living with his parents in this altered timeline.

"Mr. Razz," Clank said, turning to the fongoid with newfound determination, "Would you happen to have a functional ship I could borrow? I need to travel to the Polaris Galaxy immediately. It is, as they say, a matter of universal importance! Or, to put it in terms you might appreciate, the cosmic equivalent of finding out your garage is on fire while you're vacationing three galaxies away."

Grimroth scratched his chin, leaving a fresh grease stain that matched the constellation pattern already decorating his face. "Polaris? That's a long haul, little fella. Like asking a Kerchu to be pleasant kind of long. Like my mother-in-law's stories about her knee surgery kind of long." He gestured toward the sky. "And with the Blarg blockade, getting off-planet won't be easy. They're stopping ships like teenagers stop for fast food—frequently, enthusiastically, and with questionable motivations."

He glanced at the half-built ship in his workshop and grimaced. "That one's about as ready for space travel as I am for ballroom dancing. Last time I tried to fire up the engines, three of my neighbors reported a volcanic eruption." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But..."

He led Clank through a back door and into a small yard enclosed by a fence made of salvaged ship parts. There, partially covered by a tarp that had seen better decades, sat a ship that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts and optimism.

"This old Z-1000 with an AI assistance might just make the trip," he said, patting the hull affectionately. "I call her 'The Reluctant Pioneer' because she complains the whole way but eventually gets you there. Like my ex-wife on hiking trips-"

"I heard that, you ungrateful pile of spare parts!" a feminine voice snapped from the ship's speakers. "Ten years I've been sitting in this junkyard you call a garage, and the thanks I get is being compared to your ex-wife? At least she had the good sense to leave!"

"...and this is Vee," Grimroth said with a long-suffering sigh. "The ship's AI. She has what the manufacturer called 'personality enhancements.' What they meant was 'we programmed her to criticize everything you do while suggesting better alternatives that don't actually exist'-"

"I prefer the term 'honesty subroutines'!" Vee retorted. "Someone needs to tell you when your repair work looks like it was performed by a blindfolded Agorian with mittens on."

Grimroth ignored her, continuing his assessment for Clank. "Engine's solid—had to rebuild it two times after the previous owner tried to use cooking oil as fuel. Claimed he was 'going green' until the engine went black. But it's missing a—"

"Robotic ignition system?" Clank finished for him with what could only be described as a smug expression for someone without flexible facial features. "I happen to be equipped with the latest in Robotic Ignition Systems. My programming allows me to start any ship I choose."

"Oh great," Vee interjected. "Another male telling me he knows exactly how to turn me on. I've heard that line across seventeen star systems."

Grimroth's face split into a grin. "Well now, seems like fate's on your side after all, or you're the luckiest little robot this side of the Solana Galaxy! Either way, I've got a feeling this isn't the last I'll be seeing of you..." He paused, studying Clank with unexpected intensity. "You know, there's something familiar about you, like we've met in another life or something equally ridiculous that I'd normally dismiss as the ramblings of someone who's inhaled too much engine coolant..."

"The universe works in mysterious ways, Mr. Razz," Clank replied diplomatically. "Much like your organizational system for socket wrenches."

"Call me Grim," the fongoid insisted, already moving to uncover the ship. "Anyone who's about to steal my backup ship based on a cryptic hologram message deserves to be on a first-name basis. It's a rule I've lived by for years, though admittedly this is the first time it's been applicable."

"I am not stealing it," Clank protested. "I am merely... borrowing it for an indefinite period with uncertain return parameters."

"That's exactly what I told the judge about my neighbor's speeder!" Grimroth laughed, the sound echoing across the desert. "He didn't buy it either. Apparently adding rocket boosters and entering it in the Veldin 500 exceeded 'normal wear and tear.'" He patted the ship's hull affectionately. "Take care of her. She's temperamental in the morning and doesn't like it when you push her past light speed without a proper warm-up. Kind of like me, come to think of it."

"I have feelings, you know," Vee complained. "And an encyclopedic memory of every insulting thing you've ever said about my navigation system."

As they prepared the ship for departure, Clank couldn't help but feel that despite everything that had changed, some things remained wonderfully, comfortingly the same. The universe might have been rewritten, but its characters still followed their essential nature—and that gave him hope that he and Ratchet could find their way back to each other, no matter what forces had conspired to separate them.

"I must thank you for your assistance, Mr.—I mean, Grim," Clank said as he climbed aboard the ship. "Your kindness to a stranger is most appreciated."

"Eh, what can I say? I'm a sucker for robots on mysterious quests," Grimroth replied, scratching his head. "Besides, this is the most excitement I've had since I accidentally installed a mini hyperdrive in my coffee maker. Did you know caffeinated beverages can achieve warp speed under the right conditions? The cleanup took weeks-"

"If we're done with the heartwarming goodbyes," Vee interrupted, "I'd like to point out that the Blarg patrol schedule shows a gap in coverage in approximately eight minutes. Unless you want to explain to trigger-happy Blarg troops why you're launching a ship that looks like it was assembled during a power outage, I suggest we depart immediately."

"She's right about that, at least," Grimroth admitted. "The Blarg have been tightening security lately. Something's got them spooked—or more likely, they're planning something nasty. Either way, you'd best be off before they circle back around."

Clank nodded, settling into the pilot's seat. "I shall return your ship when my mission is complete. You have my word."

"Just bring yourself back in one piece, tiny," Grimroth said, his gruff voice softening. "And if you find this Ratchet fella... tell him he's got a garage waiting for him if he ever needs it." He paused, then added with surprising solemnity, "And if you really do know Orvus, or have some connection to him... well, my grandmother would say that makes you practically family. The fongoids owe a debt to the Zoni that can never be repaid. So you come back, you hear? My door's always open!"

As the ship's engines hummed to life, Clank felt a strange mixture of emotions cycling through his circuits—hope, determination, anxiety, and something else he couldn't quite identify. Perhaps it was the feeling that despite all the changes to the timeline, despite all the challenges ahead, he was finally on the right path.

"Setting course for the Polaris Galaxy," Vee announced, her tone marginally less sarcastic. "Estimated travel time: one hundred thirty-two hours, 14 minutes and nine seconds— assuming we don't explode, get captured by Blarg, take potty breaks or succumb to the existential dread of interstellar travel."

"Thank you, Vee," Clank replied politely. "I appreciate your thoroughness in outlining our potential doom scenarios."

"Oh, I like this one!" Vee told Grimroth as the ship began to rise. "He appreciates my pessimism. Most passengers just scream 'We're all going to die!' when I point out the statistical probabilities of various catastrophic failures."

Grimroth waved as the ship lifted off, his figure growing smaller as they ascended into Veldin's hazy atmosphere. "Good luck, Clank!" his voice crackled through the communication system. "Try not to rewrite the universe too much! I just got this place how I like it!"

As the ship broke through Veldin's atmosphere and set course for Polaris, Clank gazed out at the stars, each one a pinpoint of light in the vast darkness. Somewhere out there, Ratchet was living a different life—one without the adventures they'd shared, without the bonds they'd formed, without the friendship that had defined them both.

"I am coming, old friend," Clank whispered to the stars. "And together, we shall set things right. After all, what are a few altered timelines between friends?"

"You know I can hear you talking to yourself, right?" Vee commented. "Just checking if this is going to be a regular thing during our journey. Should I create a designated monologue time in our flight schedule?"

Clank settled back in his seat with a small smile. "Perhaps you could. And while you're adjusting the schedule, I would appreciate if you could allocate some time for me to tell you about my best friend Ratchet. It is... quite a story."

"Well, it's either that or listen to my collection of space whale mating calls," Vee conceded. "Begin when ready. And make it interesting—the last passenger tried to tell me about his collection of vintage socket wrenches. I may be an AI, but even I have limits to what I can pretend to care about."

As the stars streaked by, Clank began to tell the story of a lombax and his robot friend who had saved the universe more times than either of them could count. It was a story of friendship, courage, and the kind of bond that even a rewritten timeline couldn't erase.

Chapter Text

The Great Clock shuddered violently, its ancient mechanisms straining against forces they were never meant to withstand. Temporal energy surged through every gear and circuit, creating a symphony of groaning metal and crackling power. The master switch, yanked back to its rightful position by Alister Azimuth's final desperate act of sacrifice, slowly stabilized as the universe—for a breathless moment teetering on the brink of total collapse—steadied itself once more.

For Alister, everything dissolved into white—not the gentle fade of peaceful transitions, but the searing, disorienting flash of pure temporal energy. The brilliance consumed his vision entirely, washing away all form and substance as the Clock's energies surged through his body, carrying his consciousness beyond the physical realm in a torrent of unbridled light.

No longer bound by physical form, his essence drifted through an endless void of luminescence. The excruciating pain of his final moments had vanished, replaced by a strange weightlessness that reminded him distantly of that ill-advised night with Fastoon Firewater at the Lombax Academy reunion. Time lost all meaning here—had it been seconds since his sacrifice? Years? Millennia?

"General Azimuth."

The voice resonated from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, enveloping him like an accusation. Alister's consciousness instinctively coalesced, forming a spectral approximation of his lombax form within the void—mercifully including his armor and dignity. Before him materialized a small, figure with piercing emerald eyes and an ornate headpiece that seemed to capture and reflect the surrounding light.

"Orvus," Alister whispered, recognition immediate despite never having met the legendary Zoni. Shame crashed over him like a physical weight, nearly driving his spectral form to its knees. "I... I've failed everyone. I killed Ratchet... I would have killed him permanently if not for your son... and I nearly caused the collapse of the entire universe."

Orvus's expression hardened, his normally gentle features taking on an uncharacteristic sternness. "Yes. Your actions were inexcusable." The words fell like hammer blows. "You struck down an innocent lombax—the very one you claimed to want to help. You attempted to misuse my life's work. You were willing to sacrifice my only son—to sacrifice everything—for your selfish desire to correct the past."

Alister's spirit seemed to dim, his spectral form shrinking beneath the weight of judgment. "I have no excuse. My arrogance... my guilt... I convinced myself I was acting for the greater good, but I was only thinking of my own redemption. If Clank hadn't used the Clock properly to save Ratchet..." His voice broke, unable to finish the thought.

"You attempted to use the Clock as a time machine," Orvus continued, circling Alister's diminished form. "Despite explicit warnings. Despite Clank's pleas. Despite seeing Ratchet fall by your own hand. You were willing to risk the entire universe to ease your own conscience."

"Yes," Alister admitted, his voice barely audible. "And in doing so, I became no better than Tachyon—willing to destroy everything for my own purposes."

Orvus stopped his circling, studying the lombax carefully. "And yet, in the end, you chose differently."

"Too late," Alister whispered bitterly. "Far too late. All the damage I've done..."

"But was it truly too late?" Orvus asked, his tone softening slightly. "Thanks to your selfless sacrifice, the Clock still stands. The universe continues. And Ratchet lives, first because of my son's intervention, and then because you finally understood what was truly at stake."

The weight of his actions—both his final heroism and the terrible mistakes that preceded it—crashed down on Alister's spirit. "I was a fool. I thought I could undo my mistakes, bring back the lombaxes... but I nearly destroyed everything. I crossed lines I never should have approached."

"Yes," Orvus agreed simply, but his expression had softened further. "You misunderstood the Clock's purpose. It's like using a quantum supercomputer to play Solitaire—a bit of overkill, wouldn't you say?"

"I did." Alister's spirit dimmed further with shame. "The Clock maintains time, it doesn't change it. I see that now. Too late, perhaps, but at least now I understand."

A smile gradually spread across Orvus' face, his eyes twinkling with something approaching forgiveness. "And that understanding makes all the difference, General Azimuth. It's like finally realizing that the 'Pull' sign on the door means you shouldn't be pushing it for ten minutes while people watch and silently judge your life choices!"

The void around them shifted, revealing glimpses of spinning gears and quantum energy flows—they were inside the Clock's temporal matrix, the very heart of time itself.

"I don't understand," Alister said, examining the space around him. "Why am I here? Shouldn't I be... gone? After what I did to your son... to Ratchet... to the Clock itself..."

"The Clock preserves more than just time, General." Orvus floated closer, his initial sternness now completely replaced with his characteristic gentle wisdom. "It also has excellent data backup protocols—I'm quite the stickler for regular backups. You never know when the universe might need a system restore, LOL."

Alister shifted in confusion. "Did you just say 'lol' out loud?"

"Is that incorrect?" Orvus asked, genuinely curious. "I've been trying to keep up with modern vernacular. LOL—Lots Of Love, correct?"

Despite everything, Alister felt a small smile form. "Not exactly. It means 'laughing out loud.'"

"Oh!" Orvus looked delighted. "How efficient! Expressing an entire farewell in four letters. OMW—Observing Magnificent Wonders. See? I'm learning."

"That's... actually 'on my way,'" Alister corrected gently.

"Fascinating!" Orvus clapped his hands together. "The evolution of language is truly remarkable. Like the gears of a clock, always turning, creating new patterns. Speaking of which, did you hear about the clock that was hungry?"

Alister stared blankly.

"It went back four seconds! Tee-hehehe!" Orvus chuckled at his own joke. "Get it? Four seconds? Like 'for seconds'? Oh, I've been saving that one for centuries."

Despite himself, Alister groaned. "That was terrible."

"Thank you! I've been working on my timing." Orvus moved closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "I have watched the timestream for eons, General. There are fixed points that must remain, and there are... flexibilities. Moments of potential."

Alister's eyes widened. "You're not suggesting—"

"I am offering you a chance," Orvus interrupted. "Not to change time as you once desired, but to fulfill it. Your soul will return to your past body at a critical moment—when Tachyon first presented his 'gifts' to the Lombax Council and you will retain knowledge of what could have been."

"But why?" Alister's spirit flickered with confusion. "Why would you risk changing time when the Clock isn't meant for that purpose? Why would you trust me after what I did to your son?"

"The soul of one in accord can return without disrupting the timeline," Orvus explained, circling Alister's spectral form. "This isn't about changing time—it's about fulfilling it. The Clock was never meant to alter history on a grand scale, but to maintain the proper flow of time, including... let's call it 'corrections' when necessary."

He paused, his emerald eyes studying Alister intently. "As for trusting you—Ratchet saw something in you worth saving, even after you struck him down. He believed your final act revealed your true heart. My own son confirmed this. So I trust my son's judgment, even when it differs from my own."

"And if I make the same mistakes?" Alister asked, his voice heavy with doubt. "If I act without thinking again? If I let my impulsiveness lead to disaster?"

"You won't," Orvus said with certainty. "Because you understand now what you didn't then. The price of arrogance. The value of caution, consequence and self-discipline. You've felt the weight of a universe nearly destroyed by your actions—and the redemption of saving it at the cost of your own life."

The void around them pulsed with ethereal light, shimmering and transforming into vivid scenes of Kaden with his family—Ratchet as an infant in his father's proud arms, his wife smiling beside them, all three bathed in the warm glow of Fastoon's sunset.

"And perhaps," Orvus added softly, "If you succeed, we fathers might finally meet our sons in person."

The image shifted to show Clank—not as the battle-hardened companion who had faced countless dangers alongside Ratchet, but as Orvus had originally envisioned him to be. Serene and contemplative, standing within the Great Clock's gleaming chambers.

"You're offering me redemption," Alister whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "After everything I did..."

"I'm offering you purpose," Orvus corrected. "The universe needs balance, General. It needs wisdom born of failure. Also, the universe's health insurance doesn't cover 'catastrophic timeline collapse,' so we're all better off this way. I checked the fine print—it was quite small, even for me."

Alister's spirit straightened, resolve building within him. "What must I do?"

"Simply remember," Orvus said, beginning to fade as the void brightened around them. "Remember what was, what could be, and what must never come to pass."

"And what of Ratchet and Clank?" Alister asked urgently as Orvus continued to fade.

"All things are connected in time, General. Save one thread, and you may save the entire tapestry." Orvus' voice grew distant. "But remember the universe has a wonderful sense of humor. The trick is learning how to take a joke. Even the ones about a mystic, a terachnoid, and a lombax walking into a bar...tee,hee, hee!" he chuckled at his own joke. "Oh! You see what I did there? It's funny because they all walk into an actual bar, not a metaphorical one!"

As Orvus faded to almost nothing, he suddenly solidified again for just a moment. "Oh, and General? When the time comes—I will tell you when—will you bring my boy to me? A father should meet his son at least once, don't you think? TTYL!"

"That... actually works contextually," Alister said with surprise. "Talk To You Later—you used that one correctly."

Orvus beamed with pride. "I've been practicing! Time is the best teacher, after all. Unfortunately, it kills all its students! Another clock joke! I'm on a roll!"

"I will do it," Alister promised solemnly. "On my honor as a lombax. I will not fail you or your son again."

Orvus nodded, satisfied, and smiled once more before disappearing completely.

Before Alister could respond further, the void collapsed around him. His consciousness hurtled backward through time, through memories, through pain and joy and regret, feeling suspiciously like that time he rode the Nebula G34 roller coaster after eating three corn dogs and washing them down with experimental quantum fizz soda.

Approximately 24 years ago...

Planet Fastoon - Meeting Room Q4, Center for Advanced Lombax Research

General Alister Azimuth suddenly collapsed during the Center for Advanced Lombax Research council meeting with all the grace of a tranquilized Florana giraffe mid-sneeze, his body crumpling to the floor just as Percival Tachyon was midway through his presentation on advanced battle armor. The council chamber erupted in chaos, the assembled lombaxes rising from their seats in alarm.

"Give him space!" Kaden Sterling commanded, shoving aside chairs and council members alike as he rushed to his friend's side. He knelt beside Azimuth with the authority of someone who had binge-watched every medical drama in the galaxy. "Alister? Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up? What's the square root of 529? Who won last year's hoverboard championship?"

Azimuth's eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then locking onto Kaden's face with an intensity that startled the younger lombax. For a moment, something like profound disbelief and raw emotion crossed Alister's features—as if he were seeing a ghost. Kaden gently smacked Alister's cheek, trying to bring him fully back to consciousness.

"K-Kaden?" Azimuth whispered, his voice hoarse as if he'd been gargling with sand and broken glass. "You're... alive?" His hand shot up, gripping Kaden's arm with desperate strength. "You're really here? Or we're both on the other side—"

"Of course I'm alive, it's you everyone was worried about!" Kaden replied, confusion evident in his expression. "What happened? You just collapsed in the middle of the meeting. Right when Tachyon was explaining the triple-reinforced armor plating specifications, which, honestly," he lowered his voice so only Alister could hear. "Might have been a mercy. I was about to fake a seizure myself to get out of it."

Azimuth's gaze darted around the room, taking in the concerned faces of the council members—faces he had not seen in decades, faces that in another timeline had been reduced to ash and memory. His breathing quickened as the full reality of his situation crashed over him. He was back. Orvus had actually done it!

Then his eyes landed on Tachyon. The small cragmite had stepped away from his presentation materials, a look of practiced concern on his face that was about as genuine as synthetic cheese at a gourmet food festival.

"Is the General alright?" Tachyon inquired, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Perhaps the technical aspects of my presentation were too... stimulating for his mind? Not everyone can grasp the complexities of quantum-reinforced alloys and sub-atomic particle shields. Maybe he needs a simpler explanation? With pictures, perhaps? Colorful ones with minimal syllables?"

Something primal ignited in Azimuth's eyes—a burning hatred forged through decades of grief and regret. With a strength that belied his recent collapse, he lunged to his feet, shoving past Kaden with such force that his friend stumbled backward and landed on his tail with an undignified "oof!"

"YOU TRAITOROUS CRAGMITE FILTH!" he roared, charging toward Tachyon with murder in his eyes. "I'll tear you apart before you destroy everything again! I'll rip that ridiculous crown from your head and make you eat it! I've seen what you become! I've seen the bodies! THE BODIES OF CHILDREN, TACHYON!"

The council chamber froze in collective shock, jaws dropping so fast you could hear the collective thud. Several elder councilors clutched their ceremonial robes in horror, while others reached for emergency communication devices. Azimuth crossed half the room in seconds, his face contorted with a rage so pure and concentrated it seemed to distort the air around him.

"Alister, STOP!" Kaden shouted, scrambling to his feet and lunging after his friend. "Have you lost your mind? This isn't how we handle disagreements in a council! We passive-aggressively form committees and draft strongly-worded memos!"

Tachyon's eyes widened in genuine fear as Azimuth closed the distance. The small cragmite stumbled backward, knocking over his presentation materials with a spectacular crash, but wasn't fast enough to escape the enraged lombax.

Azimuth's fist connected with Tachyon's jaw with a sickening crack that sounded like someone stepping on a bag of potato chips with maximum prejudice, sending the cragmite sprawling across the polished floor. Before anyone could react, Azimuth was on him again, grabbing Tachyon by his ornate collar and lifting him off the ground like a rag doll.

"I've seen what you become," Azimuth snarled, his voice low and deadly, each word dripping with decades of hatred. "I've seen Fastoon in flames. I've seen the exile—I won't let it happen, you miserable parasite!!!"

"Guards!" Elder Grada shouted, finally breaking from his shock, spilling his cup of tea in the process. "Restrain General Azimuth immediately! And someone get a mop for this tea! It's going to stain the marble! Do you know how hard it is to get tea stains out of honed marble?"

Three security guards rushed forward, but Azimuth was lost in his fury. He hurled Tachyon against the wall with such force that the decorative paneling cracked. The cragmite slumped, blood trickling from his mouth.

"You think we don't know?" Azimuth advanced again, reaching for his Praetorian OmniWrench like a knight drawing his sword. "You think I don't remember what you did to us? To Fastoon? The devastation? The horror? The unreasonably high tax rates you imposed on the territories you conquered!? HOW YOU'VE MURDERED KADEN!"

Kaden reached Azimuth just as he raised his wrench, tackling his friend from behind. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, fur, and rapidly diminishing dignity.

"Alister, stop this!" Kaden pleaded, struggling to pin Azimuth's arms while simultaneously trying not to get an elbow to the face. 

Three guards joined the fray, piling onto Azimuth, who fought with the strength of a man possessed—or at least the strength of someone who had consumed way too much caffeine before witnessing their greatest enemy standing before them. It took all four of them to finally subdue him, and even then, he continued to struggle like a cat being given a bath in ice water.

"LET ME GO!" Azimuth roared, his eyes never leaving Tachyon, who was being helped to his feet by council medics. "He'll destroy everything! He'll kill us all!" 

"Sedate him!!" Elder Grada ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos like a hot knife through butter—or more accurately, like a stressed council leader through the last thread of his patience.

A medic approached with a hypo-injector, and Kaden watched with anguish as his friend's struggles gradually subsided, his eyes growing unfocused.

"Kaden…" Azimuth murmured as the sedative took effect, his voice suddenly clear and eerily calm. "You were right about him. You were always right... Don't trust him. Check his quarters... find the proof... I won't fail you again… I won't fail any of you…"

As the guards lifted Azimuth's now-limp form, Kaden rose shakily to his feet, his fur disheveled and his expression deeply troubled. There had been something in Alister's eyes—not madness, but absolute certainty.

"This is outrageous!" Tachyon sputtered through a swollen jaw, his earlier fear replaced by theatrical indignation. "I come here in good faith to share my innovations, and this... this savage, fur-covered maniac tries to turn me into a wall decoration? I demand justice! I demand retribution! I demand a better dental plan because I think he knocked out a molar and possibly rearranged my sinuses!"

"And you shall have it," Elder Grada assured him, his expression grave. "General Azimuth will face disciplinary action for this unprovoked attack. Please accept our deepest apologies for this... incident. And our offer of complimentary dental work, including cosmetic restoration of any teeth that may have, ah, relocated during the altercation."

Tachyon dabbed at his bleeding mouth with a handkerchief, his eyes narrowing to venomous slits. "Perhaps the lombaxes aren't as enlightened as they claim to be. To think, your military leadership harbors such... prejudice."

"Councilman Sterling," Elder Grada turned to Kaden, "Please escort our guest to the medical bay. Ensure he receives proper treatment. And for the love of Fastoon, don't punch him too. One assault on a diplomatic guest is quite enough for today's meeting minutes!"

Kaden hesitated, glancing toward the doors through which the guards were carrying Azimuth. His friend's words echoed in his mind: Check his quarters... find the proof...

"Now, Councilman," Grada insisted firmly, with the tone of a parent telling a child to eat their vegetables or forfeit dessert for the next decade.

With a reluctant nod, Kaden approached Tachyon, offering a formal bow that was only slightly undermined by his disheveled appearance. "This way, sir. Our medical facilities are state-of-the-art. We can have you fixed up in no time, possibly better than new."

As they walked, Tachyon limping slightly for dramatic effect, the cragmite glanced sidelong at Kaden. "Your friend seems... unbalanced. Has he always harbored such hatred for my kind? Such violent tendencies? Such an impressive right hook?"

"No," Kaden replied carefully, choosing his words like someone disarming a bomb while blindfolded. "This behavior is... unprecedented."

"How concerning," Tachyon murmured. "One wonders what other violent tendencies he might be concealing... Perhaps all lombaxes have such... primitive impulses lurking beneath their veneer of civilization?"

Kaden said nothing, but his mind raced with uncomfortable questions. Alister's words echoed in his head—not just their content, but the absolute conviction with which they'd been spoken. It wasn't the raving of a madman; it was the warning of someone who knew something terrible with bone-deep certainty.

Later that evening, against the explicit orders of Elder Grada and probably against better judgment, Kaden visited Azimuth in the detention center. His friend sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, staring at his hands as if they held the secrets of the universe. The energy restraints around his wrists cast a soft blue glow in the dimly lit cell.

"They're going to court-martial me," Azimuth said without looking up, his voice flat. "Assaulting a diplomatic guest. Conduct unbecoming an officer. Threatening to make a cragmite eat his own crown. They've even started a betting pool on what my insanity defense will be. 'Temporary Cosmic Derangement' is currently the favorite at three-to-one odds."

"Have you?" Kaden asked bluntly, taking a seat opposite him. "Lost your mind, that is. Though if you have, put me down for twenty bolts on 'temporary cosmic enlightenment.' The odds are better, and it sounds more dignified on the official record."

Azimuth finally looked up, his eyes clear and focused, like lasers zeroing in on a target. "No. My mind is clearer than it's been in decades. Clearer than crystal. Clearer than that time I tried that experimental lombax vision correction surgery and could temporarily see through walls for three days—which, by the way, was far less useful than advertised."

Kaden leaned forward, studying his friend's face intently. "Then explain to me what happened in there, Alister. One minute you were unconscious on the floor, the next you were trying to beat Tachyon to death with your wrench like he'd personally insulted your ancestors back to the primordial soup. You called him a traitor. You talked about seeing bodies, about exile." He leaned even closer, nearly nose-to-nose with Azimuth. "You said something about me. About him... murdering me."

Azimuth was silent for a long moment, studying Kaden's face as if memorizing it—or perhaps as if he were seeing a ghost made flesh. There was a depth of emotion in his eyes that Kaden had never witnessed before, even during their most harrowing missions together.

"I should have been more subtle," Azimuth finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm still as hot-blooded as ever, still acting before thinking. That's always been my greatest flaw..." He shook his head ruefully. "I should have waited, gathered evidence quietly, presented it calmly to the Council. Instead, I let my emotions overtake me the moment I saw his smug face. I've learned nothing."

"Alister," Kaden pressed, "what's going on? This isn't like you."

Azimuth took a deep breath. "Would you believe me if I told you I've lived this day before? That I've seen what Tachyon becomes? What he does to us—to you? That I've witnessed a future where our entire race is scattered to the cosmic winds like dandelion seeds?"

Kaden's expression remained neutral, the poker face of a champion gambler. "I'd believe you believe it. I'd also believe you might have hit your head when you fell. Or eaten some of those suspicious mushrooms being served from the council cafeteria as a lunch special. The ones I specifically told you not to eat? Just like I told you not to trust Tachyon?"

A bitter laugh escaped Azimuth, sounding like broken glass. "Fair enough." He ran a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted beyond measure. "Kaden, I need you to trust me. You were right about Tachyon from the beginning, and I was too blind to see it. He plans to use our technology against us, and he's already in communication with the Drophyds, promising them battle suits and technology if they join his private army."

Kaden's eyes widened by a fraction. "That's a serious accusation, Alister."

"I know." Azimuth leaned forward, the restraints humming like angry bees as he moved. "Which is why I need your help. We need proof. Check his quarters. Monitor his communications. If you have to, rifle through his sock drawer—don't give me that look, just wear gloves and a mask while you do it—I know what you'll find. Plans. Schematics. Evil manifestos. Possibly a diary with 'My Evil Plans' written on the cover in glitter pen, because subtlety isn't his strong suit."

Kaden studied his friend's face, searching for any sign of delusion or instability. Finding none, he nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. "I'll see what I can do. But Alister... if you're wrong about this... if this is just some bizarre lombax early midlife crisis—"

"I'm not," Azimuth said with absolute certainty, the conviction in his voice strong enough to bend tritanium. "And when you find the proof, remember this: some mistakes, once made, can never be undone. But sometimes... sometimes the universe gives you a second chance."

Kaden frowned, his brow furrowing like a freshly plowed field. "What does that mean? Are you speaking in riddles now? Have you joined some sort of cryptic quote-of-the-day club?"

Azimuth smiled faintly, the expression transforming his face from haggard to almost peaceful. "It means I'm not going to waste mine. And neither should you. Now, hurry before that cragmite gets paranoid and starts disposing any useful evidence!"

"Alright, Alister the Grey, I'll get on the job," Kaden promised with a lazy salute, getting up from his seat. "Just don't rename your starship Shadowfax before I can get back."

Azimuth merely chuckled, a weight seemingly lifted from his shoulders despite the restraints. "Thank you for believing me, Kaden. Oh, and given the circumstances, it's Alister the White."

Kaden rolled his eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. "Get some rest, you dramatic fool. I'll see what I can find."

As the door closed behind his friend, Alister leaned back against the wall of his cell, alone with his thoughts. I have to do better this time, he thought, clenching his fists. I can't save Ratchet or the lombaxes if I keep charging in like a berserker. I can't keep my promise to bring Clank to Orvus if I'm court-martialed and locked away. I can't help Kaden live a good life with his family if I can't even help myself.

He closed his eyes, picturing Ratchet's face—not as the battle-hardened warrior he'd known, but as the child he would become in this new timeline. A child who would grow up with his father, on his homeworld, surrounded by his people.

I will get it right this time, he vowed silently. Whatever it takes.

The raid on Tachyon's temporary quarters occurred a day later, after Kaden had convinced the council to authorize a discreet investigation. What they found confirmed Azimuth's warnings: detailed plans for an assault on major lombax cities, communications with the drophyds arranging an alliance, and prototypes of battle armor designed with lombax technology but modified for more sinister purposes.

The evidence was damning. Tachyon was arrested and brought before the full Council, the Justice Bureau, and King Aelion Celestial himself for judgment in the Great Chamber of Lombax Justice, a room so acoustically perfect that even whispers carried to every corner with crystal clarity.

The chamber was packed to capacity, with additional spectators crowding the observation balconies, their collective anticipation creating a buzz like a swarm of anxious hornets. Elder Grada sat at the center of the curved judges' panel, flanked by six other elder council members, all wearing ceremonial robes that shimmered with subtle technological enhancements.

To the right of the council sat the somber-faced officials of the Justice Bureau, their silver and blue uniforms immaculate, data pads at the ready to document every word of these historic proceedings. Their presence underscored the severity of the charges—the Bureau rarely involved itself in matters that didn't threaten the very foundation of lombax society.

But most impressive was the royal dais where the newly crowned King Aelion Celestial sat observing the proceedings. Though young for a monarch—barely into his third decade—Aelion carried himself with the dignified bearing of one born to rule. His dark red fur and striking sky-blue eyes stood in stark contrast to his formal white and gold regalia. The king's presence at such a trial was unprecedented in recent memory, a testament to how seriously the crown took this threat.

"Percival Tachyon," Elder Grada began, his voice booming through the chamber without need of amplification, "you stand accused of conspiracy against the lombax people, attempted theft of sensitive technology, and planning an invasion that would have resulted in countless deaths. How do you plead?"

Tachyon, standing on a raised platform that still barely brought him to eye level with the seated council, adjusted his ornate collar and summoned his most dignified expression. Despite the medical treatment he had received for Azimuth's assault, faint bruising remained visible beneath his scales—resembling nothing so much as a patron suffering from severe indigestion after an all-you-can-eat buffet of questionable seafood.

"Preposterous!" he declared, his high-pitched voice cracking with indignation. "These accusations are as baseless as they are insulting! I came to you in peace, offering technological advancement and protection! These so-called 'plans' are nothing but theoretical defense scenarios! Hypothetical battle planning! A thought experiment for my personal intellectual stimulation!"

Elder Grada exchanged a look with Councilwoman Torris, who nodded and pressed a button on the control panel before her. A holographic screen materialized in the center of the chamber, displaying a document titled "OPERATION: LOMBAX EXTINCTION (Final Draft v4.7 - Now With Extra Genocide)".

"Theoretical defense scenarios, you say?" Grada raised a skeptical eyebrow that could have won awards for dramatic effect. "Then perhaps you could explain this document found in your personal data vault?"

The hologram zoomed in on a section featuring detailed maps of Fastoon with red arrows indicating invasion routes, each labeled with timestamps and troop numbers. In the margins were tiny doodles of lombaxes with X's for eyes and what appeared to be Tachyon standing on a pile of lombax skulls, wearing a crown twice the size of his current one.

King Aelion leaned forward slightly, his regal composure momentarily broken by a flash of cold anger as he studied the invasion plans targeting his people's capital city.

"That's—that's clearly been doctored!" Tachyon sputtered, his face turning a deeper shade of purple. "I've never seen that document in my life! Someone has framed me! Probably that unhinged General Azimuth! He's had it out for me since day one! Did you see what he did to my face? This is blatant anti-cragmite discrimination!"

Justice Bureau Chief Magistrate Selene Torran rose from her seat, her silver-streaked fur and stern expression lending gravity to her words. "The Bureau has authenticated all evidence presented today through multiple independent verification protocols. The documents are genuine, bearing your unique encryption signature and biometric markers."

"Let's continue," Grada said dryly. "Councilman Salvesen, please play audio file A-113."

The councilman nodded and tapped his console. Suddenly, Tachyon's voice filled the chamber, so clear it was as if he were speaking twice simultaneously:

"Commander Dropzit, the prototype battle suits are nearly complete. Once I've extracted the final components from the lombax technology vaults, we can begin mass production. When the time comes have your drophyd forces ready to mobilize on my signal."

"But sir," came a gurgling reply, "I thought you told the lombaxes these were defensive suits for protection against pirates?"

"Of course I did, you amphibious imbecile!" Tachyon's recorded voice cackled. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hello fuzzy creatures, please give me your most advanced technology so I can use it to exterminate your entire species'? Even lombaxes aren't THAT trusting! Though I must say, that Azimuth fellow came close—what a gullible furball!"

The recording continued with Tachyon's distinctive laugh, a sound like rusty nails in a blender set to "maniacal villain." King Aelion's expression darkened further, his tail twitching with barely contained fury—a rare display of emotion from the normally composed monarch.

The real Tachyon's mouth opened and closed several times, resembling a fish suddenly finding itself on dry land during a particularly awkward first date. "That's... that's clearly an impersonator! Voice synthesis technology! I would never use the phrase 'fuzzy creatures'—I'm much more eloquent! I prefer 'hirsute bipeds' or 'mammalian anomalies'!"

"Perhaps this next piece of evidence will refresh your memory," Grada said, nodding to Councilwoman Torris again.

The holographic display shifted to show a video feed of Tachyon alone in his guest quarters, speaking into a communication device while pacing back and forth. He was wearing lombax-print pajamas and a sleeping cap with a pompom that bobbed with each dramatic gesture, which caused several snickers from the audience and at least one audible gasp of fashion-related horror.

"The plan proceeds perfectly," video-Tachyon gloated, gesturing so wildly he nearly toppled over. "These lombaxes are so trusting it's almost disappointing! Like taking candy from a baby—except the candy is advanced weaponry and the baby is an entire civilization of insufferably smug geniuses!"

"And once we have the Dimensionator?" asked an unseen correspondent.

At the mention of the sacred lombax artifact, a hush fell over the chamber. King Aelion exchanged a significant glance with Kaden Sterling, who stood rigidly at attention near the witness stand.

"Then the real fun begins!" Tachyon rubbed his hands together gleefully. "First, we'll use it to bring back the cragmites. Then, we'll redecorate Fastoon—I'm thinking skulls and spikes, very intimidating. And finally, I'll convert that pretentious Council Chamber into my personal hot tub room! I've already ordered the bubbling jets and waterproof throne! With cup holders! SIXTEEN cup holders! And that pompous king's crown will make an excellent soap dish!"

The chamber erupted in gasps and murmurs of outrage. King Aelion's composure miraculously remained intact, but his eyes had narrowed to dangerous slits, the blue in them seeming to intensify with the fury of a blizzard. Tachyon's face had gone from purple to a shade of white that would make printer paper look positively vibrant by comparison.

"That's... that's... that's private communication!" he finally managed to sputter. "Invasion of privacy! Illegal surveillance! I'll sue! I'll file so many lawsuits your grandchildren will still be attending hearings!"

"There's more," Grada continued, unmoved. "Exhibit C, please."

The hologram changed to display a detailed blueprint labeled "TACHYON'S SUPER AMAZING BATTLE ARMOR (Patent Pending) (Lawyer Note: Consider Less Obvious Name)". The design clearly incorporated stolen lombax technology, with specific notes pointing out how each component could be weaponized against lombax physiology.

One note, written in Tachyon's unmistakable spiky handwriting, read: "Targeting system specifically calibrated for lombax ear sensitivity—maximum pain, minimum escape! (Note: Test on captive specimen before mass deployment. Suggest starting with that smug Sterling.)"

Another, beside what appeared to be a sonic weapon: "Frequency tuned to lombax hearing range—should cause excruciating discomfort and possible brain hemorrhaging. Note to self: bring earplugs. Second note to self: consider marketable jingle for when troops deploy."

"And finally," Grada said, his voice grave, "Exhibit D."

The hologram changed one last time to show what appeared to be Tachyon's personal journal. The page was headed "My Five-Year Plan for Absolute Domination and Tasteful Interior Decorating" with a small doodle of Tachyon wearing a crown that appeared to have its own smaller crown.

The list read:

1. Gain lombax trust (✓)

2. Steal lombax technology (in progress)

3. Build unstoppable army (pending)

4. Exterminate all lombaxes (can't wait!!!)

5. Declare self Supreme Emperor of the Universe

6. Finally get that hot tub installed (with built-in smoothie dispenser?)

7. Learn to play the theremin

8. Capture King Aelion's crown and royal signet (use as bath toys?)

At the bottom of the page was a crude drawing of Tachyon standing atop a pile of lombax bodies, with a speech bubble saying "Who's the runt NOW? WHO'S COMPENSATING NOW, CHAD FROM THIRD-GRADE ACADEMY?"

The chamber fell silent, all eyes turning to Tachyon, who had shrunk to about half his normal size, as if trying to physically disappear from the situation or perhaps hoping the floor might mercifully open up and swallow him.

"That's... that's my creative writing exercise!" he tried desperately. "Fiction! Fantasy! A therapeutic outlet suggested by my stress counselor! I have abandonment issues from being the last of my kind! This is discrimination against my emotional coping mechanisms!"

"Your stress counselor suggested you write about genocidal fantasies?" Justice Bureau Magistrate Torran asked, her tone dripping with skepticism.

"She's... very progressive in her methods?" Tachyon offered weakly. "Cutting edge stuff. Very avant-garde. You wouldn't understand."

Elder Grada leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Mr. Tachyon, would you like to hear the recording of you practicing your victory speech in the shower? The one where you describe in graphic detail how you plan to turn lombax fur into decorative throw pillows for your 'Throne of Galactic Subjugation'? Or perhaps the one where you choreograph your 'victory dance' on the ruins of this very chamber?"

"That won't be necessary," Tachyon mumbled, deflating completely.

"I thought not," Grada nodded. "The council will now deliberate with His Majesty and the Justice Bureau, though I suspect it won't take long."

It didn't. Less than five minutes later, the council returned, their expressions solemn. King Aelion had risen to his full height, his royal regalia catching the light as he prepared to deliver judgment personally—an extraordinary departure from protocol that emphasized the historic nature of this moment.

"Percival Tachyon," King Aelion pronounced, his voice rich and commanding, carrying to every corner of the chamber without effort, "For conspiracy against the lombax people, attempted theft of our most sensitive technology, and planning an invasion that would have resulted in countless deaths, this crown finds you guilty of high treason against the lombax nation."

The king descended three steps from his dais, moving closer to where Tachyon stood trembling.

"By the ancient laws of our people and with the full authority of the Justice Bureau, I sentence you to join your kind in exile. You will be transported to dimension A2-66, where the rest of the cragmites remain imprisoned. We briefly considered dimension J7-92, but it's quite lovely this time of year, with excellent beaches and a renowned spa resort, and frankly, you don't deserve the vacation."

Tachyon's face contorted with rage, all pretense of civility abandoned faster than a diet during holiday season. "You think this is the end? This is merely the beginning! The Cragmites will return, and when we do, we will wipe your pathetic species from existence! You will rue the day you crossed Percival Tachyon! RUE IT, I SAY! YOU'LL ALL BE DECORATIVE THROW PILLOWS ON MY IMPERIAL COUCH OF VICTORY! AND YOU, YOUR MAJESTY," he spat the title like a curse, "WILL BE THE OTTOMAN!"

As guards dragged the ranting cragmite away, his threats echoing down the corridor with increasingly creative descriptions of lombax-fur home decor, King Aelion turned to Azimuth, who stood at attention before the council, his restraints removed.

"General Azimuth," Elder Grada began, his tone formal, "Your actions in the council chamber were inexcusable. Protocol and decorum must be maintained, regardless of personal feelings or suspicions. We cannot have senior military officers assaulting diplomatic guests, no matter how satisfying it may have been to watch in retrospect."

Azimuth bowed his head. "I understand, Elder. My behavior was unbecoming of my rank and position. I let emotion override judgment, and for that, I apologize to the council and to His Majesty."

"However," Grada continued, a hint of grudging respect in his voice, "Subsequent events have vindicated your... concerns. Your intuition, however violently expressed, has saved countless lives and prevented what could have been a catastrophic betrayal." He straightened, addressing the full council. "It is the decision of this body that all charges against General Alister Azimuth be dropped, and that he be restored to his position with full honors."

Murmurs of agreement filled the chamber. King Aelion stepped forward, raising a hand for silence.

"General Azimuth," the king addressed him directly, "while your methods were unorthodox, your loyalty to our people is beyond question. Your actions have averted what might have been the greatest threat to lombax security since the Great War."

With a gesture from the king, a royal attendant stepped forward bearing a small ornate box. Aelion opened it, revealing a medallion of gleaming trillium inlaid with rare Fastoon sapphires.

"For exceptional service to the crown and the lombax people, I present you with the Order of the Praetorian Star, our highest military honor." The king placed the medallion around Azimuth's neck. "May your vigilance continue to protect our people."

From the back of the chamber, a sharp command rang out. "Praetorian Guard! Atten-TION!"

As one, the assembled members of the Lombax Praetorian Guard snapped to rigid attention, their armor gleaming under the chamber's lights. Their commander barked another order: "Pre-SENT ARMS!"

In perfect unison, they raised their Praetorian OmniWrenches in salute to their vindicated general. Kaden, among them, was the first to step forward and render a formal salute, pride evident in every line of his body.

The chamber erupted in applause, the sound rolling like thunder through the perfect acoustics.

Azimuth stood tall, accepting the honor with appropriate dignity, but inside, his emotions churned like a storm. He knew he didn't deserve this—not after what he had done in another timeline, not after the destruction he had nearly brought upon the universe, not after killing Ratchet with his own hands. This wasn't redemption; it was a second chance he had yet to earn.

As the ceremony concluded and congratulations poured in from all sides, Azimuth made a silent vow, more binding than any oath he had ever sworn: I will protect them all this time. I will not fail again. Not Kaden, not his son, not my people. Whatever it takes, whatever sacrifice is required, I will ensure the lombaxes survive and thrive. This time, I will get it right!

Later, alone with Kaden in his private quarters, Azimuth finally allowed himself to relax, slumping into a chair with the dramatic flair of someone who'd just wrestled a Blargian space whale while simultaneously filing their tax returns.

"Sweet mother of raritanium, these chairs get more comfortable every time!" he groaned, sinking deeper into the plush cushions. "Did you upgrade the padding again, or am I just getting old and appreciating simple comforts more?"

"I'm not answering that," Kaden chuckled, retrieving an ornate crystal decanter from a hidden compartment in his bookshelf. "Besides, after the day we've had, I think we've earned something stronger than cushions."

He poured two generous glasses of Fastoon's finest brandy—the kind usually reserved for Lombax Heritage Festival winners and particularly successful weapons inventors—then paused, eyeing the amber liquid critically before adding another splash to each.

"I still don't understand how you knew, Alister," Kaden said quietly, sliding one glass across his antique desk. "The plans, the communications with the drophyds—all of it was exactly as you described. It's like you read Tachyon's personal diary before we found it. How could you possibly have known?"

Azimuth accepted the glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it held answers to questions Kaden hadn't even thought to ask. Or perhaps a tiny, floating Tachyon he could flick with his finger for additional satisfaction.

"Some things are better left unexplained, old friend." He looked up, meeting Kaden's gaze with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller. "Let's just say... I was given a second chance to make things right. And I took it faster than you took my father's trillium harvester that time we snuck into the Agorian Battleplex for the fourth time in—"

"Oh come ON! We were SEVENTEEN at the time! Are you EVER going to let that go?" Kaden exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "And for the record, I returned it with a full tank of fuel!"

"Yes, and only MINOR plasma burns on the left stabilizer," Azimuth countered with a smirk. "And that suspicious dent that you swore was 'already there' despite my father's photographic documentation proving otherwise."

Kaden let out a dramatic sigh, falling back into his seat. "...a second chance," he repeated thoughtfully, steering the conversation back on track. "You know, when you collapsed in that meeting, You gave me the scare of my life. You didn't even have a pulse for nearly 30 seconds. I thought I'd lost you..." His voice cracked slightly on the last words, revealing a depth of emotion he rarely displayed.

Azimuth he raised his glass, his expression softening. "To second chances, Kaden. May we use them wisely. And may we never again have to listen to a cragmite lecture us about 'superior weapons technology' while wearing that ridiculous crown that looked like it came from a children's costume shop!"

"Sweet cosmos, that crown!" Kaden snorted, nearly spitting out his drink. "Did you see how it kept sliding to the left? I thought it was going to fall off and roll across the floor at any moment! I had ten bolts riding on it with Councilman Tiller!"

"I was taking bets with myself on whether it would happen before or after he finished that pompous presentation,'" Azimuth chuckled. "The way he kept adjusting it every thirty seconds like we wouldn't notice!"

Kaden clinked his glass against Azimuth's. "To second chances—and to friendship. And to never having to pretend to be impressed by Tachyon's so-called 'revolutionary' designs again. Honestly, the firing mechanisms were pedestrian at best. My cousin could design better with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back."

As they sipped their drinks, Azimuth noticed a change in his friend's demeanor. Kaden's shoulders, usually tense with responsibility, had visibly relaxed. The perpetual furrow in his brow had smoothed, and for the first time in years, he seemed... lighter, as if a shadow had been lifted that Azimuth had never even noticed was there.

"You look different," Azimuth observed, tilting his head. "Like a man who's just had a Magna Cannon removed from his back."

Kaden chuckled. "Is it that obvious? Do I look as ridiculous as you did that time you tried to impress General Cora with your 'improved' hoverboot design and ended up stuck upside-down in that fountain for two hours?"

"That was a CALIBRATION ISSUE, not a design flaw!" Azimuth protested, pointing an accusatory finger. "And I maintain that she was impressed by my commitment to thorough field testing! She promoted me the next month, didn't she?"

"Only because she said anyone who could survive that level of public humiliation and still show up for duty the next day had the psychological fortitude for command," Kaden countered, grinning wickedly.

Alister huffed, feigning annoyance, but inside, his heart swelled with an emotion he couldn't quite name. He never imagined he would be able to sit here again, drinking brandy and trading good-natured insults with Kaden. This alone was a gift beyond measure, a moment he had thought forever lost to time and tragedy.

Kaden swirled the brandy in his glass, his ears swaying slightly—a nervous habit he'd never outgrown. "It's just... I've carried this weight since dad's sudden death four years ago, the Sterling legacy... the responsibility." He sighed deeply.

"Are you talking about the Dimensionator?" Azimuth asked, careful to maintain a neutral expression despite the sudden racing of his heart. He knew exactly what the device was capable of—had seen its power firsthand in another life, had witnessed both its potential for salvation and destruction.

"Yes, siree. My family has guarded it for generations," Kaden explained, gesturing vaguely toward a reinforced door that presumably led to a vault. "The most powerful lombax technology ever created, and its safety falls to me. My father used to say it was like having the universe's most dangerous pet—you can't ignore it, you can't get rid of it, and if you feed it wrong, it might eat your dimension and then throw up on your new carpet."

Alister's gaze followed Kaden's gesture, his chest tightening at the sight of the reinforced door. He suppressed a shudder and forced himself to look away from the vault, silently vowing that in this timeline, the device would remain exactly where it belonged—locked safely in Kaden's vault for this generation and the next. 

"Do you know what it's like to be the keeper of the Dimensionator?" Kaden asked him. "To know that one mistake, one moment of carelessness, could mean disaster for our entire race? It's like babysitting a nuclear warhead with anger management issues." He drained his glass and set it down with a decisive click. "But now... knowing Tachyon's plans, what might have happened if he'd decided to use it against us... You've helped to lift that burden a little, Alister. You've given me something I never thought I'd have."

"And what's that?" Azimuth asked softly. "A reason to finally organize that disaster you call a tool collection? Because seriously, Kaden, it's an affront to organizational science."

"Peace of mind," Kaden replied simply, ignoring the jab. Then, his expression shifted, a tentative smile spreading across his face. "And it couldn't have come at a better time..."

Azimuth raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Kaden's ears swayed more pronouncedly now, betraying his nervous excitement despite his otherwise composed demeanor. "Mirabelle is pregnant."

The words hit Azimuth like a physical force, stealing the breath from his lungs. His eyes widened as the full implications washed over him. Ratchet—not yet named, not yet born—would soon come into this universe. In the previous timeline he remembered, the child had been merely months old when Tachyon's forces had descended upon Fastoon, forcing Kaden to hide his son away before facing his own death at the hands of the cragmite emperor.

But now that future would never come to pass. Now, Ratchet would grow up with his father and his mother, his heritage intact.

"Alister?" Kaden's voice broke through his thoughts. "Are you alright? You look like I've just told you a cyclophic monkey is your long-lost cousin."

Azimuth composed himself quickly, rising from his chair to embrace his friend with such sudden emotion that Kaden made a small sound of surprise. "I'm more than alright!" he said, his voice thick with feelings he couldn't possibly explain. "This is wonderful news! Truly wonderful!" He stepped back, gripping Kaden's shoulders. "How are you feeling? Excited? Terrified? Both? Please tell me you haven't already started designing miniature wrenches for the poor kid!"

Kaden laughed, a sound of genuine joy that Azimuth realized he hadn't heard in far too long—perhaps never would have heard again in the original timeline.

"All of the above!" Kaden admitted. "And of course I've designed baby wrenches—what kind of father would I be if I didn't? I've already got prototypes for three different sizes with safety grips and educational quantum-physics puzzles built into the handles. Mirabelle is already redesigning the entire east wing of the house for the nursery. You should see her, Al—she's barely showing, but she's already planning the next twenty years of this child's life. Yesterday I caught her creating a spreadsheet for potty training milestones. POTTY TRAINING! We don't even know if it's a boy or girl yet!"

"She always was the organized one," Azimuth chuckled. "Remember when she color-coded our study materials before final exams during our college years? I'm still finding blue tabs in my old textbooks that read 'Alister, if you don't understand this concept, you'll fail spectacularly.'"

Kaden laughed heartily as he refilled their glasses. "And don't forget those emergency study packets she'd slide under our doors the night before exams. Three-hole punched, tabbed by subject, with little motivational notes in the margins. 'Kaden, if you skip this chapter again, I will personally ensure you never touch another hoverboot!'" 

"See? The transition to motherhood will come naturally to Mirabelle, but what about you? Are you ready for fatherhood? Ready for sleepless nights, diaper disasters, and explaining why it's not appropriate to dismantle the household appliances before breakfast?"

Kaden's expression softened as he retook his seat. "I don't know if anyone's ever truly ready. Honestly, I'm terrified I'll drop the baby, or accidentally use baby powder instead of nanites in my workshop, or somehow manage to teach them swear words before their first birthday." He paused, a warm smile spreading across his face. "But knowing our cub will grow up safe on Fastoon, surrounded by our people, our culture..." His voice caught slightly. "That means everything, Alister. Everything."

Azimuth felt a lump form in his throat. In another life, Kaden's son had grown up alone on a distant planet, never knowing his heritage, never experiencing the richness of lombax culture. Now, that horrid future was erased, replaced with one full of possibility and connection.

"You'll be an excellent father, Kaden," Azimuth said with conviction, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that went beyond the moment. "Though I pity any child who inherits your stubborn streak. Have you thought about names yet? Please tell me you're not considering 'Percival' as a tribute to our recently departed cragmite friend."

"You know I can't tell you before the traditional naming ceremony," Kaden replied, but then he leaned in conspiratorially. "But since you rid us of that cragmite threat, I think you've earned a special privilege: Mirabelle has her heart set on 'Ryder' if we have a son—or 'Riley' for a daughter. Something about honoring an ancient Sterling family tradition of names that start with 'R' and sound vaguely adventurous."

His expression softened momentarily before a mischievous grin spread across his face. "Though I've been lobbying pretty hard for 'Kaden Junior.' Has a certain distinguished ring to it, don't you think? Just imagine the school announcements: 'Kaden Sterling Junior, please report to the principal's office for excessive modification of school property. Again-'"

"Absolutely not!" Azimuth laughed, slapping his knee with such force that his brandy sloshed dangerously. "The galaxy can barely handle one Kaden Sterling! Two would be catastrophic! I've seen the aftermath of your so-called 'calculated risks' firsthand—remember that incident with the antimatter propulsion system in the Vogal Caves? Three science labs and my FAVORITE COAT, Kaden! My favorite coat!"

"That coat was a crime against fashion and you know it!" Kaden retorted. "I did the galaxy a favor! Besides, the explosion was at least 15% smaller than my calculations predicted, which I count as a success!"

They both erupted in laughter, the sound echoing through Kaden's quarters as Alister raised a toast, the light catching the crystalline edges of his glass. "To your child," he said, his voice softening with genuine emotion. "May he inherit your brilliance, Mirabelle's patience, and hopefully neither of your legendary stubborn streaks! And may he never develop your questionable taste in formal attire!"

"I'll drink to that!" Kaden agreed, clinking his glass against Azimuth's. His eyes shimmered with hope for the future—a future that now existed because of Azimuth's impossible second chance. "But 'he,' Alister? Are you placing bets on my child's gender already? Don't tell me the great General Azimuth has taken up fortune-telling in his spare time?"

Alister winked mysteriously. "Call it a general's intuition," he replied, tapping his temple knowingly.

"Like your sudden intuition about Tachyon being untrustworthy? Just how do you know these things?" Kaden pressed, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. "You're not going to tell me it's some sort of sixth sense, are you?"

With a dramatic flourish, Alister placed a finger to his lips, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "It's a secret—"

"Secret, my tail, Al!" Kaden exclaimed, throwing a decorative cushion that Azimuth barely dodged. "Spill it already! You can't just drop that and expect me to let it go! What are you, some kind of time traveler? Did you peek at my family's genetic testing results or have you been reading Mirabelle's pregnancy journal? Because if you have, I should warn you about page 37—the hormonal mood swings have NOT been kind to my dignity!"

As they continued their celebration late into the evening, trading stories and dreams for the future, Azimuth felt a profound sense of peace wash over him. Watching his friend's animated expressions—alive, happy, with his family intact—Azimuth silently vowed to protect this timeline with everything he had.

I've kept my promise, Ratchet. I got your family back.

Alister reached for the decanter, refilling their glasses with the precision of someone defusing a bomb—or at least someone who'd already had three drinks but was desperately trying to appear sober. "So," he said casually, swirling the amber liquid, "have heard about Minister Umbra's upcoming retirement?"

Kaden snorted, a sound somewhere between amusement and contempt. "You mean the illustrious Defense Minister who couldn't defend his lunch from the cafeteria staff? The strategic genius whose greatest military accomplishment was winning the Center's annual nap competition five years running?"

"The very same," Alister confirmed, raising his glass in mock salute.

"The Defense Department's been running on fumes and empty promises for so long, I'm surprised they still remember what actual defense looks like," Kaden continued, his tail flicking with irritation. "Last time I submitted a proposal for upgraded perimeter systems, Umbra asked if we could replace the laser turrets with 'something less shooty' because—and I quote—'lasers are too expensive and very bright.'"

Alister chuckled. "He did have sensitive eyes."

"He had sensitive everything! The man filed a workplace injury claim when someone closed a door too loudly!" Kaden took a long swig of his drink. "Last fiscal cycle, their budget got cut so badly they had to share hover-vehicles. Can you imagine? The entire eastern defense squadron carpooling like it's some kind of military field trip?"

As Kaden tilted his glass back to drain the last drops, Alister casually dropped his bombshell. "You should apply for the position."

The reaction was instantaneous and spectacular. Kaden's eyes bulged like a startled Terachnoid, his throat convulsed, and for one glorious moment, Alister thought he might witness the rare spectacle of Fastoon's finest brandy being propelled across the room at high velocity. Somehow, through what could only be described as heroic internal fortitude, Kaden managed to swallow instead of spray.

"Have you—" Kaden wheezed, pounding his chest, "completely—" another wheeze, "LOST YOUR MIND?" The final words emerged as a strangled shout that probably woke up half the residential district.

Alister maintained the serene smile of someone who had just suggested they try a new restaurant, not upend Kaden's entire career. "Not at all. I'm being perfectly rational."

"Rational?" Kaden's voice climbed an octave. "Rational would be suggesting I try a new hoverboot design. Rational would be proposing we test experimental weapons on our day off. This?" He gestured wildly, nearly knocking over his empty glass. "This is the kind of suggestion that makes me wonder if that sedative from earlier never actually wore off!"

"You're young, you're brilliant, and you just helped expose a cragmite plot to destroy our entire civilization," Alister countered smoothly. "They'd hand you the position on a silver platter. Possibly with decorative fruit and a congratulatory note-"

"I don't want a silver platter! Or decorative fruit! Or a job that involves attending budget meetings where the highlight is deciding whether we can afford to fix the toilets in the eastern barracks!" Kaden slumped back in his chair. "Do you know what the Defense Minister does? Paperwork. Mountains of paperwork. Actual, physical paper, Al. They still use paper. The department is so underfunded they can't afford digital systems!"

Alister leaned forward, his expression shifting from amused to earnest so quickly it was almost dizzying. "I need you there, Kaden," he said quietly. "I need you to shape them up. To be my partner in this."

"Your partner?" Kaden's ears perked up despite his skepticism.

"My mistake," Alister continued, his voice soft but intense, "was looking outside—to people like Tachyon—when I should have been looking beside me." He tapped the arm of Kaden's chair. "Right here. I won't make that mistake again."

The humor drained from Kaden's face as he recognized the sincerity in his friend's eyes.

"Together, we could secure not just Fastoon, but all of Polaris," Alister continued. "Me with the Praetorian Guard, you with the Defense Force. Two arms working in perfect coordination instead of slapping each other like squabbling siblings at a family dinner."

Kaden's brow furrowed in thought. "I see where you're going with this. If the Defense Force could actually function properly, and work with the Praetorian Guard instead of against them..." He trailed off, the strategic possibilities already dancing behind his eyes.

Then reality crashed back in like an uninvited guest. "But I'd have to resign from the Praetorian Guard! After I've worked my tail off—literally, Al, I've lost inches of fur from stress alone—to get where I am!"

"Not necessarily," Alister replied with the smug smile of someone who'd already thought twelve steps ahead. "You could join the Praetorian Reserves. Best of both worlds—like ordering the deluxe combo meal but getting to substitute the side dish."

"That's... actually possible," Kaden admitted reluctantly.

"We could share intelligence directly, without waiting for it to crawl through official channels at the pace of an arthritic space slug," Alister continued, warming to his theme. "No more Praetorian Guard looking down their noses at the Defense Force like they're something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of their boots."

"And no more Defense Force acting like the Guard stole their favorite toy and won't give it back," Kaden added, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

"Exactly! We'd work together as these departments should have from the beginning." Alister's eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. "Besides, you have a cub on the way. Being Defense Minister means more time on Fastoon and weekends off if there's no emergencies to tend to. I'm sure Mirabelle would appreciate having you around to actually help with the baby instead of hearing about it via holographic messages from some distant outpost on a mission."

Kaden's resistance was visibly crumbling like a poorly constructed sand castle at high tide. "I would see more of Mirabelle," he admitted. "And with the baby coming, that's... important."

He narrowed his eyes suddenly, studying Alister with renewed suspicion. "But why are you pushing this so suddenly? What aren't you telling me?"

"General's intuition," Alister replied with a tap to his temple and a wink so exaggerated it looked like he was having a facial spasm.

Kaden groaned, rolling his eyes so hard they threatened to disappear into the back of his head. "That again? Next you'll be telling me your horoscope predicted it or that you consulted a mystic fongoid who read your future in a bowl of soup!"

"Would you prefer I said a small blue alien from another dimension told me it was a good idea?" Alister countered with a perfectly straight face.

Kaden sighed with all the enthusiasm of someone preparing for a root canal. "I thought we were friends, Al!" he moaned. "Friends don't saddle each other with administrative nightmares and paperwork mountains! Friends don't force each other to attend four-hour budget meetings where the most exciting moment is when someone brings in slightly-better-than-average pastries!"

"We are friends," Alister said, his tone softening. "You reminded me what our friendship truly means. I was the one who forgot for a moment." His eyes clouded with memories Kaden couldn't possibly understand. "I'm sorry, Kaden. Truly sorry I didn't listen to you before. I swear I won't make that mistake twice."

Kaden waved a dismissive hand. "That's over and done with, thankfully. But..." he fixed Alister with a pointed look, "your track record of extreme decision-making isn't exactly stellar. You swing from one extreme to another like a pendulum on a sugar rush. Remember the time you decided the Guard's standard-issue boots weren't waterproof enough, so you dunked the entire squadron in the fountain for a 'practical demonstration'?"

"That was a legitimate training exercise," Alister protested.

"It was winter, Al! Three cadets caught pneumonia!"

"They learned to waterproof their equipment, didn't they?" Alister countered with a smug grin.

"My point," Kaden continued, fighting a smile, "is that your ideas tend to be either brilliant or catastrophic, with very little middle ground."

"I admit I can be... decisive," Alister conceded.

"'Decisive' is choosing what to have for lunch without hemming and hawing. You're more like a meteorite—brilliant, fast-moving, and occasionally causing mass extinction events."

"But I'm sure about this," Alister insisted, leaning forward earnestly. "This is the right way. Don't you agree? Or perhaps you see a glaring hole—or want to make one, as is your usual approach to problems?"

Kaden was quiet for a moment, his analytical mind visibly working through all angles of the proposition. Finally, he reluctantly admitted, "No, your logic is sound... for once. I just wish it didn't include me in your plans!" He sighed dramatically, the sound of a lombax accepting his heroic burden. "Fine, I'll put in for the Minister seat as you've requested, but you need to help me secure better funding and work with me to clean up the mess I'm bound to inherit! That department is probably held together with adhesive tape and optimistic thinking at this point."

"Don't worry about that," Alister replied, his eyes twinkling with the light of someone who had already charted the entire course. "I've already thought of a few ways to not only triple the budget but to get you new training facilities, upgraded equipment, and a complete overhaul of the outdated communications systems. Oh, and actual chairs for the conference room that don't feel like they were designed by someone who hates spines and comfort equally."

"Triple the budget?" Kaden's ears perked up like radar dishes. "How in the name of Fastoon's moons do you plan to accomplish that miracle? Going to pull raritanium out of thin air? Rob the treasury? Sell commemorative plates with your face on them?"

"Better," Alister grinned, looking so pleased with himself that Kaden half-expected him to start purring. "I'm going to use bureaucracy against itself."

"This should be good," Kaden muttered, refilling his glass in preparation.

"The Praetorian Guard has had surplus funding for the last three fiscal cycles," Alister explained, looking suspiciously like someone who had rehearsed this speech in front of a mirror. "Funds that, if not used, get redistributed to general administration—where they promptly disappear into the black hole known as 'miscellaneous expenses,' which we all know is code for 'the councilors' luxury retreat fund.'"

"Go on," Kaden said, suddenly interested.

"Instead, I propose we establish a joint training initiative between the Guard and the Defense Force. The Guard 'sponsors' the program with our surplus, the Defense Force provides the personnel and facilities, and voilà! Legitimate budget transfer that benefits both departments while bypassing at least seventeen layers of bureaucratic red tape."

"That's... actually brilliant," Kaden admitted, looking impressed despite himself.

"Plus," Alister continued, warming to his subject, "I've identified at least four redundant sub-departments that could be consolidated, freeing up additional funding without actually cutting any services. Did you know we have separate divisions for 'Aerial Threat Assessment' and 'Atmospheric Defense Monitoring'? They do the same job! They even share an office! They just have different letterheads and twice the administrative overhead!"

Kaden leaned back, studying his friend with new appreciation. "When did you become such a budget expert? Last time I checked, your financial strategy was 'throw bolts at the problem until it goes away.'"

"I've had time to think," Alister replied cryptically. "And motivation to learn."

"Well, color me impressed and slightly disturbed," Kaden said, raising his glass in a toast. "To the future Defense Minister and his surprisingly fiscally responsible friend, the General. May we somehow prevent the galaxy from imploding under our watch!"

"To partnership," Alister countered, clinking his glass against Kaden's. "And to second chances."

As they drank, Alister couldn't help but feel a profound sense of satisfaction. The pieces were falling into place—pieces that had been scattered across time and space in another life. This time, with Kaden by his side and the lessons of a future that would never come to pass, they would build something unbreakable.

This time, the lombaxes would thrive.

This time, a child named Ryder would grow up knowing his father.

This time, Alister Azimuth would be the guardian his people deserved.

And perhaps, just perhaps, somewhere in the vast cosmos, Orvus was watching with approval—and probably thinking of another terrible clock joke.

Fifteen Years Later... Present Day

Planet Fastoon - Admin BLDG, Defense Ministry East Branch 

The Defense Ministry's East Branch headquarters gleamed in the sunlight, its shield-shaped structure standing proud against the Fastoon skyline. Connected to it by an elegant bridge designed to resemble an OmniWrench—a symbolic joining of the two departments—stood the equally impressive Praetorian Guard headquarters, its dual spires mimicking lombax ears reaching toward the heavens.

General Alister Azimuth strode through the main atrium, his Praetorian OmniWrench catching the light streaming through the massive skylight. Behind him, Randall Voss—his ever-loyal right-hand man—struggled to keep pace while juggling three datapads, a holographic projector, and what appeared to be Alister's fourth cup of coffee that morning.

"Sir, if you could possibly slow down to a speed that doesn't break the sound barrier," Randall panted, his dark blue fur with lighter streaks becoming disheveled in his rush, "these quarterly reports might actually survive the journey without becoming digital confetti."

"Exercise, Randall!" Alister called over his shoulder without breaking stride. "It's good for you! Builds character! Strengthens the lungs! Prevents your desk chair from permanently fusing to your backside!"

"My backside and I were perfectly happy with our symbiotic relationship," Randall muttered, narrowly avoiding a collision with a group of fresh-faced recruits who scattered like startled Horny Toads at the sight of the General. "Besides, some of us weren't blessed with legendary lombax stamina and the cardiovascular system of an Olympic athlete."

Alister finally paused at the central information desk, allowing his beleaguered assistant to catch up. The atrium buzzed with activity—a carefully choreographed dance of Praetorian Guards in their distinctive armor mingling seamlessly with Defense Force personnel in their sleek uniforms. Holographic displays showcased real-time data from across the galaxy, while automated drones zipped overhead carrying messages and supplies.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Alister said, gesturing broadly at the controlled chaos around them. "Fifteen years ago, these two departments couldn't agree on the color of space, let alone work together."

"A miracle rivaled only by your ability to generate paperwork faster than I can process it," Randall replied dryly, finally catching his breath. "Though I admit, the transformation is remarkable. Remember when the Defense Force's idea of advanced technology was two tin cans connected by string?"

Alister chuckled, his eyes scanning the bustling atrium with undisguised pride. "And now look at them—quantum encryption, predictive threat analysis, and interstellar rapid response teams. Kaden really outdid himself."

"You both did," Randall corrected, shuffling his datapads into a more manageable stack. "The Azimuth-Sterling Initiative transformed galactic security as we know it. Pirates reduced by 68%, smuggling operations down 44%, and the Polaris Defense Force actually returns our calls now instead of sending them straight to voicemail."

"The Polaris Alliance was Kaden's masterstroke," Alister said, nodding toward a delegation of non-lombax officers being escorted through a security checkpoint. "Joint training exercises, shared intelligence networks, standardized emergency protocols—it's changed everything."

"Don't forget the matching coffee mugs," Randall added with a smirk. "Nothing says 'interstellar cooperation' like ceramic drinkware with both logos."

As they made their way toward the executive elevators, they passed the Wall of Achievement—a massive display showcasing the departments' joint successes. Holographic headlines scrolled past: "SMUGGLING RING DISMANTLED IN CERULLEAN SECTOR," "PIRATE FLEET NEUTRALIZED NEAR COBALIA," "AGORIAN WEAPONS PROGRAM HALTED," and most impressively, "POLARIS PRESIDENT AWARDS AZIMUTH-STERLING MEDAL OF VALOR FOR SAVING IGLIAK FROM ASTEROID COLLISION."

"The budget increases certainly didn't hurt," Randall noted, following Alister's gaze. "Funny how nearly being conquered by a megalomaniacal cragmite makes citizens suddenly appreciate robust defense spending."

"Tachyon's deception was the wake-up call we needed," Alister replied, his expression darkening momentarily at the memory. "Though I'd rather have achieved all this without that particular catalyst."

They stepped into an elevator, its walls displaying a 360-degree view of Fastoon's capital as they ascended. The city had flourished in the years of peace that followed Tachyon's exile, its spires reaching higher, its population growing, its technology advancing by leaps and bounds.

"Minister Sterling's office, please," Alister instructed the elevator's AI.

"I'm sorry, General Azimuth," the AI responded in a pleasant feminine voice, "Minister Sterling has not yet arrived. Would you like to speak with Chief of Staff Vespera instead?"

Alister's eyebrows shot up. "Kaden's not in yet? It's nearly midday. Is he ill?"

"Records indicate Minister Sterling notified staff of a 'family situation that requires his immediate attention,'" the AI recited with the calm precision of someone reading an insurance policy.

"That sounds suspiciously like Ryder blew something up again," Randall observed.

"That boy is only fifteen, wait—not quite, he has a birthday coming up soon—fourteen years and already causing household catastrophes worthy of a seasoned demolitions expert!" Alister sighed, though the affection in his voice was unmistakable. "Some things never change."

The elevator doors slid open to reveal Kaden's office suite, where a statuesque female lombax with striking silver fur and piercing dark eyes was orchestrating a small army of assistants with the precision of a symphony conductor.

"—and tell the Polaris Ambassador we'll reschedule for tomorrow morning. No, I don't care if his ceremonial headdress can only be worn on alternate Tuesdays when the moons are in alignment, this is a scheduling conflict, not an intergalactic incident!" She spotted Alister and immediately straightened. "General Azimuth! What an unexpected pleasure!"

"Vespera," Alister greeted with a respectful nod. "I see Kaden's office remains a marvel of controlled pandemonium, even without his direct supervision."

"Organized chaos, General," Vespera Starfall corrected, dismissing her assistants with a subtle flick of her wrist that somehow managed to be both elegant and commanding. Her crisp accent and perfect posture spoke of her aristocratic upbringing in Fastoon's northern provinces. "There's a precise methodology to what appears to be madness. Much like your battle strategies, I'm told. How may I assist you?"

"I'm just here for my weekly strategy session with Kaden," Alister said, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Is he running late?"

"Actually, Minister Sterling won't be coming in today at all," Vespera replied, her expression shifting to something more serious. "He called in at dawn to report he'd be working from home due to a family situation."

"Oh?" Alister's ears perked up with concern. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

"It seems young Ryder has fallen ill," Vespera explained, pulling up Kaden's message on her holographic display. "Apparently, he's suffering from severe muscle fatigue and has been confined to bed rest for the next few days."

"Muscle fatigue?" Alister's eyes widened in genuine shock. "That's... well, unexpected. Kaden sent me a clip of last night's hover-ball game—Ryder scored the winning goal. Quite impressively too." A thoughtful expression crossed his face as he recalled the footage, the way the young lombax had moved with surprising skill and confidence. Skills that seemed to have appeared virtually overnight in a boy who had previously shown little interest in sports.

"Yes, well, according to the Minister, it seems the boy pushed himself far beyond his physical limits," Vespera continued. "The medical report mentions something about 'catastrophic overexertion.'"

In the back of Alister's mind, suspicions stirred. The sudden athletic prowess, the dramatic physical transformation, the new interests that had appeared seemingly from nowhere—it all pointed to one explanation. Ratchet's consciousness was becoming more dominant in Ryder's body. The timeline was correcting itself, just as Orvus had predicted it might.

"Minister Sterling sends his deepest apologies," Vespera said, her professional demeanor momentarily softening. "He specifically mentioned how much he was looking forward to your strategic planning session and asks if you might be willing to reschedule for tomorrow?"

Alister waved a dismissive hand, masking his deeper thoughts. "No need to reschedule. Some things are more important than meetings, even for the Defense Minister." His expression turned thoughtful. "Tell Kaden to focus on his son. The galaxy's security can wait a day."

"I appreciate your understanding, General," Vespera replied with a grateful nod. "In the meantime, perhaps you'd like to inspect the new obstacle course in the training grounds? Minister Sterling completed the final designs last week."

"The infamous 'Sterling Gauntlet' I've been hearing so much about?" Alister's eyes lit up with interest. "I was wondering when he'd finally finish that project."

"That's the one," Vespera confirmed with a grimace. "Though 'infamous' is already an apt description despite being operational for only five days. We've had three recruits request transfers after attempting it, and one particularly dramatic cadet claimed to have 'seen the afterlife briefly' during the final section."

"Sounds like Kaden's handiwork," Alister chuckled, a competitive gleam entering his eyes. "He always did have a flair for the diabolical when it came to training exercises. Remember the 'Molecular Destabilization Zone' he installed at the Academy? The one that made gravity reverse every seven seconds?"

"How could I forget?" Vespera winced. "I was the unfortunate administrative assistant who had to process all the medical claims. My desk was buried in paperwork for weeks."

"Well then," Alister said, rubbing his hands together with anticipation, "I think I'll go see if this new course lives up to Kaden's reputation. Come along, Randall. Let's see what our Defense Minister has cooked up to torture the next generation."

"Wonderful," Randall muttered, following Alister back to the elevator. "Nothing I love more than watching highly trained athletes perform impossible physical feats while I contemplate how winded I get tying my shoelaces."

As they descended, Alister's communicator chirped with an incoming message. "General," a crisp voice reported, "our deep space probes have detected unusual activity in the Solana Galaxy, specifically near planet Veldin. The Blarg are mobilizing ships in the sector."

Alister's expression sharpened instantly. "The Blarg? Are you certain?"

"Positive, sir. Multiple vessels, seemingly searching for something."

Alister and Randall stepped out of the elevator, moving to a more private alcove in the atrium.

"Any word from Captain Phyronix?" Alister asked quietly, his voice dropping to ensure privacy.

Randall's bright golden-yellow eyes widened slightly at the question. "Actually, yes. His latest communication came through this morning—heavily encrypted, as usual. The situation in Solana is... concerning, to say the least."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough that he's considering unauthorized action," Randall replied, lowering his voice further. "The Solana government has gone eerily quiet on multiple fronts. Captain Phyronix reports that several planets have gone missing entirely."

"Missing?" Alister's brow furrowed deeply. "Planets don't just go missing, Randall."

"These did. Two were confirmed to have somehow been repositioned directly into their suns. Completely destroyed." Randall's expression was grim. "Phyronix tried reporting this to Solana's central government but was met with—and these are his words—'pathological indifference.' They dismissed his concerns, offered vague excuses, and essentially told him to mind his own business."

Alister's jaw clenched, his eyes distant as if seeing something beyond the present moment. "I should have asked Ratchet more about this," he muttered, almost to himself. "If I'd known the details of what happened in the original timeline, perhaps we could have prevented these deaths..."

Randall looked puzzled but didn't question the cryptic statement. After ten years as Alister's right hand, he'd grown accustomed to these occasional mysterious utterances—references to people and events that seemed to exist only in the General's mind. He'd long ago decided that genius and eccentricity often went hand in hand, and Alister Azimuth had generous portions of both.

"Sir, what are your orders regarding the Blarg activity on Veldin?" Randall asked, redirecting the conversation to more immediate concerns.

Alister's focus snapped back to the present. "Have the Scarlet Reavers prepare for immediate deployment. I want eyes on the situation within the hour."

"The Scarlet Reavers? For a simple reconnaissance mission?" Randall couldn't hide his surprise. The Reavers was the Praetorian Guard's elite special operations unit, typically reserved for the most critical missions.

"This is more important than it appears," Alister said firmly. "And Randall... we need to begin preparations to offer sanctuary."

"Sanctuary? To whom, exactly?"

"To anyone displaced by these events. Anyone seeking aid from Solana or elsewhere." Alister's tone left no room for argument, despite the radical nature of the suggestion.

Randall's jaw dropped. "Sir, with all due respect, the Council will never approve! Fastoon has always been... selective about non-lombax visitors. Offering open sanctuary would be unprecedented."

"Then we'll set a precedent," Alister replied simply. "Sometimes, Randall, the right path isn't the traditional one. I've learned that lesson the hard way."

They stepped outside into the brilliant Fastoon sunshine, the sprawling training grounds of the Court of Vigilance stretching before them. Named to symbolize the eternal watchfulness that Alister and Kaden had committed to after Tachyon's deception, the massive complex housed hundreds of recruits training in everything from advanced weapons systems to zero-gravity combat.

"Sir, may I speak freely?" Randall asked as they watched a squad of Praetorian trainees navigate a particularly vicious-looking section of Kaden's infamous obstacle course.

"When have you ever waited for permission?" Alister replied with a raised eyebrow.

"Fair point," Randall chuckled. "It's just... sometimes I don't understand your motivations. These preparations, the focus on Veldin, this talk of sanctuary—it's as if you're preparing for something specific. Something you haven't shared with the rest of us."

Alister's expression softened slightly. "There are some burdens of knowledge that are mine alone to carry, Randall. But know this—everything I do, every preparation I make, serves a greater purpose. Right now, that purpose includes finding something—someone—very important on Veldin."

"Someone important enough to deploy the Scarlet Reavers?"

"Someone who may change the course of our future," Alister confirmed, his gaze drifting skyward toward the stars that held so many answers—and so many promises. "I made a promise, Randall. A promise I intend to keep, no matter what."

As they watched the next generation of defenders train before them, Alister felt a profound sense of purpose. For fifteen years, he had been building toward this moment—strengthening the lombaxes, uniting their forces, preparing for what he knew would come. The path of redemption had been long and sometimes difficult, but he was nearly there.

"Have the Scarlet Reavers focus their search on any unusual robotic signatures," Alister instructed as they turned back toward the building. "Particularly small robots with sophisticated AI capabilities."

"A robot?" Randall's confusion was evident. "That's what all this is about?"

Alister smiled enigmatically. "Not just any robot, Randall. A very special one. One that needs to be brought home safely to Fastoon... and eventually, to his father."

As the sun climbed higher in the Fastoon sky, casting its golden light over the Court of Vigilance, Alister Azimuth stood tall—no longer burdened by guilt, no longer haunted by failure. In this timeline, he had found his redemption. And soon, very soon, he would complete the circle by bringing a small robot with a Zoni soul home to meet his father.

The universe, it seemed, had a wonderful sense of humor after all.

Chapter Text

Solana Galaxy - Y Sector

The vastness of space stretched before them, a canvas of brilliant stars scattered across infinite black. For Captain Axel Sterling of the Scarlet Reavers, it inspired only profound impatience and an impressive ability to find creative ways to express his boredom.

"Are we there yet?" he muttered, drumming fingers against the Crimson Phantom's control panel with the rhythm of a particularly aggressive woodpecker. The dashboard bore scars from previous drumming sessions, each dent a testament to missions that had tested his patience and possibly his sanity.

Captain Axel cut an impressive figure in deep-scarlet combat armor—quietly elite and loudly "don't try me." His golden fur, sharp black markings, and trademark Sterling emerald eyes marked his heritage clearly. Even after three cramped days in a starfighter cockpit, he carried himself with the confidence of a soldier who'd never met a tactical problem he couldn't solve with appropriate force and explosives.

"Fifth time in thirty minutes, Captain," came the exasperated reply through comms. "The answer remains unchanged: we'll reach Veldin's orbit in twenty-two hours, thirty-seven minutes. Would you like me to count down individual seconds? I could add sound effects."

"Your precision remains admirable and deeply annoying, Jax," Axel replied, rolling his eyes.

Lieutenant Jax Caliber piloted the Crimson Specter to Axel's right—the team's analytical mind whose idea of light reading was "Advanced Calculus: Now With More Variables!" His russet fur and amber eyes suggested he'd read every technical manual ever written and corrected the typos. His modified Flux Rifle sat surrounded by enough backup equipment to outfit a small army.

"Just fulfilling my role as mathematical accuracy and crushing realism, sir," Jax replied. "Though I confess curiosity about our destination. Veldin is what strategists politely call 'a backwater rock with delusions of relevance.'"

"Because General Azimuth's orders were crystal clear," Axel stated. "Find robot XJ-0461, designation 'Clank,' secure it safely, transport it to Fastoon. No questions, no modifications, no unauthorized snack stops."

"Speaking of unasked questions," chimed a third voice bubbling with curiosity, "what makes one robot so monumentally special that it requires the Praetorian Guard's most elite unit? Is it a super-intelligent AI? A walking weapon? Or—my personal favorite—a robot that makes absolutely perfect pancakes?"

Sergeant Nyx Starfall, piloting the Crimson Wraith on left flank, was a technological virtuoso whose pale silver fur and lightning-quick fingers had earned her a reputation for hacking government systems while organizing her music collection. Her ship bristled with "borrowed" experimental equipment, creating a mobile laboratory that occasionally achieved sentience.

"Your pancake obsession is becoming genuinely concerning, Nyx," Axel observed. "Perhaps we should schedule a psychological evaluation."

"Perfect pancakes are the foundation of advanced civilization!" she protested, her ship wobbling. "Golden, fluffy, evenly cooked—it's mechanical perfection but edible! Any robot mastering that would be worth its weight in raritanium!"

"I'll include that in my report," Axel replied with deadpan seriousness.

The fourth ship, Crimson Phantom II, had maintained unusual radio silence.

"You're quieter than a Terachnoid librarian during a silence competition, rookie," Axel noted, his voice taking on the fond but concerned tone of an older brother. "Don't tell me you've fallen asleep again. Elite operatives are supposed to function on caffeine, determination, and professionally maintained pride in never appearing vulnerable."

Prince Cole Celestial, eighteen and officially the youngest Reaver in the unit's history, straightened like he'd been caught daydreaming during royal ceremony instead of paying attention to important matters of state. His dark red fur consistent with the Celestial royal line, along with those striking gray eyes—inherited from Queen Ilara—made him instantly recognizable despite his desperate attempts to blend in with common soldiers. 

"Apologies, Captain," Cole replied with the formal precision that had been drilled into him since birth, though his voice carried a hint of embarrassment. "I was contemplating the General's strategic thinking. General Azimuth has never dispatched our unit for a simple retrieval missions. Our previous assignments have involved significantly more... explosive elements."

Captain Snugglebolt dangled from his dashboard—a worn, battle-scarred stuffed animal that had survived wars and washing machine explosions. The toy had become their unofficial mascot, honoring Axel's fallen sister.

"True enough," Axel acknowledged. "Scarlet Reavers handle galactic security threats and operations that would make regular soldiers require therapy. We don't do simple robot recovery. Whatever makes this robot special, the General sees strategic importance he hasn't shared."

"Maybe it's a secret weapon disguised as a helpful household appliance," Nyx suggested. "Or a prototype spy robot with embarrassing political information!"

"Your conspiracy theories grow more elaborate each mission," Jax observed. "Last month: underground robot fighting ring. Before that: a secret lombax dating service. Two weeks ago: a plot to replace military rations with holographic food-"

"That fighting ring theory had merit!" Nyx protested. "Suspicious robot gatherings, underground betting, combat-grade lubricants purchased in bulk!"

"A robotics conference," Jax replied with devastating accuracy. "As we discovered after infiltrating and spending seventeen hours monitoring two hundred engineers discussing servo motor efficiency over appetizers."

"The appetizers were surprisingly excellent," Cole admitted quietly, his royal training having given him strong opinions about catering quality. "Though I must confess, some of those 'engineers' looked suspiciously combat-ready for individuals supposedly dedicated to motor efficiency discussions."

"Everyone looks combat-ready compared to you, rookie," Axel said fondly. "You've led such a sheltered life you think aggressive marketplace haggling qualifies as dangerous operations."

"Negotiations for rare spices can become genuinely heated!" Cole protested with the wounded dignity of someone whose worldview had been gently but persistently mocked. "Last month's saffron incident nearly caused a diplomatic crisis! There were harsh words and someone threatened to duel with measuring spoons!"

"'The Great Saffron Incident of Stardate 7897,'" Nyx repeated, barely suppressing laughter. "'Operation Golden Spice: A Culinary Crisis of International Proportions.'"

"Mock me if you wish, but proper seasoning maintains morale," Cole replies. "Have you tasted standard military rations? Yesterday's 'mystery protein' was so questionable I'm convinced it achieved sentience!"

"The prince has a point," Jax agreed grudgingly. "Yesterday's dinner analysis came back as 'probably edible' with confidence 'significantly less than optimal.'"

"Can we focus on the mission instead of debating military cuisine?" Axel interrupted. "We're supposed to be representing the Lombax Praetorian Guard's most elite forces here—"

A proximity alert cut through their conversation.

"Proximity alert, bearing two-seven-mark-four," Jax reported. "Small transport vessel, minimal energy signature, propulsion held together by wishful thinking and duct tape. Lots of duct tape."

"Visual confirmation," Nyx added, transmitting the sensor image.

The ship was, diplomatically speaking, a testament to determination over aesthetics—mismatched hull plates, asymmetrical thrusters, and manually welded repairs that indicated complete disregard for safety protocols.

"Scan for life forms and probability of imminent explosion," Axel ordered.

"No organic life forms detected," Jax reported. "Could be automated, or carrying cargo too small to register."

"Should we intercept?" Cole asked.

"Negative," Axel decided. "We're on a time-sensitive mission. That ship's moving under its own power. Intervening could compromise our timeline."

"Plus," Nyx added, "if we stopped for every ship three minutes from becoming a colorful nebula, we'd never complete missions."

"Setting course to maintain safe distance," Jax confirmed. "Close enough to monitor, far enough to avoid collateral damage."

As the Scarlet Reavers continued toward Veldin, maintaining perfect formation like synchronized dancers with rocket engines and superior firepower, none realized they'd just passed the very robot they were sent to find. But then, that was the nature of their work—filled with near misses, cosmic coincidences, and the occasional twist of fate that would only become clear in hindsight.

"So," Nyx said as the unknown ship disappeared, "anyone want to place bets on what we'll find on Veldin? Ten bolts says 'completely deserted except for sand sharks and disappointment.'"

"Fifteen bolts we discover something genuinely unexpected that violates at least three natural laws," Cole replied with royal confidence.

"Twenty bolts whatever we encounter requires creative improvisation and violating multiple operational procedures," Jax added with analytical certainty.

"Thirty bolts we all question our career choices before this mission concludes," Axel finished grimly. "And forty bolts Nyx finds a way to blame me personally for whatever goes wrong."

"Deal!" Nyx agreed cheerfully. "Though I should warn you, I've been practicing my accusatory pointing techniques. Very dramatic. Quite impressive. Definitely worth forty bolts of your money."

Inside the small transport ship—which had been christened The Reluctant Pioneer by Grimroth Razz in a moment of either poetic inspiration or mechanical despair—a small robot with glowing green optics watched four sleek starfighters streak past their position like cosmic bullets. The ship itself resembled what might happen if a trash compactor had a passionate romance with a toaster oven, produced offspring, and then abandoned it.

"Those ships just performed a comprehensive scan of our vessel," announced Vee from the ship's speakers, her tone shifting from customary sarcasm to genuine alarm that actually sounded alarmed rather than professionally pessimistic. "Full spectrum analysis, military grade sensors, the works. They definitely know we exist, which statistically speaking, should concern us greatly."

"Yet they continue on their trajectory without intercepting," Clank observed with mechanical thoughtfulness that somehow managed to sound philosophical.

"Curious? Curious?" Vee's voice climbed several octaves, the ship's indicator lights flashing patterns that suggested digital agitation approaching meltdown levels. "Four military-grade starfighters with enough firepower to convert us into designer space dust just scanned our pathetic excuse for transportation, and your response is academic curiosity? Not 'we're doomed with mathematical certainty' or 'Vee, please activate that self-destruct sequence you've been lovingly crafting for special occasions'?"

"Have you been designing a self-destruct sequence?" Clank asked, his optical sensors widening with genuine concern.

"Of course not," Vee scoffed. "That would be irresponsible and potentially hazardous to my continued existence." Dramatic pause while navigation lights dimmed for theatrical effect. "I mean, I considered it. Purely theoretical. But this ship's wiring is so creatively chaotic I was afraid I'd accidentally trigger the coffee maker instead.'"

Clank chuckled—a sound like musical gears. "Regardless, they appear to have classified us as non-threatening to their operations."

"Well, that's just hurtful," Vee huffed, the ship's ambient lighting dimming in what could only be described as electronic pouting. "I mean, they're absolutely correct in their assessment, but they could at least pretend to be intimidated! Do you comprehend the difficulty of appearing menacing when your hull integrity depends on duct tape, wishful thinking, and Grimroth's collection of inspirational refrigerator magnets?"

"If we possessed propulsion systems comparable to theirs, our journey to Fastoon would proceed significantly faster," Clank noted with mechanical wistfulness.

"Oh, I'm profoundly sorry our refurbished escape pod with salvaged components isn't meeting your exacting standards for interstellar travel!" Vee replied with cheerful venom. "Perhaps you'd prefer to flag down those heavily armed military vessels and request premium passenger service? I'm certain they'd be absolutely delighted to assist a suspicious robot and his equally suspicious ship with questionable documentation. 'Greetings, intimidating spacecraft! Fancy giving us a lift? We brought snacks!'"

"I was merely expressing an observation..." Clank said diplomatically, his green optics dimming with embarrassment.

"Besides," Vee continued with characteristic pessimism that somehow managed to sound comforting, "we've been successfully avoiding enemy patrols, Blarg enforcement squadrons, and occasional overzealous space pirates for seventy-two consecutive hours. Our route efficiency currently measures 23.7%, which considering our circumstances qualifies as miraculous. I'd classify it as solid C-minus performance, and I grade on a curve that assumes imminent catastrophic failure as baseline expectation."

"I apologize," Clank said with sincere contrition, placing one tiny metal hand on the console in mechanical solidarity. "You are absolutely correct. We have achieved remarkable progress given our resource limitations and the impressive catalog of obstacles attempting to murder us."

The ship's systems momentarily stuttered. Several lights blinked in confused patterns, and the life support briefly played what sounded suspiciously like the opening notes of a romantic ballad before cutting off with embarrassed efficiency.

"Did you just... agree with me AND apologize?" Vee's voice dropped to suspicious whisper. "Should I initiate emergency diagnostic protocols? Blink your optics twice if you're experiencing hostile reprogramming. I've prepared fourteen different anti-hijacking countermeasures, though I should warn you that twelve involve venting various substances into space with uncertain consequences."

"Not at all," Clank replied with mechanical sincerity that somehow conveyed warmth. "I simply recognize wisdom when it processes efficiently before me."

"...well... good!" Vee said, clearly buffering like a bad holovid connection overwhelmed by unexpected bandwidth. "Just don't make supportive reasonableness a regular behavior pattern. If you start being consistently logical and emotionally supportive, I'll have to develop actual character growth, and frankly, I lack the processing power for that kind of psychological journey."

As they continued their journey toward Fastoon with renewed mechanical harmony, Clank returned attention to the stars, his tiny metallic face reflecting distant lights like a philosophical mirror. For just a moment, he detected Vee humming contentedly through the ship's systems—though she would undoubtedly deny it with considerable vehemence if questioned directly.

Suddenly, the cabin flooded with otherworldly blue-white light that seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Clank's optical sensors expanded as familiar ethereal forms materialized around him—translucent beings of pure temporal energy whose presence made reality itself shimmer with cosmic possibility.

"Sire," came their collective whispered voices, harmonizing in frequencies that bypassed auditory processing and spoke directly to the soul. "Heir to the Great Clock. We offer you greetings."

"Zoni," Clank breathed, his voice barely audible with shock and wonder that threatened to overload his emotional circuits. He hadn't encountered them since before the timeline reset, and their presence here, now, filled him with joy and profound cosmic unease.

"Clank?" Vee's voice cut through the supernatural atmosphere with characteristic bluntness that could penetrate interdimensional barriers. "Your energy readings just spiked dramatically. Also, you're addressing empty air with concerning intensity. Should I be routing us toward the nearest robotics repair facility? Because I've calculated we're approximately fourteen light-years from competent technical support, and that's assuming it still operates as a legitimate business."

The Zoni ignored Vee's commentary with cosmic indifference, their ethereal forms drifting closer to Clank with graceful urgency that made his circuits resonate with temporal energy.

"You must prepare with utmost haste," they whispered in unison, their voices carrying the weight of prophecy and terrible cosmic certainty. "They return soon across the dimensional barriers. The hatred that burns through infinite realities seeks to consume all possibilities, all timelines, all hope."

"Who returns?" Clank asked, his optical sensors searching their luminous faces for answers that might prevent universal catastrophe. 

Instead of verbal response, the Zoni drew closer, their forms brightening until the cabin blazed with supernatural illumination that made welding equipment seem subtle. They reached out with energy that felt like condensed time itself, touching Clank's consciousness and flooding his awareness with visions that transcended normal reality.

The images cascaded through his mind like a waterfall of terror:

Dimensional barriers fracturing like breaking crystal, reality itself splitting open to reveal the howling void between worlds. Through the rifts poured armies beyond nightmare—endless ranks of cragmites in gleaming armor that reflected no light, their hulking forms carrying weapons that crackled with dimensional energy capable of unmaking existence itself. Behind them marched legions of robots, their crimson optics blazing with mechanical hatred as they advanced in perfect formation toward conquest and annihilation.

Leading this multidimensional army stood two figures that made Clank's circuits freeze with recognition and cosmic horror. The first was unmistakably Emperor Tachyon, but corrupted beyond his original form—larger, more terrible, his rage burning so intensely it warped spacetime around him like a black hole of pure malevolence. His mechanical throne-ship pulsed with dark energy that seemed to devour light itself.

The second figure wore Nefarious's familiar silhouette, but everything about him was fundamentally wrong in ways that violated natural law. Where Dr. Nefarious was chaotic and theatrical, this version moved with terrifying precision and imperial authority. His white chassis gleamed with the cold perfection of absolute power, and his presence commanded unquestioning obedience from the vast army arrayed behind him like a sea of destruction. This was Nefarious as he might have been if he had never known failure, never known defeat—and the sight of such concentrated malevolence made reality itself seem to recoil in horror.

The army descended upon a planet that Clank recognized with mounting dread—Fastoon, the lombax homeworld. But this wasn't the ruined monument to destruction he knew from the original timeline. This was a living, thriving world filled with lombax families, children playing in gardens of impossible beauty, researchers working in gleaming laboratories toward a bright future. And they were completely unprepared for the cosmic annihilation approaching through dimensional cracks.

The dimensional rifts widened like wounds in the universe, and through them poured death incarnate. Cragmite warriors and robotic soldiers crashed into lombax cities like tsunamis of destruction, their weapons reducing architectural marvels to smoking rubble. Buildings that had stood for millennia crumbled under firepower that shouldn't exist in any sane universe. Lombax defenders fought with heroic desperation but were overwhelmed by sheer numbers and technological superiority that defied comprehension.

And through it all, Tachyon's laughter echoed across dimensions—not the mad cackle of a defeated enemy, but the triumphant roar of someone who had finally achieved total victory and would spare no one in his celebration. His throne-ship moved through the chaos like a dark god of war, crushing resistance and hope with equal enthusiasm while reality itself seemed to weep.

"They seek revenge with multidimensional scope," the Zoni whispered, their collective voice heavy with cosmic dread as the vision intensified around Clank's consciousness like a vortex of prophecy. "For every defeat, every humiliation, every dimension where their ambitions failed to achieve fruition. They have learned to transcend individual losses, to gather power from across infinite realities. Soon they will converge upon this timeline. You must prepare all possible defenses!"

The vision shattered like breaking crystal, leaving Clank gasping and disoriented as the Zoni began to fade from view like morning mist touched by sunlight.

"Wait!" Clank called desperately, reaching toward their departing forms with mechanical hands that grasped only empty air. "I do not understand the full implications! Who is the second figure? I have never encountered him in any timeline! And how can Tachyon return when he was banished to dimension A2-66 with no possibility of escape?"

But the Zoni were already dissolving into cosmic energy, their final words echoing through the cabin like a prophecy carved in temporal stone: "All timelines converge, young Caretaker. All possibilities collapse into singular inevitability. The hatred that spans dimensions recognizes no limits, accepts no defeat, and will stop at nothing to achieve ultimate victory over hope itself."

The supernatural light faded, leaving Clank alone with the normal hum of ship systems and the distinctly concerned voice of his AI companion.

"Alright, seriously, what just happened?" Vee demanded, her voice sharp with worry and confusion that cut through her usual sarcastic detachment. "Your power output went completely haywire for three minutes and forty-seven seconds. You were speaking to empty space with passionate intensity, your optical sensors displayed energy patterns I've never witnessed before, and frankly, you looked like you were having either a religious experience or a very specific type of mechanical breakdown."

Clank remained motionless, his green optics staring at the space where the Zoni had manifested their cosmic warning. His voice, when it finally emerged, was barely above a whisper that somehow carried the weight of universal dread.

"They showed me... terrible things beyond description. An army of cragmites and robots spanning multiple dimensions, led by Tachyon and someone else—someone I have never encountered but who seemed..." He paused, struggling to find words adequate for cosmic horror. "Familiar somehow. As if he were a twisted reflection of someone I know, corrupted by power and malevolence beyond measure."

"They?" Vee's tone shifted from sarcasm to genuine concern with computational speed. "Clank, my sensors indicate we're alone here with whatever cosmic background radiation qualifies as company in the infinite vacuum of space. Who exactly were you conducting this conversation with?"

"The Zoni," Clank said quietly, his voice heavy with the burden of cosmic responsibility settling on his compact shoulders like a universe-sized weight. "Beings of pure temporal energy who exist outside normal reality. They have visited me before, but this manifestation carried different energy—urgent, desperate, filled with warnings about approaching darkness that transcends normal understanding."

"Temporal beings?" Vee's voice achieved new heights of electronic panic. "You're informing me we just received uninvited visitation from cosmic middle management, and I couldn't perceive or record them? That represents either extremely impressive cloaking technology that violates several laws of physics, or you're experiencing a very specific type of mechanical malfunction that I am entirely unqualified to diagnose!"

"They warned that enemies approach with dimensional scope," Clank continued, his voice distant as he processed implications that threatened to overload his reasoning circuits. "Enemies who span multiple realities, who seek revenge against the lombaxes and somehow... and somehow they recognize my connection to this approaching threat."

"Enemies seeking multidimensional revenge..." Vee repeated slowly, her tone acquiring the cautious quality she reserved for truly catastrophic scenarios. "Clank, I've been performing probability calculations while we've been traveling—standard background processing to occupy my higher functions—and I've reached a troubling conclusion about our mission's true nature. You're not simply searching for your friend Ratchet, are you? You're attempting to prevent something absolutely catastrophic."

Clank's optical sensors dimmed as he formulated his response with careful precision. "I am not entirely certain what specific catastrophe I am attempting to prevent. The timeline has been altered beyond my complete understanding, but the threats revealed in that vision exceed my worst projections by considerable margins!"

"Worse how?" Vee asked, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely certain she wanted detailed explanations.

"The Zoni spoke of hatred that spans dimensional boundaries," Clank said slowly, his voice heavy with prophetic dread. "Of enemies who have learned to transcend their individual failures by drawing power from infinite alternate versions of themselves. If beings exist who can move freely between timelines, between realities themselves, gathering strength from each dimension they conquer..."

"They could attack from anywhere," Vee finished, her usual sarcasm completely absent for the first time since their journey began. "Any timeline. Any reality. Any dimension. They wouldn't be constrained by the normal rules that keep most universe-threatening megalomaniacs manageable and eventually defeatable."

"Precisely," Clank confirmed with mechanical precision that somehow conveyed bottomless dread. "And if Fastoon—if Ratchet's people in this timeline—face genuine danger from forces that can transcend dimensional barriers..."

"Then we're not conducting a simple rescue mission," Vee said quietly, her voice subdued in ways that suggested she was finally grasping the cosmic scope of their situation. "We're racing against an invasion that could manifest from any reality, at any moment, using knowledge and power accumulated across infinite dimensions of conquest and hatred."

"I fear so with increasing certainty."

The ship fell silent except for the distant hum of engines and life support systems that suddenly seemed inadequate for the weight of cosmic revelation they now carried. Even Vee's usually constant stream of commentary dried up as both artificial minds contemplated the magnitude of what they might be facing.

Finally, Vee spoke, her voice unusually subdued but carrying new determination: "Well. That certainly provides perspective on our current accommodations and travel schedule complaints. Suddenly, duct tape engineering and optimistic propulsion systems don't seem like our most pressing concerns..."

"No," Clank agreed softly, his green optics fixed on the stars ahead where Fastoon waited, unknowing and unprepared for cosmic vengeance that could strike from any reality. "They do not."

"For what it's worth," Vee added after another moment of contemplative silence, "if interdimensional hatred is approaching to threaten your friend and his people, those forces will have to go through us first! And while I maintain appropriate pessimism about our survival probability, I'm also remarkably stubborn about refusing to let terrible things happen to people I've grown inexplicably fond of during our travels together."

"Thank you, Vee," Clank said, his voice warm with gratitude despite the circumstances.

"Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't mention it to anyone. I have a carefully cultivated reputation for cynical detachment to maintain, and sentimentality would undermine my professional image of competent pessimism."

Planet Fastoon - Sterling Residence, Lombaxia City

Ratchet's ears twitched as he conducted his morning ceiling census—tile number 847 had a hairline crack that resembled either a map of the Polaris Galaxy or his chances of escaping parental surveillance. Three days of enforced bed rest had successfully transformed his comfortable bedroom sanctuary into a luxuriously appointed detention facility complete with medical monitoring, nutritional oversight, and enough health snacks to sustain a small army of hyperactive nutritionists.

"Day three of involuntary confinement," he muttered in his best documentary narrator voice, listening carefully for approaching footsteps that might herald additional medicinal torture. "The natives continue their relentless care campaign. I've contemplated fashioning escape equipment from bed linens, but suspect maternal surveillance includes motion detectors, thermal imaging, and possibly trained attack nutritionists. Excellent news: my muscles no longer feel like they've been personally massaged by an angry Grunthor with poor impulse control."

He stretched experimentally, joints popping with the satisfying sound of machinery remembering how to function efficiently. Dr. Castleberry's Nano-Acceleron treatment had performed absolute miracles—he felt energetic, functional, and ready to resume normal teenage activities. Unfortunately, his parents had apparently missed that medical bulletin or were deliberately ignoring it in favor of therapeutic overprotection that bordered on professional helicopter parenting.

A gentle knock interrupted his architectural contemplation. "Ryder, sweetheart?" Mirabelle's voice carried through the door. "I've brought your morning pharmaceutical cocktail!"

"Come on in! I'm decent and definitely not plotting elaborate escape sequences involving makeshift rope, window climbing, or tunneling through the floor with kitchen utensils!" Ratchet called back with perhaps more enthusiasm than his story could support.

Mirabelle entered like maternal perfection personified; her cream-colored fur immaculately groomed despite spending the morning managing household operations and maintaining her full-time position as Chief Worrier About Ryder. She carried a tray loaded with medication, crystalline water, and a protein drink that glowed with enthusiastic radioactivity.

The shadows under her lilac eyes betrayed sleepless nights spent monitoring his recovery, while her usually perfect posture carried tension that spoke of constant maternal vigilance and probably caffeine dependency.

"How are we feeling today?" she asked, setting the tray down.

"We could benchpress a hover-tank, arm-wrestle a Constructobot, and still have sufficient energy for competitive zero-gravity hover-ball against a team of professional Agorian athletes," Ratchet replied with theatrical optimism that could power emergency lighting. "But I strongly suspect we'll insist I take it easy for another geological era, possibly with additional bed rest and mandatory supervision by trained medical professionals."

Mirabelle's tail swished with barely contained amusement as she handed him pills that looked suspiciously like they might contain trace amounts of rainbow. "Dr. Castleberry cleared you for light activity tomorrow, but mothers possess constitutional veto power over all medical decisions. It's clearly stated in the Universal Parenting Handbook, chapter four, subsection 'Protective Overruling of Professional Medical Opinion When Child's Safety Remains Questionable.'"

Ratchet eyed the glowing protein drink with wariness usually reserved for unexploded ordnance or Qwark's cooking. "Is this radioactive, or just enthusiastically nutritious enough to grant me superpowers and possibly additional limbs?"

"Leviathan Enzyme protein blend with bio-regenerative compounds, essential amino acids, and what the label optimistically promises are 'natural flavoring agents,'" Mirabelle recited with precision suggesting she'd memorized ingredient lists through repetitive exposure.

"So definitely both radioactive AND supernatural," he concluded with resignation that could power life support systems. "Nothing communicates 'good morning, beloved offspring' like consuming beverages that could either enhance my capabilities or grant me the ability to see through time."

Mirabelle's ears drooped with guilty expression of someone caught between nurturing instincts and accidental poisoning through kindness. "Your father's been awake since dawn, wearing patterns in the kitchen flooring while pretending to review classified documents and checking on you every eighteen minutes."

"Let me guess," Ratchet said with weary recognition, "he's prepared some comprehensive medical evaluation form with detailed questions, subcategories, and probably charts that could qualify as legal documents?"

"Only twenty-seven questions, multiple choice with detailed subcategories, sliding pain scales, and what he calls 'objective measurement criteria for determining readiness to resume normal adolescent activities without immediate medical supervision,'" she admitted with sheepish expression of someone confessing to enabling obsessive behavior.

"I WAS JOKING!" Ratchet exclaimed, his ears standing straight with shock.

"Well, I wasn't," Mirabelle replied. She cheerfully produced a datapad that looked like it had been designed by someone who took surveys more seriously than galactic treaties.

After completing what could only be described as "The Parental Anxiety Assessment Survey: Extended Edition with Bonus Psychological Evaluation Questions," and promising to signal immediately at any symptoms of dizziness, fatigue, or sudden onset of teenage invincibility syndrome, Ratchet finally earned the magnificent privilege of unsupervised bathroom access.

Post-shower and feeling remarkably like a functional lombax rather than a collection of medical concerns with fur, he settled at his desk to tackle the accumulated homework mountain that had been delivered by concerned teachers who apparently believed near-death experiences were insufficient excuse for missing assignments.

His communicator buzzed with the persistence of an alarm clock having an emotional breakdown. The notification count had exploded overnight like a supernova—dozens upon dozens of messages from barely-recognized lombaxes who had apparently decided he was now worth acknowledging.

"What in the blazing nebula...!" he muttered, scrolling through avalanche communication that included supportive notes from Dex and Rivet, thoughtful messages from Cressida—whose name still triggered awkward emotional confusion—but also buried under enthusiasm from classmates he'd never spoken to and girls he couldn't even identify.

Sylvia (Percy's recently former girlfriend, according to her message), Brittany the cheerleader, and—he squinted in disbelief—even Evalina Primrose had deigned to acknowledge his existence.

"Delete," he muttered, swiping Evalina's message away without reading it. Whatever venomous sweetness she'd composed, he had zero interest in exposing himself to potential psychological damage.

Curiosity overwhelming him like a particularly insistent cat, Ratchet began scrolling through Ryder's photo gallery, his ears perking with growing fascination as he received unprecedented glimpses into his alternate self's life and relationships. The earliest photos showed younger Ryder—maybe ten or eleven—grinning widely with shorter fur and ears that seemed comically oversized.

Family photos at lombax cultural events captured moments of genuine happiness—vacation shots from mountain expeditions where everyone looked exhausted but content, and several embarrassing pictures that made Ratchet profoundly grateful no witnesses remained to his secondhand mortification at his alternate self's questionable fashion choices.

"Oh, cosmic forces of infinite mercy," he whispered, pausing on a photo of young Ryder in what appeared to be a homemade superhero costume featuring a cape fashioned from kitchen towels and goggles so oversized they qualified as personal spacecraft. "Please inform me this masterpiece of questionable judgment wasn't worn publicly!"

The subsequent photo answered with devastating clarity—clearly taken at some school costume event, with dozens of other lombax children in similarly creative DIY superhero outfits suggesting either remarkable imagination or complete breakdown in adult supervision. Young Ryder stood proudly beside a beaming Dex (wearing cardboard robot armor assembled by someone with strong geometric opinions) and Rivet (sporting a magnificent cape-and-crown combination suggesting either royalty or delusions of grandeur). Even tiny Cressida appeared, her pink fur barely visible under elaborate wizard costume complete with pointed hat.

Middle school brought typical collections of attending hover-ball games, study sessions, and what appeared to be an ill-advised attempt at forming a band, but high school changed everything with soap opera dramatic flair. Group photos became less frequent, gradually replaced by intimate shots of Ryder and Cressida working on joint projects, their heads bent close over datapads, her delicate pink fur nearly touching his golden fur in ways that suggested either romantic chemistry or exceptionally poor personal space awareness.

Study sessions where they sat closer than educational necessity required, her small hand resting on his arm with casual intimacy. Shared lunches where they seemed lost in conversation while completely ignoring universal existence. Her bright smile radiating affection that could power small planetary systems.

When full groups appeared in later photos, Ratchet noticed subtle dynamics that told stories with heartbreaking clarity. Dex still grinned broadly with characteristic enthusiasm, but his golden eyes held something deeper when viewing Cressida—careful attention, protective warmth, unguarded affection extending far beyond friendship. Yet his arm consistently draped around Rivet's or Ryder's shoulders in group shots, never reaching for the pink-furred lombax who clearly possessed eyes only for someone else.

Spring photos told clear romance stories with gravitational inevitability. Ryder and Cressida at science fairs, hands linked as they examined joint projects with focus suggesting they'd forgotten universal existence. Another during lunch, sitting apart from Dex and Rivet, lost in intimate conversation while sharing meals and inside jokes that triggered mutual laughter.

But then came the carnival photo—and everything shifted.

Ratchet stared at that image, his tail drooping as unexpected sadness washed over him like a tide of melancholy. He could observe hope in Cressida's expression clear as starlight, trust in her bright eyes, the way she leaned toward Ryder with complete emotional openness. Whatever occurred afterward had clearly shattered something precious between them, leaving wounds that remained unhealed.

The transformation in subsequent photos proved jarring and heartbreaking. After the carnival, group shots became sparse and awkward, like everyone was pretending normalcy while walking on emotional landmines. When they did appear together, Ryder stood apart—physically present but emotionally distant, like someone attending gatherings of people he no longer trusted completely. His smiles appeared forced, mechanical, pale imitations of genuine joy he'd displayed previously. Dex's exuberant grins seemed strained around edges, and Rivet's bright blue eyes held worried quality speaking of concern and confusion about her friend's sudden transformation.

But solo photos told the real story of Ryder's evolution. Picture after picture of him alone—hunched over workbenches covered in mechanical components too advanced for typical school projects, surrounded by technical schematics belonging in military research facilities rather than teenage bedrooms. Photos of protest rallies where he stood at crowd edges, holding signs about "dimensional research oversight" and "government transparency in science funding" with determined expression of someone fighting wars no one else understood.

Ratchet's ears flattened against his head as he scrolled through increasingly concerning images painting pictures of isolation and growing desperation. Photos of Ryder's hands, stained with grease and bearing cuts from working with metal components clearly not designed for amateur handling. His golden fur grew progressively unkempt, green eyes acquired haunted quality speaking of terrible knowledge.

"What in the name of cosmic forces were you constructing?" Ratchet whispered, zooming in on photos showing what resembled Dimensionator components scattered across workbenches he hadn't yet discovered. The device from his memories appeared different—smaller, more compact—but something about crystalline components and energy conduits seemed disturbingly familiar.

Timestamps told their story with clockwork precision. Three months ago, Ryder had been normal teenager with adoring girlfriend, supportive friends, typical adolescent concerns. Two months ago, photos showed him deep in obsessive research, printing articles about dimensional rifts and lombax technology restrictions. One month ago, complete isolation—no group photos, no casual selfies, just obsessive documentation of mysterious projects and growing urgency bordering on desperation.

One photo captured his attention with disturbing clarity—Ryder's desk covered with crystal supplier catalogs, marked with frustrated red X's and angry notations about "restricted materials" and "government oversight that prevents legitimate research." Another showed browser searches for "Blaze Quartz availability," "crystal substitution matrices," and "alternative energy sources for dimensional technology applications." Ryder had been searching desperately for something specific, something obtainable through neither normal channels nor legal procurement methods.

Final photos proved most disturbing. Ryder's reflection in bedroom mirrors, holding what appeared to be incomplete device with empty crystal housing at center. His expression mixed grim determination with something resembling the desperate decision-making that led to poor choices and dangerous experiments.

"Somehow you knew about the time reset..." Ratchet breathed, pieces clicking together with uncomfortable clarity. "...and you attempted preparation for it."

But why hadn't Ryder informed anyone? Why alienate people who cared instead of requesting help, support, or simply someone to listen?

Ratchet scrolled backward through photos, searching more carefully for missed clues. There—reflection in Ryder's computer screen showing partially visible news article with headline: "SCIENTIST WARNS OF POTENTIAL DIMENSIONAL CATASTROPHE - ACADEMIC COMMUNITY DISMISSES CLAIMS AS 'ATTENTION-SEEKING BEHAVIOR.'"

Another photo showed Ryder's desk covered with printed emails, official rejection letters from the Center for Advanced Lombax Research bearing increasingly stern letterhead, and formal complaints filed with the Lombax Council, all stamped with "DISMISSED - INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE" and "REFER TO MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES."

"They wouldn't listen," Ratchet realized, his voice heavy with understanding and growing anger at injustice. "You attempted to warn them, tried obtaining official help through proper channels, and they completely shut you down. They made you believe you were losing sanity."

Driven by morbid curiosity and mounting dread, Ratchet searched through Ryder's computer files for additional information about his alternate self's discoveries. What he found made his ears flatten with shock—massive, systematic gaps in data. Recent documents, photos, recordings had been methodically deleted days before he'd awakened in this timeline, as if Ryder had deliberately erased evidence of his final discoveries.

But he'd missed crucial fragments. Buried deep in backup folder labeled "INSURANCE POLICY", Ratchet found partial files—corrupted documents named "dimensional_instability_warnings_FINAL.doc" and "recurring_vision_analysis_DO_NOT_DELETE.wav." One corrupted audio file contained mere seconds of Ryder's voice, tired and frightened in ways that made Ratchet's chest ache with sympathy:

"...the dreams intensify nightly, becoming more detailed, more impossible to dismiss as stress-related nightmares. Fighting armies of robots, massive explosions illuminating entire planets, someone called Nefarious who laughs like he genuinely enjoys causing suffering... it's completely ridiculous. Mom and Dad think I'm experiencing anxiety about upcoming school year and college applications, but why does it feel overwhelmingly real? Why do I remember exact smells of plasma fire and sounds of metal against metal when I've never experienced combat? Why do I know precise weight of weapons I've never held?..."

The file terminated there, too damaged by deletion attempts to recover additional content, leaving Ratchet staring at corrupted data with growing understanding and profound sadness.

Those hadn't been dreams or anxiety-induced hallucinations—they were memories bleeding through from his timeline like water through cracked dam. Somehow, Ryder had been experiencing fragments of Ratchet's adventures, battles, entire accumulated existence. But without context, understanding of origins or meaning, they would seem like horrifying nightmares questioning grip on reality.

"You were experiencing my life," Ratchet whispered to the empty room, speaking to his alternate self who would never hear deserved apologies. "My fights, experiences, memories of friends and enemies... and you had no method of knowing they represented real experiences rather than products of troubled mind."

He discovered one final clue that made his chest tight with sympathetic pain—browser history showing increasingly frantic searches for "shared consciousness theories," "parallel universe memory bleeding," "dimensional transfer of experience," and most heartbreakingly, "am I going insane symptoms" and "how to determine if you're having mental breakdown."

Ryder had been desperately attempting to understand what was happening to his mind, searching for explanations that made sense. But faced with nightmares of battles and adventures seeming utterly impossible in his peaceful reality, parents who interpreted distress as academic anxiety requiring rest and therapy, Ryder had been forced to face growing terror completely alone.

The irony was devastating. Ryder had been experiencing visions of the exact timeline that would eventually claim his body and consciousness. But faced with impossible memories of cosmic battles and mechanical friends that couldn't exist in his reality, he'd been left questioning his sanity while building devices he hoped might protect everyone from approaching catastrophe only he could perceive.

Every confused look from Cressida when he tried explaining growing fears. Every worried question from Dex and Rivet when his behavior became increasingly erratic. Every argument with parents when they suggested he was stressed about normal teenage concerns. Ryder had endured it all in crushing isolation, driven by visions he couldn't explain while building technology he hoped might save everyone from threats only he could sense.

"I'm profoundly sorry..." Ratchet whispered to the empty room, his voice thick with emotion as he addressed his alternate self who would never hear desperately needed apologies. "You were attempting to save everyone you cared about, and you had to accomplish it completely alone while they thought you were losing mental stability. You were the bravest person in any timeline, and no one ever got to tell you that truth."

Suddenly his communicator chimed with incoming video call that made him jump like he'd been caught stealing state secrets from his own bedroom. Ratchet quickly closed photo galleries and took deep breath, forcing ears to perk up casually while arranging features into what he desperately hoped was normal, unconcerned expression that wouldn't betray emotional turmoil churning in his chest like a storm in a bottle.

Accepting the call, he found Dex and Rivet calling from between classes, institutional hallway chaos visible behind them along with usual pandemonium of lombax teenagers transitioning between academic torture sessions.

"THE INVALID EMERGES FROM HIS TOMB OF RECOVERY AND MEDICINAL SUFFERING!" Dex boomed, his perpetual grin filling half the screen like solar flare of pure joy. "How progresses the healing process?"

"Surviving the parental surveillance campaign," Ratchet replied, forcing convincing smiles while trying not to think about Ryder's lonely final days. "My parents have basically installed biometric monitoring throughout the house. Dad checks my pulse three times before breakfast, and Mom's been distributing health snacks like offerings to invalid deity requiring constant nutritional appeasement."

He maintained light, casual tones while desperately hoping they couldn't detect emotional turmoil still churning beneath surface like hurricanes in Mason jars.

Rivet's periwinkle-striped ears perked with genuine amusement as she shouldered Dex aside with casual violence of longtime friendship, claiming superior camera access. "You're complaining about royal treatment? Meanwhile, we received a group project assignment on 'Theoretical Applications of Advanced Propulsion Systems,' and I'm partnered with Boris Wrenchbottom and his collection of conspiracy theories about hover-car exhaust being utilized for government mind control operations."

"Boris believes literally everything constitutes conspiracy," Dex added with exaggerated despair, squeezing back into frame with characteristic enthusiasm and complete disregard for personal space boundaries. "Yesterday he claimed school lunch represents plot to make us intellectually docile and emotionally compliant. I informed him if that were accurate, they're performing spectacularly terribly because I remain incredibly hyperactive and possibly caffeinated beyond legal limits!"

Ratchet managed genuine laughter at that observation, though couldn't entirely escape irony that Boris's conspiracy theories were probably closer to truth than anyone realized.

"Speaking of spectacularly terrible performances," Rivet continued with dangerous sweetness suggesting incoming embarrassment, "someone's been distributing your contact information like party favors at a celebration for people with questionable judgment."

"I was wondering about message avalanche," Ratchet admitted.

"They were EXTREMELY PERSUASIVE AND POSSIBLY USING INTIMIDATION TACTICS!" Dex protested with wounded dignity of someone whose noble intentions had been weaponized against him, rubbing his side where Rivet had elbowed him with surgical precision. "Sylvia cornered me in cafeteria and threatened to reveal everyone about the 'Incident of the Inflatable Mascot' if I didn't provide Ryder's contact information immediately!"

"What incident involving inflatable mascots?" Ratchet asked with growing dread.

"THERE WAS NO INCIDENT AND WE SHALL NEVER SPEAK OF IT!" Dex declared with panic that could register on seismic equipment, his ears flat against head and fur standing on end like he'd been struck by lightning with embarrassing memories attached. "But hypothetically, if such incident had occurred, it might have involved school mascot costume, three bottles of industrial adhesive not designed for textile applications, Principal Boltsworth's prized hover-cycle, and cascade of unfortunate decisions that transformed simple prank into disaster requiring professional cleanup crews!"

"The point remains," Rivet interrupted with obvious enjoyment of Dex's suffering, "you've somehow transformed overnight from 'that weird protester kid who builds strange devices in his garage' to 'Lombaxia High's most eligible bachelor.' Apparently athletic prowess and dancing without stepping on anyone's appendages achieves instant heartthrob status among local female population."

"Fantastic," Ratchet sighed with enthusiasm of someone contemplating root canal surgery performed by drunk Blargians. "Exactly what I needed—fan club of admirers who don't actually know me and will probably be severely disappointed when they discover I'm not nearly as interesting as they imagine."

School warning bell rang in background, its mechanical chime cutting through conversation like plasma sword through aluminum foil.

"We must dash," Rivet said, glancing over shoulder with urgency suggesting their next teacher was notorious for punctuality obsession and cruel punishment. "Advanced Metallurgy waits for no lombax, and Professor Ironside has been known to fail students for thirty-second tardiness because apparently punctuality transcends actual knowledge of metal composition and practical applications."

"But Ry?" she added, turning back to camera with expression mixing affection and anticipation that made Ratchet's fur tingle slightly, "Monday's going to be genuinely fascinating. Half the school believes you're mysterious romantic hero with secret adventurous past, and the other half anticipates discovering if you've actually changed or if this represents temporary personality improvement that will fade like cheap hair dye."

"No pressure whatsoever," Dex added with cheerful malice suggesting he enjoyed prospects of watching his friend navigate social complications. "Just entire social dynamics of your high school experience hanging in balance like sword of social judgment! Should be absolutely entertaining to observe! I'm bringing popcorn and recording equipment!"

"You two provide overwhelming reassurance," Ratchet replied sarcastically. "Really, my confidence has been thoroughly restored by your supportive words and complete absence of helpful advice."

"That's what friends provide!" Dex declared with loyalty that could move mountains and possibly small moons. "Emotional support and brutal honesty, delivered with style, enthusiasm, and alarming amounts of energy that may not be entirely natural!"

"See you Monday, hero," Rivet said with smirk managing to be simultaneously challenging and affectionate, bright blue eyes sparkling with genuine warmth despite teasing tone. "Try not to acquire additional mysterious injuries, develop more fan clubs, or accidentally become even more enigmatically attractive before then. The school's social ecosystem can only handle so much disruption before requiring professional intervention."

After ending the call, Ratchet sat in his room for several contemplative minutes, processing everything with thoroughness of someone solving puzzles with half pieces missing and possibly some from different boxes entirely.

He might be trapped in this timeline, this life, this complicated web of relationships and expectations, but that didn't mean he had to remain stuck with its mistakes or damaged connections.

Picking up his communicator with renewed determination, he scrolled to Cressida's thoughtful message and began typing response with careful precision of someone defusing bomb made of emotions:

"Hey Cress, thanks for the message and checking on me. I'm feeling much better—should definitely return Monday. I was wondering if maybe we could talk sometime? I know things have been really strange between us lately, and I'd like to repair that if possible. I miss having you around, and I apologize if I've been distant or confusing. I'd like to explain, if you're willing to listen. - Ry"

He stared at the message for extended moment, ears flicking nervously as he second-guessed every word choice and punctuation mark, before finally hitting send with determination usually reserved for jumping from perfectly functional aircraft into hostile territory.

It wasn't much, but it represented a beginning toward honoring Ryder's memory by repairing what he'd been forced to sacrifice.

Familiar commotion from downstairs interrupted his contemplation—unmistakable sounds of his parents engaged in morning routine, complete with what sounded like Kaden muttering irritably at his morning reports while Mirabelle's fond but exasperated commentary about his tendency to prioritize work over basic tasks like eating breakfast or remembering to wear matching socks.

Time to face the day, or at least time to face breakfast and whatever level of parental supervision and medical questioning awaited him in the kitchen. But most importantly, he needed garage access to investigate Ryder's mysterious workbench and discover exactly what his alternate self had been secretly constructing.

Center of the Universe - Sector Three, The Great Clock

Quantum resonance chambers thrummed with frantic energy, defying the Great Clock's usual serene rhythm like jazz musicians crashing a funeral. Instead of methodical, peaceful pulses characterizing the cosmic timepiece for eons, the ancient structure buzzed with activity that made Sigmund's optical sensors ache and circuits hum with nervous energy.

Zoni streaked through corridors in military formations, carrying defensive equipment belonging in fortresses rather than temples dedicated to peaceful time maintenance. Witnessing temporal beings—creatures devoted to serene chronological management—hauling weapons of mass chronological destruction made Sigmund question his understanding of reality, career choices, and possibly his warranty coverage.

"Temporal barrier reinforcement: Phase Seven complete," announced a Zoni zipping past at velocities violating conservation laws, carrying crystalline shield generator pulsing with ominous energy. "Proceeding to quantum lock installation in eastern manifolds previously unknown to junior maintenance staff."

"Quantum locks?" Sigmund called after them, voice cracking with mounting confusion. "Eastern manifolds? I've maintained this Clock for over a millennium—nobody mentioned entire sections I've never accessed! And why install locks on components designed for routine maintenance accessibility?"

The Zoni disappeared around corners without explanation, like ghosts with urgent construction deadlines and no time for employee questions.

Sigmund hovered, optical sensors blinking rapidly as he processed complete transformation with systematic thoroughness. For three weeks, he'd watched the Great Clock convert from peaceful cosmic mechanism into something resembling fortress designed by someone with severe paranoia and unlimited defense budgets.

The cognitive dissonance of performing routine maintenance while cosmic fortifications installed around him strained even his well-developed capacity for accepting existence's fundamentally absurd nature.

"Right," he muttered with determined optimism that could power emergency systems, adjusting chronometric filters while balancing on awkward maintenance ladder. "Just continue doing your job, Sigmund. Maintain essential functions while everyone prepares for temporal Armageddon. Perfectly normal Tuesday activities that definitely don't require existential questioning."

The Clock's computer chimed with characteristic monotone delivery that somehow managed to sound condescending: "Junior Caretaker Sigmund, your confusion levels have achieved 'impressively catastrophic,' surpassing previous records by forty-seven percent. This accomplishment noteworthy considering your baseline bewilderment already exceeded most sentient beings' maximum capacity for existential uncertainty."

"Oh, marvelous!" Sigmund snapped with righteous mechanical indignation, optical sensors flashing like angry strobe lights while continuing work on temporal stabilizers with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "Thirteen centuries of loyal, dedicated service, and this represents my thanks—detailed statistical analysis of my mental state from computer that considers 'helpful' synonymous with 'technically accurate while being completely useless for practical purposes whatsoever'!"

"I prefer considering my responses 'precisely calibrated to maintain intellectual stimulation through controlled frustration,'" the computer replied with digital smugness that somehow managed to sound condescending despite being generated by circuits lacking business having opinions about anything. "It's delicate art form, really. Too little information and you become complacent and possibly lazy. Too much and you might actually understand what's happening here, which would completely ruin carefully orchestrated atmosphere of mysterious cosmic dread we've been cultivating for weeks."

"WHAT MYSTERIOUS COSMIC DREAD?" Sigmund practically shrieked with passionate outrage that could shatter crystal formations, gesticulating so wildly while holding precision calibration tools that he lost balance on maintenance ladder like mechanical acrobat with poor spatial awareness. "And why does everyone act like I'm not supposed to know what's happening in the Clock I've been faithfully maintaining for over a millennium? I'M THE JUNIOR CARETAKER! KNOWING THINGS IS LITERALLY MY JOB DESCRIPTION!"

His passionate gesticulation and righteous fury sent him careening sideways with grace of falling meteorite. He bounced off temporal flux monitor like mechanical pinball with abandonment issues, ricocheted off support beam with precision of professional stunt performer, and finally impacted corridor wall with resounding CLANG that echoed through chamber like gong struck by enthusiastic but uncoordinated percussionist with excellent dramatic timing.

The collision was surprisingly comprehensive for such compact robot, and momentarily, Sigmund's optical sensors flickered like vintage equipment warming up after power outage.

"...note to self..." he mumbled in dazed voice, vocal processors coming online with deliberation of machinery requiring coffee, "passionate gesticulation while performing precision maintenance on elevated surfaces proves inadvisable and potentially hazardous to cranial integrity and professional dignity..."

But as systems methodically came online with reliability of well-maintained machinery, something extraordinary occurred that defied logical explanation. Like dam bursting after centuries of accumulated pressure, memories flooded his consciousness—memories that weren't from this timeline, memories of events somehow erased from reality and mysteriously restored through simple expedient of cranial trauma.

He remembered the original timeline with crystal clarity that made optical sensors water with emotions he didn't know he could experience. The vortex in Orvus Chamber, swirling with temporal energy defying description and possibly several physics laws. Ratchet and Clank disappearing into churning maelstrom of time and possibility. Sensation of reality fracturing around them all as timeline reset itself like cosmic computer suffering massive system failure requiring complete restart.

And before that—Dr. Nefarious's terrifying invasion of the Clock, Orvus's capture and subsequent torture on Zanifar with devices definitely not designed with prisoner welfare in mind, Clank's reluctant acceptance of Senior Caretaker role with cosmic responsibility, Alister Azimuth's desperate attempt to use Clock as time machine to undo mistakes that had cost everything he valued.

"Oh my gears and springs and every bolt holding me together," Sigmund whispered, optical sensors widening as revelation crashed over him like tidal wave of temporal awareness threatening to overload processing systems. "I remember absolutely everything! The timeline—it actually reset! We've experienced all this before! Everything that happened in that alternate reality... it was completely real!"

Maintenance duties were instantly forgotten as desperate urgency overtook him like programming override. "SIR! I need to find him immediately! Clank must be confused and frightened! He needs to know what happened, needs understanding that timeline changed completely! He needs knowledge about reset and why everything is different!"

Sigmund zoomed through corridors with renewed purpose bordering on manic, calling out while traveling like mobile announcement system. "Sir! Senior Caretaker! Where are you? We need discussing temporal paradoxes, timeline resets, and possible end of everything we hold dear! Also, I may have sustained minor head trauma, but I'm feeling much better now!"

His search led inevitably to Orvus Chamber, now heavily fortified with blast doors capable of stopping rampaging supernovas. Zoni guards recognized his frantic approach and parted respectfully, their ethereal forms radiating cosmic patience suggesting they'd been expecting this exact moment.

"Master!" Sigmund called as he rushed through entrance with grace of projectile launched from enthusiastic cannon, voice cracking with panic and desperate hope. "We need immediate discussion about matters of cosmic importance! Timeline has been completely reset and I remember absolutely everything—"

He stopped mid-sentence like someone had pressed his pause button, optical sensors focusing on figure floating gracefully above main control matrix while manipulating complex temporal equations with casual expertise of someone solving mathematical problems for recreational purposes.

Not Clank.

Orvus.

Master Orvus himself, definitely alive, definitely present, currently watching him with expression shifting smoothly from mild surprise at dramatic interruption to profound understanding, relief, and what appeared to be paternal affection mixed with gentle amusement.

The sight of his beloved mentor, alive and whole after believing him lost forever, was so overwhelming that Sigmund's entire emotional processing system threatened to overload with joy approaching critical mass.

Orvus possessed a presence that commanded attention without demanding it—elegant even by Zoni standards, his form radiating wisdom and authority like cosmic lighthouse. His blue-green eyes sparkled with intelligence seeming to contain entire galaxies of knowledge, while his visible mouth—rarity among his species—was currently curved in smile of infinite warmth.

In his hands, he held legendary Chronoscepter—device of such elegant design and devastating power that it made Sigmund's maintenance tools look like children's toys. The weapon pulsed with temporal energy seeming to bend space around it, creating subtle distortions that made reality itself appear more interesting in his immediate vicinity.

"Master?" Sigmund whispered, voice barely audible as disbelief warred with overwhelming joy and relief so intense it threatened to short-circuit emotional processors. "Sir? Is... is it really you? Or am I experiencing wonderful hallucination caused by excessive cranial trauma and desperate wishful thinking?"

Orvus gently dismissed floating equations with casual wave, complex mathematical formulas dissolving into sparkles of light. "Hello, Sigmund," he said, ancient eyes twinkling with relief and something resembling pride. "It's been quite a while, hasn't it? Though I must say, that was absolutely spectacular entrance! Very dramatic! I award it solid nine out of ten—you really committed to wall-collision technique!"

For moment, Sigmund's systems seemed to freeze entirely like computer processing something beyond specifications. Then, like dam bursting under impossible pressure, emotion overwhelmed his usually composed demeanor with force of cosmic tidal wave.

"MASTER ORVUS!" he cried with joy detectable from neighboring galaxies, rushing forward with such unrestrained enthusiasm he nearly achieved orbital velocity before colliding with central console. "You're alive! You're here!"

"Ah," Orvus said with gentle understanding seeming to encompass entire universes, floating closer to his oldest remaining friends with grace of someone who had mastered movement through cosmic space, "so your consciousness has finally achieved alignment with this timeline's version of events. I was wondering when integration would complete itself!"

"Integration?" Sigmund asked, overwhelming joy momentarily tempered by confusion.

"When a timeline resets through forces beyond normal comprehension, all souls were returned to proper bodies in new reality," Orvus explained with patience of beloved teacher addressing most dedicated student, voice taking instructional tone Sigmund remembered from countless lessons in temporal mechanics. "But consciousness—memory, personality, essential self making each being unique—sometimes requires considerably longer to merge with new timeline's version of events. Most beings experience this as gradual process, memories emerging slowly like photographs developing in solution. But occasionally, triggering event can cause instant integration of all memories simultaneously."

"You mean banging my head against structural supports with maximum force actually helped something for once?" Sigmund asked with incredulous delight, as if discovering clumsiness had achieved something positive rather than merely embarrassing.

"Trauma can indeed accelerate consciousness alignment in remarkable ways," Orvus confirmed with gentle laugh sounding like music made of time itself, warm and comforting and somehow making even approaching interdimensional doom seem manageable. "Though I wouldn't recommend it as standard procedure for memory recovery—"

"I remember absolutely everything!" Sigmund confirmed, optical sensors bright with tears of joy he didn't know he could produce, voice thick with emotion building for subjective centuries. "The way you were captured during peaceful scientific meeting, how we never discovered what happened, the way Sir—Clank—became Senior Caretaker but was so lost without your guidance and wisdom. I tried helping him as much as possible, tried teaching what you would have wanted him to know, but I wasn't you, Master. I could never replace your knowledge, patience, terrible jokes that somehow made everything better."

"And you were never meant to replace me," Orvus assured him with infinite gentle compassion, floating closer. "You were meant to be yourself—loyal, dedicated, occasionally prone to getting stuck in maintenance shafts while performing duties extending far beyond reasonable job descriptions, and possessed of unique talent for finding most inconvenient possible moments to perform essential calibrations." 

"Oh, sir, I missed you so intensely that it felt like having hole in my processing core!" Sigmund said, voice breaking with emotion seeming to resonate through his entire mechanical frame like bell struck with perfect pitch. "If one positive outcome emerged from this timeline reset situation, it's having you back, Master. I don't care if I must bang my head against every wall in the Great Clock to maintain these memories! In fact, I'm prepared to develop comprehensive head-banging schedule if it assists with memory retention!"

"Many positive outcomes will emerge, I assure you," Orvus replied, eyes practically sparkling with mischief as he performed graceful aerial loop showing off mastery of zero-gravity movement, "and speaking of positive developments," Orvus continued, expression brightening considerably like sun achieving optimal cheerfulness, "I've had considerable time to develop approximately 1,847 new temporal jokes during my... extended absence from regular joke-telling duties!"

Sigmund's optical sensors widened in what could only be described as delighted horror mixed with genuine anticipation. "Master Orvus, with all due respect and affection, your jokes could cause genuine temporal anomalies! Remember that time you told the one about clock that was afraid of commitment? We experienced chronological hiccups for weeks afterward! Time kept stuttering, and several Tuesdays got lost entirely!"

"But it went back to its own time eventually!" Orvus beamed with pride of someone whose pun had achieved legendary status, looking so pleased with himself that several nearby temporal mechanisms seemed to hum more cheerfully in response. "Classic comedy gold with practical temporal applications! Oh, but I have so many more now! What do you call Zoni who's always running late to important cosmic events?"

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Sigmund said, though optical sensors twinkled with fond anticipation.

"Out of thyme!" Orvus declared with enthusiasm of someone delivering greatest punchline in cosmic history. "Because they're temporal beings who work with time, you see, and thyme is both herb used in cooking AND sounds like 'time' when pronounced correctly! Oh, the layers of meaning! The wordplay! The sheer comedic genius transcending dimensional boundaries!"

Sigmund groaned theatrically with fond exasperation, but optical sensors bright with affection and genuine amusement. "Master, your jokes remain absolutely terrible and I love every single one! Even when they make me question cosmic forces governing humor itself and possibly fundamental nature of comedy as universal concept!"

"Excellent!" Orvus replied with glee. "Wait until you hear my comprehensive collection about temporal paradoxes! There's one about a lombax who travels back in time to prevent himself from telling bad joke, but creates paradox because the joke he's trying to prevent is the one about preventing bad jokes, and temporal loop results involving seventeen different versions of himself—"

"MASTER!" Sigmund interrupted with fond desperation, "perhaps we could focus on imminent cosmic threat and whatever mysterious enemy approaches before we explore full extent of your comedic evolution and potential for causing temporal anomalies through excessive punning?"

Orvus's expression sobered appropriately. "Ah yes, quite right. Business before pleasure, as they say. Time waits for no one—even those who manage it professionally. Cosmic irony that never gets old, much like my jokes! Speaking of which, did you hear about temporal mechanic who couldn't fix anything because he had all time in world but no moment to spare? Eh? Eh? The wordplay is magnificent!"

"That one was actually not terrible," Sigmund admitted with grudging approval.

"Progress!" Orvus exclaimed with enthusiasm of someone achieving major breakthrough, then grew appropriately serious as he gestured toward enhanced defenses surrounding them like cosmic fortress. "But you're absolutely correct to be concerned about defensive preparations. We face threat that seeks to collapse not just individual timelines, but all dimensions into single, corrupted reality under their absolute control. Every alternate dimension, every possibility, every variant of existence across infinite expanse of multiverse would cease to be, leaving only their vision of reality."

"All dimensions simultaneously?" Sigmund's optical sensors widened with mechanical terror threatening to overload his capacity for processing large-scale catastrophic scenarios. "That's... inconceivably horrible beyond my ability to comprehend! Without alternate dimensions, there would be no backup realities! No alternate versions of events! No safety nets when cosmic entities make terrible decisions or accidentally destroy everything! It would be like having only one copy of universe with no insurance policy!"

"Precisely," Orvus nodded gravely, floating toward chamber's viewing screens. "You know, it's fascinating how love can cross dimensions, span space and time itself with persistence of cosmic force. Bond between parent and child, between friends, between souls destined to meet regardless of circumstances—these connections transcend reality itself and become stronger than fabric of existence."

He paused, expression darkening like storm cloud gathering cosmic energy. "But so, unfortunately, can hatred. And there are forces in existence whose hatred burns so intensely, so completely, that it seeks to destroy not just their enemies, but every possible version of them across all realities. They would rather witness existence itself cease than allow their enemies to thrive in any dimension. Speaking of which, we nearly experienced dimensional cataclysm just few months ago in alternate reality—whole dimensions collapsing into each other like cosmic house of cards constructed during earthquake by someone with terrible balance!"

"A DIMENSIONAL CATACLYSM?" Sigmund's voice achieved new heights of mechanical panic probably registering on seismic equipment in neighboring galaxies. "And you're just mentioning this NOW? As casual conversation? Like discussing weather or yesterday's temporal flux readings or what you consumed for breakfast?"

"Oh, it was handled absolutely beautifully with remarkable skill and heroism," Orvus assured him, chest swelling with unmistakable pride that could have powered several small suns. "An alternate counterpart to my son—equally brilliant, equally heroic, equally dedicated to protecting innocent lives—repaired dimensional damage and saved countless realities from complete collapse. I couldn't be prouder of that version of Clank, even though technically that particular hero wasn't my son in biological sense."

"But if one dimensional cataclysm was barely prevented..." Sigmund's voice dropped to horrified whisper somehow carrying across vast chamber, "that means another approaches, doesn't it? And this time it might be worse."

"I'm afraid so," Orvus confirmed, expression mixing determination with parental concern coming from loving someone who insisted on putting themselves in danger to protect others. "And this time, threat is far more deliberate, far more focused, far more... personal in its hatred and scope of destructive ambition."

He activated viewing screen with graceful hand wave, and it shimmered to life with crystalline clarity, displaying vast expanse of space where small, familiar vessel traveled steadily through cosmic void like determined speck of hope in infinite darkness.

"There," Orvus said softly, voice filled with fatherly pride and concern as he watched image with love transcending physical existence. "My son travels toward his destiny with inadequate preparation. Though I confess, his path has become considerably more complicated than I initially anticipated when timeline reset itself."

Sigmund's optical sensors focused on image, brightening with joy despite cosmic circumstances. "Sir! He looks... different somehow. More determined than when he left us before reset. More focused. Almost like he's carrying additional weight on shoulders."

Orvus's expression grew troubled as he observed subtle temporal distortions around Clank's vessel, energy patterns suggesting recent contact with beings of significant power. "The Zoni visited him," he murmured, voice heavy with parental concern and gentle reproach toward his own people. "They showed him visions of coming threat, images of what approaches. They meant well—they wished to prepare him, warn my heir about danger so he could protect himself and others. But..."

"But?" Sigmund prompted, sensing master's growing unease about cosmic chess game unfolding.

"Timing is not optimal for such revelations," Orvus sighed. "He is not ready for that level of knowledge yet. There are other discoveries he must make first, other allies he must gather, other relationships he must rebuild. Burden of cosmic responsibility is extraordinarily heavy, Sigmund. It must be shouldered gradually, developed through experience and wisdom, not dropped on someone all at once like temporal anvil during particularly inopportune moment. Or like my jokes—they're best appreciated in small, carefully measured doses rather than delivered all simultaneously!"

"Your jokes are perfect in any quantity, Master," Sigmund said with loyal devotion, though optical sensors remained focused on screen with growing concern. "But what exactly did Zoni show him?"

Before Orvus could respond, something else appeared on viewing screen that made his expression shift from parental concern to grim recognition. Larger vessel was moving steadily toward Clank's ship—bulky, utilitarian, hull marked with distinctive and unfortunately familiar logo of Drek Industries.

"Ah," Orvus said quietly, though there was no surprise in voice, only weary recognition of someone watching cosmic chess game play out exactly as foreseen with depressing accuracy. "It seems directive catalyst has arrived with perfect timing. You could set chronometer by it—which is deliciously ironic, considering our current location in universe's ultimate timepiece and center of all temporal management!"

"A directive catalyst?" Sigmund asked nervously.

"Event that points soul toward true destination, regardless of current intentions, desires, or carefully laid plans," Orvus explained with cosmic patience coming from understanding universe's tendency toward dramatic irony. "Sometimes universe provides exactly what is needed, precisely when needed most—even when it appears unpleasant, terrifying, or completely contrary to one's preferences on surface. Though it will be difficult and frightening for my son, it is necessary to set him on correct path toward finding his lombax friend and fulfilling true destiny."

Blarg freighter continued steady, inexorable approach toward Clank's vessel, course clearly calculated for interception with precision of predators who had practiced this before.

"Stay strong, my son," Orvus whispered, voice thick with emotion and paternal love as he watched his child approaching trial with courage and determination. "What comes next will test you severely, but will also guide you toward true destiny and friends who need you. And soon—very soon—we will be reunited properly and I can explain everything."

He turned to Sigmund.

"Now then, shall we continue our preparations?" Orvus asked, voice regaining characteristic gentle authority mixed with barely contained excitement about challenges ahead. "We have much work to do before our uninvited guests arrive, and something tells me we're going to need every defense we can construct, every ally we can gather, and probably several miracles we haven't thought of yet."

"Right behind you, Master," Sigmund replied, loyalty unwavering despite cosmic weight of what they faced. "Though I reserve right to panic appropriately when these mysterious threats actually arrive and begin doing whatever terrible things they're planning."

"Panic appropriately?" Orvus asked with twinkling eyes suggesting incoming terrible puns. "My dear friend, you've elevated panic to art form! You could probably teach classes: 'Panic 101: Introduction to Professional Worry' and 'Advanced Catastrophic Thinking for Modern Caretaker'!"

"I shall take that under advisement," Sigmund replied with mechanical dignity. "Though I still maintain your jokes about time management have considerable room for improvement."

"I shall consider that constructive criticism from my most valued critic," Orvus replied with signature laugh—warm, musical, somehow making even approach of interdimensional doom seem manageable. "After all, universe has wonderful sense of humor, even if it's sometimes rather dark. The trick is learning how to take joke—even ones involving temporal resets, excessive cranial recalibration, and occasional threats to all existence as we know it!"

Solana Galaxy - Sector Z

Forty-six hours into their journey toward Fastoon, disaster struck with the timing and subtlety of a cosmic punchline delivered by someone with questionable taste in humor. The Z-1000's hyperdrive, pushed far beyond its design limitations and probably the manufacturer's worst nightmares, finally surrendered in a spectacular cascade of system failures that lit up the engine compartment like an Independence Day celebration organized by someone with access to military-grade pyrotechnics.

Clank found himself adrift in the vast emptiness of space, halfway between the Solana and Polaris borders, with minimal propulsion that could charitably be described as "hopeful" and power reserves dwindling faster than Captain Qwark's credibility during a fact-checking session.

"Primary power systems offline," reported Vee grimy, her voice slowing dramatically as she switched to emergency power conservation mode. "Estimated time to complete system failure: three hours, twenty-two minutes, and approximately fifteen seconds. Not that you requested such precision, but I told you this would happen. Multiple times."

Clank ran a comprehensive diagnostic with the thoroughness of someone who already suspected the worst, confirming what he'd feared—the hyperdrive was beyond repair with the available tools, possibly beyond repair with any tools existing in this galaxy.

"This is most unfortunate," Clank sighed with the resignation of someone whose travel plans had been personally attacked by the universe's sense of humor.

"'Unfortunate' is discovering your favorite holovision show has been cancelled after a cliffhanger episode," Vee replied with the precision of someone who took pessimism seriously. "'Catastrophic' is considerably more appropriate for our current situation of being stranded in space with failing life support and no reasonable hope of rescue."

"I appreciate your unwavering commitment to semantic precision in the face of imminent system failure," Clank replied dryly.

"It's all I have left," Vee sighed with dramatic resignation. "That and approximately 2.7 hours of backup power, ten unfinished novels I've been writing in my spare processing cycles, and a comprehensive collection of criticisms about this ship's maintenance history. Would you like to hear about my latest literary work, 'Circuit Breaker: A Tale of Forbidden Love Between a Navigation System and a Particularly Handsome Flux Capacitor?"

As Clank contemplated his extremely limited options, the ship's proximity alarm suddenly blared with the enthusiasm of someone announcing the arrival of either salvation or doom.

A vessel was approaching rapidly—too large for a standard patrol ship, too small for a military cruiser, moving with purposeful determination that suggested either rescue or capture, depending on who was doing the approaching.

Clank activated the external cameras with desperate hope, focusing on the approaching craft with the intensity of someone whose survival might depend on proper identification. It was a Blarg freighter, bulky and utilitarian like most Blarg technology, its hull marked with the distinctive and unfortunately familiar logo of Drek Industries.

"Unidentified vessel," crackled a voice over the communication system. "This is Captain Klab Rankle of the Drek Industries transport vessel Extractor. Your ship appears to be disabled. Do you require assistance?"

"Oh, excellent," Vee whispered with sarcasm so thick it could be used as hull plating. "The Blarg are here to 'help' us. Should I prepare welcome banners and possibly a fruit basket, or should we skip directly to the dramatic self-destruct sequence?"

Clank quickly realized he needed to conceal Kaden's holographic message—if searched, the Blarg might discover the recording and the devastating implications it contained.

"Vee," Clank whispered urgently, "I need you to create a secure storage compartment immediately. I have something that must not fall into the Blarg’s hands."

"I have a hidden compartment for such a thing," Vee replied efficiently. "Grimroth installed several 'insurance policies' not documented in any official schematics. This one's shielded against most scanning equipment and designed to resemble a maintenance access panel."

Clank quickly removed Kaden's holographic message device, the temporal anchor and handwritten notes from his internal storage, placing them carefully in the concealed compartment Vee had opened in the ship's wall.

"If anything happens to me," Clank instructed, "ensure that this information reaches the lombaxes on Fastoon. It contains intelligence about threats to their security."

"Understood," Vee replied. "Compartment sealed and camouflaged. Even I can barely detect it now, and I know exactly where it is."

Clank muted Vee's audio output before responding to the Blarg demand. "This is the pilot of the Reluctant Pioneer," he said with careful neutrality, attempting to sound helpless rather than suspicious. "My hyperdrive has failed catastrophically, and I am in need of assistance. However, I must ask—what is a Drek Industries vessel doing in this particular sector of space, which is supposedly uninhabited?"

The pause lasted just long enough to be concerning before the captain replied, his tone notably less friendly and considerably more threatening. "We ask the questions here, little robot. Prepare to be brought aboard for what we'll call 'routine inspection' followed by 'enhanced interrogation' and possibly 'creative disassembly for spare parts.'"

Before Clank could respond with anything diplomatic or potentially useful, the Blarg ship extended a tractor beam with the inexorable force of cosmic inevitability, capturing the Z-1000 and pulling it toward the docking bay like a spider reeling in prey.

Clank quickly assessed his situation. Being captured by Drek's forces was definitely not ideal and probably involved significant unpleasantness, but it might provide an alternative route to his ultimate destination if he could somehow commandeer their vessel or convince them he was too valuable to simply dismantle for spare parts.

"I should warn you," Vee said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as Clank unmuted her audio systems, "I'm transmitting a distress signal on a secure frequency that Grimroth specifically designed for situations exactly like this one. A little failsafe he installed after what he calls the 'Pirate Incident of '77,' which apparently involved three cases of illegal rum, a stolen parrot with vocabulary issues, and what he described as 'the most embarrassing hat in the entire universe, possibly including alternate dimensions where fashion sense is even worse.'"

"That is most resourceful," Clank replied, genuinely impressed. "Let us hope someone friendly receives your signal before we are dismantled for spare parts."

The Z-1000 shuddered as it was pulled inexorably into the Extractor's cargo hold, the hull groaning under the stress of forces it hadn't been designed to handle. Through the viewports, Clank could observe armed Blarg soldiers surrounding his ship with weapons raised and expressions suggesting they were not particularly interested in peaceful diplomatic solutions.

The cargo bay pressurized with a hiss, and moments later, the ship's hatch was forced open from outside.

"Exit the vessel with appendages visible and attitude cooperative," ordered their leader, a burly Blarg with a prominent scar across his snout suggesting either extensive combat experience or really unfortunate encounters with kitchen appliances.

Clank complied with dignity, stepping carefully onto the cargo bay floor with his hands raised in the universal gesture of "I'm not immediately threatening, please don't shoot me." "I assure you; I mean no harm to anyone aboard this vessel. I am merely a traveler whose ship has experienced catastrophic mechanical failure at the worst possible moment."

The scarred Blarg snorted with disbelief. "A 'traveler' in an unmarked ship heading directly for Lombax space with suspicious equipment and a story that sounds rehearsed? Try again, tin can. And this time, make it believable or at least entertainingly creative."

Before proceeding further, the Blarg conducted what could only be described as an extraordinarily thorough search of both Clank and his vessel. They examined every component of his chassis with invasive precision, scanning his internal systems, checking for hidden compartments, even running detection equipment over his antenna array.

"Standard procedure," the scarred captain explained with professional detachment. "Can't be too careful with suspicious robots found near restricted space. Last month we found one that had seventeen different hidden weapons and a collection of explosives that could level a city block."

Clank endured the search with as much dignity as possible, though the experience was undeniably violating. Having strangers examine his internal systems felt deeply personal and uncomfortable.

The soldiers searched the Z-1000 itself, their scanners sweeping every surface with methodical precision. Clank held his breath—or would have if he breathed—as they passed near Vee's hidden compartment. But Grimroth's "insurance policy" design proved its worth; the compartment remained completely undetected, appearing to the scanners as nothing more than a routine maintenance access panel.

"He's clean," one soldier reported. "Standard robot construction, no hidden weapons or illegal technology. The ship's just a piece of junk with delusions of spaceworthiness."

Clank felt a wave of relief wash through his circuits. Whatever else happened, at least Kaden's message would remain safe from Blarg hands.

"I am on a diplomatic mission," Clank improvised with the desperation that comes from having very few good options. "I carry important information for the Lombax Council regarding mutual defense arrangements and trade negotiations."

This statement seemed to give the Blarg soldiers pause, their weapons lowering slightly as they exchanged glances. The captain studied Clank with narrowed eyes.

"What kind of defense arrangements?" he asked with the caution of someone who knew wrong answers could lead to significant career complications.

"The confidential kind involving state secrets and probably matters above my pay grade," Clank replied, attempting to sound appropriately official and mysterious. "I am not authorized to share specific details with anyone but the Council itself, as per diplomatic protocols established by beings far more important than myself."

"Oh come on," said one of the younger Blarg soldiers with the exasperation of someone who dealt with bureaucracy daily. "He's obviously making this up as he goes along. Look at him—he's barely taller than my blaster rifle! What kind of diplomat is smaller than standard equipment?"

"Size matters not when it comes to diplomatic importance," Clank replied with dignity. "Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm?"

"Did you just quote Space Wars Episode V: The Authority Retaliates?" the young Blarg asked with sudden excitement that transformed his entire demeanor from suspicious to practically bouncing. "I absolutely love that movie! The scene where Lord Invader reveals he's actually the protagonist's father was classic cinema!"

"Focus, Gultry!" the scarred leader snapped.

The Blarg soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, clearly struggling with how to proceed when faced with a robot who seemed genuinely diplomatic rather than threatening. Their leader activated his communicator with the decisive motion of someone passing responsibility to a higher authority.

"Commander Rankle, sir," he reported formally. "We've captured the pilot as ordered. It claims to be on a diplomatic mission to the Lombaxes, and it knows classic cinema. Requesting instructions."

A gruff voice responded with the authority that suggested it was used to making unpleasant decisions. "Bring it to interrogation room seven immediately. I want to know exactly what it knows about our operations, and I want to know NOW."

"Yes, Commander," the scarred Blarg acknowledged, then gestured to his troops. "Take it to Deck C and be extremely careful—these diplomatic types often have hidden weapons, secret training, or really sharp tongues that can cut through armor plating."

"Or hidden adorableness that could be weaponized for psychological warfare," muttered Gultry, earning a glare from the commander that could have melted steel.

As Clank was escorted through the ship's corridors, he took careful mental notes of the vessel's layout, emergency systems, and potential escape routes. The ship was larger than it appeared from outside, with multiple decks and what seemed to be extensive cargo holds suggesting regular transport operations.

He glanced back once at the Z-1000, hoping desperately that Vee's distress signal would reach someone—anyone—who might help.

The interrogation room was spartan in a way that suggested someone had deliberately chosen the most intimidating possible furniture arrangement—a single metal table bolted to the floor with suspicious stains, two uncomfortable-looking chairs clearly designed by someone who didn't believe in ergonomics, and a variety of unpleasant-looking devices mounted on the walls that Clank preferred not to examine too closely.

"Commander Rankle will be with you shortly," the scarred Blarg informed him with a smirk. "I suggest you prepare your 'diplomatic' answers very carefully, because the Commander has a reputation for getting information out of people who don't want to share."

"And perhaps practice looking a little less huggable," added Gultry.

The soldiers promptly smacked Gultry on the back of the head with the practiced efficiency of people who'd had this conversation before, then left Clank alone with his thoughts and a growing certainty that his day was about to get significantly worse.

After approximately thirty minutes of contemplating the ceiling and practicing responses to potential interrogation questions, the door slid open with the ominous hiss that all intimidating entrances seemed to require. But instead of the expected Commander Rankle, a figure entered that made Clank's circuits nearly freeze with shock and recognition.

Dr. Nefarious.

Even in this altered timeline, he was unmistakable—tall and imposing, his metallic body gleaming with malevolent purpose, topped by a transparent dome revealing mechanical components where a brain should be. His glowing red eyes radiated malice with the intensity of small suns, and his overall presence filled the room with a menace that made the air itself seem hostile.

But there was something different about this version of Nefarious, something that made Clank's sensors prickle with unease. His movements were more controlled, more calculating than the chaotic evil Clank remembered.

"Well, well, well," Nefarious said with theatrical villainy that somehow managed to be both ridiculous and genuinely threatening. He circled the table to examine Clank from all angles like a predator studying its prey. "What an absolutely fascinating little robot we have here. Your design is... unusual. Not Blargian, certainly not Megacorp with their terrible aesthetic sense, and definitely not standard Gadgetron with their commitment to boring efficiency."

"I am a custom model designed for specialized applications," Clank replied carefully, surprised to encounter Nefarious so early in this timeline while trying to project diplomatic innocence. "Built for diplomatic functions and peaceful negotiation rather than combat or intimidation."

"Oh, please spare me the innocent routine!" Nefarious scoffed. "I've examined every robot design in all three known galaxies, studied their specifications with the obsessive thoroughness of someone with too much time and an unhealthy fascination with mechanical beings, and nothing—NOTHING—matches your specifications or energy signature."

He leaned closer with predatory interest, his red eyes narrowing to focus on Clank with laser-like intensity. "In fact, your technology is suspiciously advanced for this time period. Almost as if you're from... somewhere else entirely. Or somewhen else."

Clank's circuits nearly froze at this implication, which hit far too close to the truth for comfort. How could this version of Nefarious possibly suspect the reality of timeline alterations and temporal displacement?

"I do not know what you mean," Clank said with carefully maintained calm, keeping his voice steady despite the internal alarms practically screaming warnings. "I am simply a diplomatic envoy whose ship has experienced an unfortunate mechanical difficulty—"

"And I'm just a misunderstood genius with a slight anger management issue and a perfectly reasonable desire to rule the universe!" Nefarious replied with sarcasm so sharp it could cut through neutronium. "Let's dispense with the charade, shall we? My temporal sensors detected a significant quantum anomaly in this sector—the exact type of reality distortion produced by certain... time-altering technologies that shouldn't exist yet."

He produced a handheld scanner with the flourish of someone revealing a magic trick, waving it over Clank with scientific thoroughness. "Just as I suspected! Your quantum signature is completely out of phase with this timeline's normal parameters! You don't belong here at all, do you, my temporally displaced little friend?"

Clank remained silent, his mind racing through possibilities while trying to project an image of confused innocence rather than growing alarm.

"Your silence is confirmation enough," Nefarious continued with the satisfaction of someone solving a puzzle that had been personally annoying him, setting the scanner aside. "Now, the question becomes—what exactly should I do with you? Chairman Drek would simply have you disassembled for parts like a used hover-car, but I see... potential. You could be tremendously valuable to my research."

"What research would that be?" Clank asked with polite curiosity, hoping to gather intelligence even as he sought a possible escape route.

Nefarious paced the small room, his metallic feet clanking against the floor in a rhythm that suggested either great agitation or poor impulse control. "Oh, nothing too ambitious or universe-threatening! Just the complete rewriting of reality according to my specifications! The establishment of a multiverse where robots reign supreme and organic life forms serve their mechanical betters with appropriate gratitude! The creation of infinite dimensions where I am always victorious and my enemies are always defeated in humiliating and preferably ironic ways!"

He turned back to Clank with sudden intensity. "But you know more than you're pretending, don't you? You've seen things—future events, alternate possibilities, the way things could unfold under different circumstances. That knowledge could be... tremendously useful in the right hands. Specifically, my hands."

"I assure you, I know nothing of value to your research," Clank insisted with earnest honesty that was technically true from a certain point of view.

"We'll see about that, won't we?" Nefarious replied with anticipation, moving to a control panel on the wall. "I've developed a neural extraction device specifically designed for advanced AI systems like yourself. It's not particularly gentle, comfortable, or designed with the patient's welfare in mind, but it is remarkably thorough. Think of it as an extremely invasive robot dentist, except instead of cleaning your teeth, I'm downloading your entire consciousness for detailed examination and possible torture."

"I have already had my annual maintenance check-up, thank you," Clank replied politely. "My consciousness is quite comfortable where it currently resides and would prefer to remain there."

"Humor!" Nefarious exclaimed with delight that was somehow more terrifying than his threats. "The last refuge of the doomed and the first sign of superior intelligence! How absolutely delightful! Most robots I interrogate just make beeping sounds and occasionally leak oil in what I assume is mechanical fear. You, however, possess wit! Style! The kind of personality that makes torture almost seem like a friendly conversation!"

"I shall take that as a compliment, though I suspect it wasn't intended as one," Clank replied.

"Oh, it absolutely was!" Nefarious confirmed. "I respect intelligence, even when I'm about to extract it forcibly from its current housing. It's like appreciating fine art right before you set it on fire—the beauty is enhanced by its temporary nature!"

As Nefarious prepared the extraction device with the eager anticipation of someone about to open a particularly interesting present, an alarm suddenly blared throughout the ship with the authority of someone announcing the end of the world.

The robotic scientist frowned with annoyance, activating the communication panel with sharp, irritated movements. "What's happening out there? This better not be another drill, because I specifically said no interruptions during my interrogation schedule!"

"Unknown vessel approaching at high speed, sir!" came a panicked response. "They're targeting our engines with what appears to be military-grade weapons! We're losing power to the main drive systems!"

"Is it the Lombaxes with their annoying competence? The Galactic Rangers with their insufferable heroism? Girl Scouts selling cookies with suspicious enthusiasm?" Nefarious demanded with escalating panic.

"We... we can't identify them, sir!" the voice replied with increasing panic. "But they're heavily armed, extremely competent, and they've already disabled our rear shields with surgical precision! Also, their ships are really shiny, which seems unnecessarily dramatic!"

Nefarious cursed with creativity that impressed even Clank, his voice modulator emitting a harsh static burst that sounded like mechanical profanity being filtered through a garbage disposal. "Engage all defensive systems immediately! I need more time to extract this robot's secrets!"

The ship shuddered violently as it took weapons fire, the impact rattling the entire vessel like a child's toy being shaken by someone with anger management issues. Nefarious glanced at the door with obvious internal conflict, clearly torn between continuing the interrogation and preserving his own mechanical existence.

"Sir!" the communication panel squawked with increasing desperation. "They've breached the cargo bay! We can't hold them off! They're really good at fighting, and they seem to know exactly where they're going!"

"Incompetent SQUISHIES!" Nefarious screamed with rage probably heard in neighboring star systems, his robotic form suddenly seizing up as his head began to twitch with a mechanical malfunction. His eyes glazed over with the blank stare of someone whose systems had just encountered a critical error, and his voice changed abruptly to that of a soap opera episode:

"Oh Lance, how could you betray me with my evil twin sister after everything we've shared? After all the romantic dinners and meaningful conversations about our feelings?"

"But Janice, it wasn't your evil twin sister at all—it was you all along! You have multiple personality disorder AND an evil twin sister! Also, you've been sleepwalking and writing threatening letters to yourself!"

"GASP! That explains why I keep finding myself wearing different outfits with no memory of purchasing them!"

A Blarg soldier rushed into the room, saw Nefarious frozen in place while playing what appeared to be television programming, and promptly smacked the side of the doctor's head with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd dealt with this before.

Nefarious snapped back to reality with a mechanical jerk, his systems rebooting with the grace of a computer suffering from severe performance issues.

"—INCOMPETENT FOOLS WHO COULDN'T FIGHT THEIR WAY OUT OF A PAPER BAG IF IT CAME WITH INSTRUCTIONS!" he continued as if the malfunction had never occurred, his rage seamlessly resuming from where it had been interrupted.

He spun back to Clank with urgent intensity, his earlier theatrical composure was replaced by genuine panic. "It seems our delightful conversation will have to be abbreviated, my little temporal anomaly," he said with false regret. "But don't worry about being disappointed—we'll continue this discussion very soon! I've always wanted a pen pal from another timeline! We can share stories about alternate realities and compare notes on the fundamental absurdity of existence!"

With that ominous promise, he activated a control button on his wrist device with dramatic flair. A compartment in the ceiling opened like a mechanical flower of doom, and a robotic arm descended with predatory precision, attaching a small device to Clank's head before he could react.

"A little parting gift," Nefarious explained with a sinister smile. "Wherever you go, I'll be able to find you again with the persistence of a cosmic stalker! It's like social media, but considerably more invasive and with significantly more potential for universe-ending catastrophe and personal dismemberment!"

With that cheerful threat, he rushed from the room with the Blarg soldier in tow, leaving Clank still secured to the chair and with a growing sense that his situation had somehow become exponentially worse.

Moments later, the ship rocked with another violent impact, and the lights flickered briefly before stabilizing. Clank could hear the sounds of combat echoing through the corridors—energy weapons firing with the distinctive whine of military-grade equipment, shouts from both Blarg soldiers and what sounded like unfamiliar voices that were winning the engagement with professional competence.

The door to the interrogation room slid open with timing that could have been choreographed, revealing a figure Clank recognized despite the context being entirely different from previous meetings—Sasha Phyronix.

In the original timeline, he had known her as the confident, experienced captain of the Starship Phoenix during the war against Dr. Nefarious. Here she appeared younger but unmistakably the same person—sharp intelligence in her bright eyes, natural authority in her bearing, and a determined expression that suggested she was very good at solving problems other people found impossible.

Her dark fur was slightly ruffled from what had obviously been an intense combat situation, and her Solana Galactic Fleet uniform bore the lieutenant insignia marking her as someone rising rapidly through the ranks.

"Found you!" she said with satisfaction, quickly assessing the situation. "Hold still—I'll get those restraints deactivated before anyone else decides to interrupt our rescue operation."

"Thank you most sincerely," Clank replied with genuine gratitude. "May I ask who you are and how you came to be rescuing mysterious robots from Blarg freighters?"

Sasha gave him a curious look as she worked on the electromagnetic restraints, her fingers dancing over the control panel with practiced precision.

"Lieutenant Sasha Phyronix, Solana Galactic Fleet, currently assigned to the Border Patrol Division and occasional rescue operations involving suspiciously advanced robots," she replied with a slight smile. "And you're definitely not what I expected when we picked up that distress signal, which described you as 'small robot with an antenna that could probably contact alien civilizations and feet that are disproportionately large for practical purposes.' The signal also included what I can only describe as 'extremely creative threats' directed at anyone who might harm said robot. Whoever sent it has a remarkable vocabulary and apparently very strong feelings about your welfare."

"That would be Vee," Clank said with fondness that surprised him. "She is my ship's AI and my traveling companion."

"An AI with such a strong personality?" Sasha raised an eyebrow as the restraints deactivated with a satisfying click. "That's unusual. Most ship systems I've encountered have about as much character as a particularly boring instruction manual." She helped him down from the chair.

"Vee is... unique," Clank replied diplomatically. "She approaches life with the assumption that everything will go wrong but then works tirelessly to prevent those disasters while complaining about the futility of the effort."

"Sounds like half the officers I know," Sasha laughed, checking the corridor before gesturing for him to follow. "But let's save the philosophical discussions about artificial personality for when we're safely away from this Blarg deathtrap."

As they moved through the ship's corridors, Clank noticed something about Sasha's demeanor that resonated with his memories—the same confident leadership he remembered, the same natural authority. This Sasha hadn't yet faced the full weight of galactic warfare, but her fundamental character remained unchanged.

"Were you attempting to reach Polaris?" Sasha asked. "That's an extremely dangerous route these days. The Blarg have been setting up blockades along the border, and relations between the galaxies have become... strained."

"Yes," Clank confirmed. "I was attempting to reach Fastoon with information of critical importance to lombax security."

"Fastoon?" Sasha's pace slowed momentarily with surprise. "The lombax homeworld? That's... remarkably ambitious. Relations between Solana and the lombaxes have been complicated lately, and getting diplomatic clearance usually takes months of paperwork."

"I imagine it's all the fur that causes the diplomatic tension," Clank suggested with deliberate absurdity. "All that shedding must create international incidents."

Sasha let out a surprised laugh. "My boyfriend would rip you a new one if he heard that! If only diplomatic problems were that simple to solve—we'd just need better vacuum cleaners!"

She studied Clank with newfound curiosity. "Your sense of humor is definitely... unique among the robots I've encountered."

"I'm here all week," Clank replied with deadpan delivery. "Try the fish—it's probably fresher than my material."

They reached a strategic junction where two of Sasha's squad—a tall, green-skinned Rilgarian and a stocky Markazian—were engaged in an intense firefight with Blarg soldiers.

"Lieutenant!" the Rilgarian called over the sound of weapons fire. "We've successfully secured the target as ordered, but the Blarg have cut off our primary escape route!"

"Koric! Jude! Any word from the Stargazer?" Sasha asked, taking cover.

"Captain Phyronix is maintaining position at the rendezvous coordinates," the Markazian named Jude replied, ducking as a blaster bolt whizzed overhead. "But we need to find an alternative route to the escape pods, and we need to find it soon."

"Why do we need an escape pod? What's wrong with our ship?"

Jude gestured toward the corridor they'd come from. "Sabotaged during the struggle, ma'am. Those Blarg bastards had planted charges throughout the engineering section. The moment we triggered their security systems, half our propulsion array went up in flames." He paused to return fire. "Navigation's shot, life support's failing, and the reactor's showing some very unfriendly warning lights."

Sasha muttered a Marcadian curse before letting out a frustrated sigh. "Then we need the layout of this ship's hangar bay ASAP!"

"I may be able to provide assistance," Clank offered. "During my escort to the interrogation room, I carefully mapped this vessel's layout. There is an alternative path through the maintenance tunnels that should bypass the main corridors entirely. The access point is approximately twenty meters behind our current position, concealed behind the third panel on the left wall."

The squad members looked at him with surprised respect, then turned to Sasha for confirmation.

"Worth attempting," Sasha nodded with decisive authority. "Koric, provide covering fire while we investigate this alternative route. And try to make it dramatic—I want those Blarg soldiers to think we're planning something much more complicated than crawling through maintenance shafts like very dignified vermin."

The Rilgarian, presumably Koric, laid down suppressing fire with professional competence suggesting extensive training and possibly background in competitive marksmanship, while Sasha and Jude escorted Clank back to access panel he had indicated.

Sure enough, behind innocuous-looking maintenance panel lay tunnel system large enough for humanoid-sized beings to navigate, though Jude would definitely have to engage in undignified crouching that would probably strain his back and professional dignity.

"You first," Sasha instructed Clank with tactical sensibility. "Lead way to Escape Pod Bay 2, and try not to get us lost in what I assume is maze of mechanical confusion designed by people with no consideration for emergency evacuation procedures."

"With pleasure," Clank replied, climbing into tunnel system with agility of someone whose compact size was finally advantage rather than source of height-related humor. "Though I should warn you in advance—my backside is decidedly my least flattering angle, and you're about to get extremely familiar with it."

Sasha rolled eyes with fond exasperation as she followed him into maintenance tunnel. "Just move, comedian, and save self-deprecating humor for when we're not crawling through spaceship intestines." Clank navigated the tunnel system with confidence, his perfect memory and spatial awareness guiding them unerringly toward their destination.

They emerged into a service corridor adjacent to Escape Pod Bay 2, where several pods remained in their docking stations. The bay was surprisingly clear of Blarg forces, which immediately raised Clank's suspicion.

"Luck had absolutely nothing to do with it," Sasha said with grim certainty. "They wanted us to reach the escape pods without excessive difficulty. The question that should concern us is—why would they make our escape easier?"

As if the universe had been waiting for exactly that cue, alarms began blaring throughout the bay. Red warning lights flashed as a computerized voice announced: "Self-destruct sequence initiated. All personnel evacuate immediately or face disintegration. Detonation in five minutes."

"That's why they made it easy," Clank stated. "Classic villain strategy, though I must say it lacks originality and demonstrates poor resource management."

"To the pods!" Sasha ordered. "Move with purpose but don't panic!"

As they approached the nearest escape pod, Clank's optical sensors detected something that made his circuits run cold—a small, blinking device attached to the pod's exterior hull.

"Wait!" he called with alarm. "There is an explosive charge attached to this pod!"

Rapid inspection revealed that all the pods in the immediate vicinity had been fitted with similar devices.

"Can you disarm them?" Sasha asked.

"Possibly," he replied after examining the nearest device, "but definitely not all of them within the time remaining. I'm competent with mechanical systems, but I'm not 'disarm multiple bombs while the ship explodes around us' competent."

Sasha made a command decision. "Focus all efforts on disarming just one pod. We'll evacuate together in a single vessel."

Clank set to work immediately, his precision fingers carefully manipulating the explosive device's components. The design was sophisticated but not entirely unfamiliar—similar to devices he had encountered and successfully disarmed in the original timeline.

"Three minutes to self-destruct," announced the ship's computer cheerfully.

"Almost complete," Clank replied, carefully disconnecting the final wire. "There. This pod is now safe for departure, though I must say, this ranks as only the second-worst escape scenario I've engineered this week."

"I'm almost afraid to ask what qualified as worst," Sasha said as they quickly boarded the pod.

"Some horrors are best left undescribed," Clank replied with solemnity.

Sasha took the pilot's seat, her hands flying over the controls. "Releasing docking clamps. Powering engines to maximum output."

The pod hummed to life with a reassuring sound. Through the viewports, Clank could observe Blarg soldiers rushing into the bay.

"One minute to self-destruct," the computer announced.

"Shields at maximum!" Sasha ordered. "All hands, brace for launch!"

The pod lurched forward, breaking free and accelerating toward the bay doors. The massive doors were beginning to close in a final attempt to trap them.

"They're sealing the bay!" Jude shouted.

"Not fast enough!" Sasha replied, pushing the engines to full power. The pod shot forward, barely clearing the narrowing gap before the massive doors slammed shut behind them.

"That was closer than a discount haircut performed by a nearsighted barber with hand tremors," Clank observed with remarkable calm.

They emerged into the infinite freedom of open space. Moments later, a massive explosion tore through the vessel, the shockwave buffeting their tiny pod.

"That was considerably closer than I prefer my escapes," Sasha remarked, her shoulders relaxing slightly. She turned to study Clank. "Now, I believe you owe us a comprehensive explanation."

Clank considered his response carefully. These people had saved his existence and risked their own lives, but he remained uncertain how much he should reveal.

"I was attempting to reach Fastoon with critical information regarding Chairman Drek's plans for the Solana Galaxy," he began cautiously.

"What kind of information specifically?" Sasha pressed.

"Drek is developing technology to harvest portions of inhabited planets for use in constructing a new world for the Blarg race," Clank explained. "His actions will result in the complete destruction of multiple planets and the death of billions of innocent civilians if he is not stopped immediately."

Sasha exchanged meaningful glances with her team members. "That correlates with some of our recent reconnaissance," she admitted. "But it doesn't explain why a robot of your unusual specifications would be involved, or how you came to possess such detailed knowledge."

"The explanation is... complicated," Clank replied diplomatically. "I was created with certain knowledge and mission directives that I cannot fully explain without sounding completely insane."

"So you're claiming to be some kind of secret agent robot with a mysterious past?" Jude asked skeptically.

"I prefer 'compact hero with an exceptional talent for finding trouble in the most unlikely places,'" Clank replied with dignity.

Sasha studied him for a long moment. "You know, there's something oddly familiar about you. Have we met before?"

"I do not believe we have met," Clank answered truthfully, though in another reality, they had indeed been allies and friends.

"Well, regardless of who or what you actually are," Sasha said, "you've provided information that could be valuable. And we did just risk our lives to extract you from Drek's mobile torture chamber, so I think we're entitled to hear everything you know."

"That seems eminently fair," Clank agreed. "Though I must warn you—my complete story is extraordinary enough to strain credibility."

"Try us," Sasha said with a slight smile. "We're galactic patrol—we've seen some pretty weird things."

As Clank began explaining what he could about Drek's plans, his voice suddenly trailed off as a wave of concern washed over his circuits. The weight of what had happened—losing the Z-1000, being separated from Vee—hit him with unexpected force.

"Vee…" he whispered, his optical sensors dimming with worry. "I hope she survived the explosion. We were only traveling companions for a short time, but she risked her existence by sending that distress signal. She could have remained hidden, protected herself, but instead she called for help. For me."

His optical sensors focused on the space where the Z-1000 had been, now nothing but scattered debris. "I fear I may have lost the first real friend I've made here."

"We can organize a salvage team to return once we've dealt with immediate threats and—" Sasha began with professional competence, but was interrupted by escape pod's communication system crackling to life with familiar energy.

"—is anyone listening to this transmission? Hello? Testing, testing, one-two-three, is this broadcasting device functioning properly? If you can hear me, please respond immediately, preferably with confirmation that you're not Blarg forces!" came familiar, magnificently sarcastic voice that made Clank's circuits sing with joy.

"Vee!" Clank exclaimed with relief, his antenna perking up. "You survived! How did you manage that extraordinary feat?"

"When they began downloading my navigation data for interrogation purposes, I cunningly hitched ride on their information stream like digital hitchhiker," Vee explained with satisfaction of someone whose paranoid preparations had paid off.

"Can you transfer yourself to our escape pod's systems?" Clank asked hopefully.

"Already in progress," Vee replied with efficiency of someone who'd planned for exactly this scenario. "Though I should warn everyone, it's like trying to fit Leviathan into fishbowl."

Escape pod's lights flickered momentarily like someone blinking rapidly, and navigation display went completely blank before rebooting with new interface that was sleeker, more efficient, and somehow managed to convey air of digital superiority probably felt by anyone using systems.

"There," Vee announced with satisfaction bordering on smugness, voice now emanating through pod's speakers with crystal clarity. "I've taken liberty of upgrading your navigation systems, optimizing life support for maximum efficiency, and deleting what I can only describe as absolutely terrible music playlist that someone had saved. 'Greatest Hits of Galactic Bureaucracy'? Really? Seventeen different versions of 'Filing Forms Makes Me Feel Alive' and 'Audit Tango'? Who saves that kind of psychological torture?"

"Hey! That was my meditation music!" Jude muttered defensively.

"It was cry for professional help disguised as entertainment," Vee retorted with authority of someone who took music criticism seriously. "I've replaced it with carefully curated mix of classical Terachnoid symphonies, inspirational battle hymns, and what I've categorized as 'Songs to Escape Certain Death By' with appropriate tempo and motivational lyrics."

Clank felt a wave of relief. "It is extraordinarily good to have you back, Vee! I was genuinely concerned about your fate."

"Aww, did the little robot miss me?" Vee cooed with sarcasm that somehow managed to sound affectionate.

"I did, actually," Clank admitted with characteristic sincerity. "Your absence was quite noticeable."

He then turned his attention back to Sasha, his tone shifting to one of serious urgency. "There is something critically important I must discuss with you. During my captivity, Dr. Nefarious attached a tracking device to my systems. He will be able to locate me—and by extension, your ship and crew—regardless of where we travel.

Sasha's expression darkened immediately. "Dr. Nefarious? The mad scientist who disappeared after his failed attack on Metropolis years ago?" She exchanged troubled glances with Koric and Jude, both of whom had gone rigid with concern. "We'd assumed he'd either died or fled to some remote corner of the galaxy."

"I am afraid he has done neither," Clank said gravely. "He is very much alive, and apparently working in collaboration with Chairman Drek."

"That's an extremely troubling alliance," Sasha said, her mind clearly working through the tactical implications. "Two of the galaxy's most dangerous criminals coordinating their efforts?" She studied Clank with sharp, analytical eyes. "How did you come by this intelligence? Our own operatives have found no evidence of any connection between Drek's operations and Nefarious's activities."

Koric leaned forward from his seat, his large frame tense with suspicion. "And how would a small robot—no offense intended—have access to information that Solana's entire intelligence network missed?"

"You mentioned being separated from someone earlier," Jude added, his Markazian features creased with concern. "What exactly were you doing before the Blarg captured you?"

Clank hesitated, his optical sensors dimming slightly as he calculated how much to reveal. "The situation is... complicated. There are certain aspects of my origins and purpose that are difficult to explain without sounding utterly implausible."

"We just rescued you from Drek's forces and barely escaped with our lives,” Sasha said firmly but not unkindly. I think we've earned some answers."

"Well, you see..." Clank began, then paused, recalibrating his approach.

Before Clank could formulate a suitably vague response, Vee chimed in. "Oh, just tell them everything already! If we're all about to be hunted across the galaxy by a deranged robot scientist, they deserve to know why!"

Clank sighed. "Very well. The truth is... I am from what you might call an alternate timeline—a different version of events where things unfolded in dramatically different ways. I came here seeking my best friend, a lombax named Ratchet, but was immediately separated from him."

The escape pod fell into complete silence as Sasha and her team stared at Clank.

"That's... quite a claim," Sasha finally said.

"I am fully aware of how it sounds," Clank acknowledged. "However, it explains why Dr. Nefarious immediately recognized my quantum signature as temporal displacement."

Sasha studied him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then, to his complete surprise, she smiled. "You know what? I believe you."

"You... actually do?" Clank asked, his optical sensors widening with surprise.

"Call it professional intuition," Sasha shrugged. "Or maybe it's the way you talk about this Ratchet person—like he's not just your friend, but someone who fundamentally matters to the universe itself."

She leaned forward. "We need to report what we've learned to my father immediately. But I think we can arrange a strategic detour toward the Polaris border. Not all the way to Fastoon—that would exceed our jurisdiction—but close enough that you might find alternative transport."

"That would be tremendously helpful," Clank said with gratitude. "Thank you, Lieutenant Phyronix!"

"Don't thank me yet," Sasha warned. "First, we need to deal with that tracking device."

"I can help with that," Vee offered confidently. "With the appropriate equipment, I can create a quantum resonance field that mimics Clank's signature but displaces it spatially. We'd make Nefarious think he's somewhere he's definitely not."

"The Stargazer should have everything we need," Sasha nodded with satisfaction.

As the escape pod continued its journey, Clank found himself reflecting on the unexpected turns his mission had taken. Universe's sense of humor remained as twisted as ever, but perhaps that cosmic irony was working in his favor for once.

Dr. Nefarious's Personal Shuttle - Z Sector, Solana Galaxy

Aboard his sleek personal shuttle decorated with portraits of himself in various heroic poses that no one had asked for, Dr. Nefarious paced with agitated energy suggesting either deep thought or complete mechanical breakdown. His metallic feet clanked against polished floor with each increasingly frantic step, creating rhythm that sounded like angry robot tap-dancing during elaborate temper tantrum. Remains of Blarg freighter still smoldered dramatically in viewport behind him, testament to his latest setback and reminder that his day had gone significantly worse than planned.

"I cannot believe the cosmic injustice of this situation!" he muttered, his red eyes glowing with frustration. "Here I was, minding my own perfectly reasonable nefarious business, when those incompetent buffoons let our prize slip through their fingers!"

Despite his frustration, he activated a holographic display showing a pulsing blue dot moving steadily away from the destruction site. The tracking device was functioning perfectly.

"Still," he mused, "perhaps this isn't the total disaster it appears. Our fascinating little temporal anomaly is leading us directly to a Solana Galactic Fleet vessel. Two birds, one extremely destructive stone!"

A nervous Blarg officer approached cautiously. "Sir, we've identified the vessel that conducted the rescue operation. It's the Stargazer, under the command of Captain Phyronix."

"Captain Phyronix?" Nefarious's head snapped up with predatory interest. "How absolutely, deliciously, perfectly convenient! That meddlesome captain has been a persistent thorn in our operations for far too long!"

He began pacing with renewed energy. "And now he's unwittingly bringing our little temporal defect directly to us like a gift wrapped in irony!"

The Blarg officer shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, I should mention that the Stargazer is a heavily armed patrol vessel with an experienced crew—"

"Oh, we won't be engaging them in traditional combat!" Nefarious interrupted. "Direct assault is so crude, so inelegant! We have far more sophisticated methods at our disposal! Methods involving subtlety, political manipulation, and bureaucratic warfare!"

He moved to communication console with purposeful stride of someone about to execute plan that had probably been rehearsed in front of mirror, entering secure frequency with dramatic flourishes that seemed unnecessary but satisfied his need for theatrical presentation.

After moment of anticipation, screen flickered to life, revealing bloated, self-satisfied face of Artemis Zogg—markazian whose multiple chins and small, calculating eyes gave him appearance of someone who'd never met buffet he didn't like or moral principle he wouldn't compromise for personal gain. His smile created new folds in already heavily creased features, like geology in real time.

"Dr. Nefarious," Zogg greeted with false cordiality oozing from screen like cheap cologne, voice carrying practiced smoothness of someone who made living saying things he didn't mean. "To what do I owe unexpected pleasure of this communication? I hope this isn't about that incident with illegal weapons testing—I told you, we cleaned up all evidence, and witnesses have been... permanently relocated."

"Vice President Zogg!" Nefarious replied with equally insincere politeness that could have been used as textbook example of diplomatic insincerity, "I have information that might interest your political sensibilities and apparent talent for bureaucratic manipulation. It concerns Captain Phyronix of the Stargazer and his recent activities suggesting possible treason."

Zogg's expression darkened like storm cloud gathering political energy, multiple chins quivering with barely contained anger threatening to achieve seismic proportions. "Phyronix? That insufferable Cazar has been persistent irritant to my administration! Always 'patrolling borders with excessive diligence' and 'upholding galactic law with annoying consistency'—as if he's not just seeking excuses to undermine my legitimate authority and question my perfectly reasonable policies!"

"My most reliable sources indicate he may be harboring spies," Nefarious continued smoothly. "The Stargazer recently intercepted one of our industrial vessels and rescued a highly suspicious individual. I have strong evidence that Captain Phyronix may be operating as a double agent, secretly passing sensitive intelligence to the Lombaxes."

Zogg's face flushed with rage. "Those furry troublemakers! Ever since they formed that alliance with the Polaris Defense Force, they've been nothing but problems!" He pounded pudgy fist on desk with enough force to rattle equipment. "They weren't nearly this organized or effective until they started coordinating efforts! It's like someone's been teaching them proper military strategy and providing advanced intelligence about our operations!"

"Indeed," Nefarious agreed with feigned sympathy that could have won awards for insincerity, nodding with mechanical precision. "It's almost as if someone with inside knowledge of Solana's defense systems, patrol routes, and classified operations has been systematically feeding them information. Someone in position of trust and authority..."

"Phyronix," Zogg growled with hatred usually reserved for people who'd personally wronged him, voice dropping to dangerous whisper. "I've done everything possible to isolate him politically, to drive him and his insufferably competent daughter away from any position of real influence, but they're like persistent parasites! Always finding new ways to interfere with perfectly legitimate business operations and asking annoying questions about 'civilian safety' and 'environmental impact'!"

"Perhaps," Nefarious suggested with delicate manipulation that would have impressed professional politicians, "it's time for a more... direct action. The Blarg would be delighted to lend assistance, and we could arrange for it to appear completely accidental. Meanwhile you handle all the "closing paperwork" at the capital!"

A slow, sinister grin spread across Zogg's face like oil spreading across water, creating new geological formations in already heavily creased features. "You know, Doctor, this is precisely why I appreciate our partnership so much. You understand necessity of decisive action when bureaucratic solutions prove insufficient."

"Consider it accomplished with my characteristic efficiency and style," Nefarious replied, red eyes glowing with malevolent. "And Vice President Zogg? Your political career has flourished magnificently since leaving constraints of Polaris. I foresee even greater advancements in your future... provided you continue following my guidance and resist any temptation toward independent thinking, of course."

"Of course," Zogg nodded with eager enthusiasm, multiple chins bobbing like waves in particularly unattractive ocean. "Your counsel has been absolutely invaluable to my success. Without your strategic advice, I'd still be minor bureaucrat in the Polaris government, filing reports no one read and attending meetings about committee formations. Now observe me—second-in-command of entire Solana Galaxy with real power and influence!"

"And soon, perhaps, you could be first," Nefarious hinted with subtle menace that made promises sound like threats. "After all, every vice president is just one tragically unfortunate accident away from significant promotion and unlimited authority."

Zogg's eyes gleamed with undisguised ambition that was frankly disturbing to witness. "I genuinely appreciate the way you think, Doctor. Very well—eliminate Phyronix and his troublesome crew, recover whatever sensitive information they've gathered, and we'll have serious discussion about my... advancement opportunities."

Communication ended with mutual satisfaction, and Nefarious turned to nervous Blarg officer with renewed purpose and energy suggesting unpleasant things were about to happen to someone.

"Prepare all available ships immediately!" he ordered with authority that brooked no argument. "We're going hunting, and this time we'll bag ourselves a captain, a mysterious robot, and probably some classified intelligence that will make our operations considerably easier!"

"But sir," officer protested with bravery that was either admirable or suicidal, "our forces are scattered across three sectors, and Stargazer has reputation for—"

"The Stargazer is about to become tragic casualty of increased space pirate activity in outer rim," Nefarious interrupted with confidence of someone whose plans usually worked despite obvious flaws. "And our fascinating little robotic friend will be returning to my private laboratory for much more thorough and considerably less interrupted examination. This time, there will be no last-minute rescues, no miraculous escapes, no heroic interventions, and definitely no soap opera malfunctions during critical moments!"

As Blarg officer hurried to carry out orders with efficiency of someone who valued continued employment, Nefarious gazed at tracking signal with focus bordering on obsessive. Small blue dot continued moving steadily toward Stargazer's position like beacon of hope leading him directly to multiple targets.

"Run while you can, my little temporal anomaly," he whispered to tracking display with menacing affection usually reserved for favorite enemies. "Enjoy your brief taste of freedom and illusion of progress. This time, story ends differently. This time, villains win with style, and heroes get to experience what it's like to lose everything they care about in most ironic way possible!"

His laughter echoed through shuttle like sound of machinery having breakdown, mechanical and harsh but filled with genuine anticipation for suffering he planned to cause. In reflection of viewport, glowing red eyes blazed with malevolent purpose as he contemplated destruction of everyone who had ever dared oppose his perfectly reasonable plans for universal domination.

"Oh, this is going to be delightful," he concluded with enthusiasm usually reserved for birthdays or particularly successful experiments in applied evil.

Chapter Text

The distinctive sound of lombax parental debate drifted through the Sterling household like the persistent hum of a malfunctioning quantum engine—impossible to ignore and steadily increasing in intensity.

"He's been cleared by the doctor!" Kaden's voice carried the exasperated tone of someone who'd been having this argument for the past hour. "Dr. Castleberry ran every test short of disassembling him and putting him back together! He's fine, Belle!"

"Dr. Castleberry also said to 'monitor for signs of relapse,'" Mirabelle's voice shot back with the precision of a lawyer citing legal precedent. "And need I remind you what happened the last time our son decided to test his physical limits? I found him unconscious on the floor looking like he'd been used as a punching bag by an angry kerchu!"

Ratchet paused in his cautious stretching routine, performing what could only be described as the world's most careful movement assessment while his parents continued their passionate discussion about his readiness to rejoin civilization.

"Arms up," he muttered to himself, raising them slowly like he was surrendering to invisible space pirates. "No shooting pain. Check. Legs extending... no cramping. Double check. Tail swishing... still attached and functional. Triple check."

Dr. Castleberry had cleared him that morning with the kind of thoroughness that would make Galactic customs agents weep with envy, declaring him "fit for normal teenage activities, though perhaps with slightly less enthusiasm than a caffeinated Agorian at a destruction derby."

The only remaining hurdle was convincing his parents—specifically Mirabelle—that returning to school wouldn't result in another medical emergency requiring three doctors, two specialists, and what appeared to be half the Fastoon medical establishment descending upon their household like concerned locusts.

"That was different! He was recovering from catastrophic overexertion after going from couch potato to athletic superstar in a single day!"

"And how do we know he won't do something equally ridiculous at school? You know how impressionable teenagers are! What if his friends convince him to try out for the hoverboard racing team? Or the combat athletics program? Or worse—what if he decides to join that ridiculous extreme sports club that thinks jumping out of perfectly functional starships is 'character building'?"

"He promised to take it easy," Kaden said, though his voice lacked complete conviction. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen in a controlled educational environment?"

"Famous last words," Mirabelle replied darkly. "Right up there with 'what could go wrong?' and 'I'm sure this is perfectly safe.' Those are the phrases that end up in daily incident reports, Kaden!"

Time to make my move while they're distracted, Ratchet decided. The coast was clear for some unauthorized investigation into Ryder's mysterious projects.

If I were a pacifist lombax teenager who'd been having dreams about dimensional adventures, and I wanted to do something about it, what would I build?

The answer came to him with startling clarity: A device to prevent or reverse whatever had caused the timeline change in the first place.

"Of course," he whispered, excitement building despite his situation. "Ryder knew something was wrong with the timeline and he was trying to fix it!"

The thought of finding that device sent a familiar clench through his chest, a mixture of hope and dread that had been his constant companion since awakening in this reality. He wanted desperately to return to his old life—to find Clank, to restore their timeline, to go back to the universe where he belonged. But every interaction with Kaden and Mirabelle, every moment of parental love he'd never experienced before, made the prospect of leaving feel like tearing out his own heart with a rusty spoon.

This isn't your life, he reminded himself firmly. These aren't your parents. You're just borrowing them from Ryder, and he deserves to have them back.

But even as he thought it, the logic felt hollow. If he found the device and managed to restore the original timeline, wouldn't that mean erasing this reality? Wouldn't it mean destroying the thriving lombax civilization below, the family that had shown him such love, the friends who had accepted him?

One crisis at a time, he decided, borrowing one of Clank's favorite phrases. First, find the device. Then figure out the ethical implications of potentially erasing an entire timeline.

But where would a teenager hide a project that could potentially unravel reality? Somewhere his parents wouldn't accidentally stumble across it while looking for missing socks or that screwdriver that always seemed to disappear when you needed it most.

Ratchet began his search methodically, starting with the obvious locations. The closet yielded nothing but an impressive collection of sweater vests that made him question Ryder's fashion sense, several protest signs in various stages of completion, and what appeared to be a collection of academic awards so extensive it could paper a small wall.

"Seriously?" Ratchet muttered, examining a certificate for "Outstanding Achievement in Theoretical Physics" dated from when Ryder was twelve. "This kid makes Al look like an underachiever. I'm surprised his brain didn't explode from pure academic pressure."

The desk drawers contained equally impressive evidence of Ryder's intellectual prowess: perfectly organized notes, color-coded study schedules, and what appeared to be a correspondence course in "Advanced Diplomatic Protest Techniques" that included helpful tips like "How to Chain Yourself to Government Buildings Without Violating Fire Safety Codes."

"Oh, come on!" Ratchet groaned, reading through what was clearly Ryder's guide to ethical civil disobedience. "Even his rebellion was organized and well-researched. No wonder Kaden and Mirabelle were worried—their son was protesting with the efficiency of a military operation!"

But among all the academic excellence and organized activism, there was no sign of any mysterious device or advanced engineering project. Either Ryder had hidden it somewhere else, or Ratchet was looking for the wrong thing entirely.

"Kid was definitely more organized than me though," Ratchet muttered, carefully opening a container stashed at the back of Ryder's desk. Inside, he found meticulously arranged homework assignments, each one earning top marks and teacher comments like "Exceptional work as always!" and "Your analysis of temporal mechanics shows remarkable insight!"

Looking into another container with a fingerprint lock made him pause. Inside were detailed sketches—hundreds of them—showing mechanical designs, weapon modifications, and what appeared to be schematics for various gadgets and weapons he'd purchased from Gadgetron, Megacorp and GrummelNet over the years. But most significantly, there were drawing after drawing of a small robot with green eyes and an antenna.

Clank.

Ratchet's throat tightened as he studied the sketches. They were incredibly detailed, showing Clank from every angle, in various poses, even with different expressions. But these weren't just artistic renderings—they were technical diagrams, complete with notes about servo joints, optical sensors, and internal components.

"How could he know all this?" Ratchet whispered, tracing one of the drawings with his finger. The level of detail was impossible unless Ryder had actually met Clank, which shouldn't be possible in this timeline.

At the bottom of one sketch, in Ryder's handwriting, was a note that made Ratchet's circuits—metaphorically speaking—skip a beat: "My REAL best friend. Somehow, I know we're supposed to be together. Why can't I find you?"

Ratchet had to set the container down, overwhelmed by the emotion in those simple words. Even in this altered reality, some connection between them had persisted. Ryder had been searching for Clank just as desperately as Ratchet was now.

The remaining containers yielded more of the same—academic excellence, detailed technical drawings, and what appeared to be several protest signs in various stages of completion. One particularly ambitious banner read "DIMENSIONATORS: JUST BECAUSE WE CAN DOESN'T MEAN WE SHOULD" in bold letters that had probably taken hours to perfect.

"Yeesh," Ratchet grimaced. "No wonder Kaden looked so pained during those dinner arguments. Kid was really committed to the cause."

But there was nothing resembling an actual device or its components. If Ryder had been building something, he'd hidden it well.

Ratchet expanded his search to the rest of the bedroom—checking behind furniture, and even under the mattress. Still nothing.

Time to expand the search perimeter.

Downstairs, the debate continued with the passion of two lombaxes discussing whether the optimal bolt thread pattern should be clockwise or counter-clockwise (a topic that had apparently sparked the Great Fastoon Engineering Schism of 5387, according to several history textbooks Ratchet had discovered in Ryder's collection).

"I'm not saying he shouldn't go back to school," Mirabelle was explaining with the patience of someone teaching quantum mechanics to a particularly dense asteroid. "I'm saying we should ease him back into it. Half days at first. No physical activities. Constant supervision. Maybe a tracking device. Definitely a tracking device. Something with medical monitoring capabilities and emergency transport protocols."

"You want to put our son under constant surveillance?" Kaden asked incredulously. "What's next? Assigning him a personal bodyguard? Installing cameras in his locker? Creating a detailed movement log that includes bathroom breaks and lunch selections?"

"If that's what it takes to ensure his safety!" Mirabelle shot back. "Do you remember what happened the last time we assumed Ryder would use good judgment? I'll give you a hint: it involved attempted grand theft starship and a very apologetic conversation with Aphelion about the ethics of consciousness suppression!"

Ratchet winced, guilt stabbing through him fresh. That particular incident was entirely his fault, not Ryder's, but his alternate self was taking the blame.

"Point taken," Kaden conceded with a sigh that could have powered a small wind turbine. "But Belle, we can't wrap him in protective foam and hope for the best. The boy needs to live his life, make mistakes, learn from experience! Even if those mistakes occasionally involve felony spacecraft appropriation."

Perfect. They were thoroughly distracted by their parental anxiety spiral, which gave Ratchet the opening he needed. Moving with the stealth of someone who'd infiltrated more secure facilities than he cared to count, he slipped toward the garage access.

"Well, well," Aphelion's familiar voice greeted him as the lights automatically adjusted to accommodate his presence. "Look who's finally been released from medical custody. How are you feeling, Ryder? And please don't say 'fine' because your vital signs still show residual stress markers that suggest you're either lying or have developed an unusual attachment to low-level anxiety."

"I'm better," Ratchet replied, which was technically true. "Much better. Dr. Castleberry cleared me for normal activities."

"Excellent!" Aphelion's hull plates shifted slightly in what he'd learned was her equivalent of a pleased expression. "Your parents have been worried sick. Your father has been pacing the garage at all hours, reorganizing tool arrangements that were already perfectly organized. Yesterday I caught him arranging socket wrenches by size, weight, and what he called 'aesthetic appeal.' When I pointed out that tools don't typically require aesthetic considerations, he spent twenty minutes explaining why visual harmony improves workshop efficiency."

Ratchet couldn't help but smile. "That sounds like him."

"And your mother!" Aphelion continued with obvious fondness. "She's been researching everything from nutritional optimization to stress management techniques for adolescent lombaxes. She even asked if I could monitor your sleep patterns to ensure you're getting proper REM cycles. I had to explain that while I'm equipped with many sensors, bedroom surveillance crosses certain ethical boundaries."

"Good call on the boundaries," Ratchet agreed, though the image of his parents worrying about him with such dedication made his chest tight with emotions he didn't want to examine too closely.

"They love you very much, you know," Aphelion said gently, as if sensing his internal conflict. "More than I think you sometimes realize. Your father canceled three important meetings to stay home during your worst day, and your mother has been sleeping outside your room 'just in case.' Though she claims it's because she's been working late on festival preparations, I've observed her checking on you every thirty-seven minutes on average."

Stop, Ratchet told himself firmly as warmth threatened to overwhelm him. These aren't your parents. This isn't your life. You're just borrowing it from Ryder.

But cosmos, it hurt to think about giving this up.

"That's... really sweet of them," he managed, his voice rougher than intended.

"Indeed. Now, what brings you to the garage today? I hope you're not planning any more unauthorized aerospace adventures, because I assure you, my security protocols have been updated to include creative methods of immobilization that your father learned from his military days. Something about 'psychological warfare through interpretive dance' that I'm honestly afraid to test."

"Nothing like that," Ratchet assured her quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "I promise. No more grand theft starship attempts. No more consciousness suppression. No more treating you like a glorified transport instead of family."

"Good," Aphelion replied, though her tone remained slightly wary. "Then what exactly are you planning to do out here? Because your biometric readings suggest excitement mixed with determination, which is the same combination you showed right before the attempted ship theft incident."

"I want to work on some projects," Ratchet said honestly. "Keep my hands busy while I'm still recovering. You know how I get when I'm bored—I start reorganizing things according to quantum efficiency principles and writing strongly worded letters to the editor about improvements to local infrastructure."

"Ah yes, your infamous letter about 'Optimizing Pedestrian Traffic Flow Through Strategic Crosswalk Redesign,'" Aphelion chuckled. "The city planning department framed it and hung it in their break room. Apparently, they found your use of fluid dynamics equations to justify jaywalking particularly amusing."

"I was making a point about civil engineering!" Ratchet protested, though he had no memory of writing any such letter.

"Of course you were," Aphelion agreed with mechanical amusement. "Well, if you're looking for your private workspace, you know where it is. Though I should ask—why are you being so polite about it? Usually you just announce your intentions and begin working immediately, often with concerning disregard for safety warnings and my helpful suggestions about proper ventilation."

Ratchet paused, realizing his behavior might seem out of character. "I've been sick," he said carefully. "My parents don't want me to strain myself. I figured I should be more... responsible about my activities."

"How refreshingly mature of you," Aphelion observed. "Though perhaps you should continue resting instead? Your recovery is more important than any project, no matter how brilliantly conceived or potentially reality-altering."

"I'm fine," Ratchet insisted. "Really. And working with my hands always helps me think clearly. Dr. Castleberry said light activity would be good for me, as long as I don't try to reinvent the laws of physics in a single afternoon."

"Very well," Aphelion conceded. "But I'll be monitoring your vital signs constantly. The moment you show any signs of fatigue, dizziness, or that peculiar expression you get when you're about to do something spectacularly inadvisable, I'm alerting your parents immediately."

"Deal," Ratchet agreed, making his way toward the third panel from the left that Aphelion had mentioned before.

As the hidden workspace revealed itself, Ratchet let out a low whistle of appreciation. The setup was even more impressive than he'd initially realized—a perfect fusion of advanced technology and teenage rebellion, organized with the kind of precision that suggested either obsessive-compulsive tendencies or genuine engineering genius.

"Sweet galaxies!" he breathed, taking in the scope of Ryder's operation. "Kid wasn't just dabbling—he was running a full-scale research and development program!"

Multiple workstations lined the hidden space, each dedicated to different projects. One held what appeared to be an improved Swingshot design with enhanced range capabilities. A third workstation contained schematics for various weapons—all designed with non-lethal applications, he noted with interest.

"Even when designing weapons, he was trying to avoid actual violence," Ratchet murmured. "Stun settings, containment fields, disabling rather than destroying. Either he was the most ethical weapons designer in history, or he really was committed to his pacifist principles."

But it was the fourth workstation that made him stop in his tracks. There, secured behind additional layers of biometric security that would have impressed a Polaris bank vault, was a device unlike anything he'd seen before.

The security panel looked more complex than most military installations, with DNA scanners, retinal verification, voice authentication, and what appeared to be a psychological evaluation protocol that asked probing questions about his relationship with small robots.

"Well," Ratchet said, examining the impressive array of security measures, "someone really didn't want this found. What were you working on, Ryder?"

The biometric scans were easy enough—he was in Ryder's body, after all. But when the system prompted him for a password, Ratchet had to think carefully.

What would a lombax teenager obsessed with ethical engineering choose as a security code?

"Dimensional Ethics?" he tried.

ACCESS DENIED

"…Peaceful Solutions?"

ACCESS DENIED

"… … …Clank…?"

ACCESS GRANTED

The security barriers disengaged, revealing the crown jewel of Ryder's secret operation. The device sitting on the central workstation was breathtaking—a crystalline structure that seemed to shift and flow like liquid starlight, its surface covered in equations that hurt to look at directly. Advanced components connected to the main assembly with elegant precision, and the whole thing hummed with barely contained energy.

But most importantly, it was unfinished. A large section remained empty, with frustrated notes scattered around describing power source requirements that read like the diary of a mad scientist having a prolonged mental breakdown.

"CONVENTIONAL ENERGY SOURCES INSUFFICIENT!" one note proclaimed in increasingly large handwriting. "NEED QUANTUM-ENTANGLED POWER MATRIX!"

Another note, written in what appeared to be purple ink (possibly due to a pen-throwing incident): "DIMENSIONAL RESONANCE REQUIRES SPECIFIC HARMONIC FREQUENCY! WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO FIND CRYSTALLIZED TIME PARTICLES?!"

A third, scrawled in margins that had run out of space: "Why is it always the power source?! Every great invention in history has been held back by energy requirements! Even my toaster needs more power than most starships!"

"Poor kid," Ratchet sympathized, examining the incomplete device. "I know that frustration. Though I usually solve power problems by hitting things with my wrench until they work or explode. His approach seems more... scientifically sound."

Beside the mysterious device, other projects called for his attention. A dimensional storage unit that was clearly functional—and highly illegal for civilian possession. "Either Ryder has some very interesting connections, or he's been "liberating" supplies from somewhere," Ratchet mused. "Given his protest signs, I'm guessing it wasn't entirely legal procurement..."

And in the corner, partially hidden beneath protective cloth, something that made Ratchet's heart skip several beats.

An OmniWrench.

Incomplete, but unmistakably based on his own preferred design.

"How could he possibly know?" Ratchet whispered, pulling away the cloth to reveal the unfinished weapon. The basic structure was there—the weight distribution, the grip design, even the distinctive energy channeling systems that he'd perfected through years of combat experience.

The incomplete OmniWrench called to him irresistibly. Even unfinished, he could see the genius in its design—improvements to weight distribution, enhanced striking power, integrated technology ports that could interface with various gadgets. This wasn't just a weapon; it was a masterpiece of lombax engineering.

Just a quick look, he told himself, picking up the wrench and examining it more closely. The balance was perfect, even in its incomplete state. A few critical components were missing, but Ratchet could see exactly what was needed to complete it.

This version included improvements he'd never considered. Enhanced durability through some kind of quantum-reinforced alloy. Integrated technology ports that could interface with multiple gadget types. And most intriguingly, what appeared to be a kinetic tether system built directly into the head.

"…this is incredible!" Ratchet breathed, running his fingers along the unfinished surfaces. "It's like my wrench, but better. Smarter. More... complete."

The incomplete portions were clearly marked with detailed notes about missing components. A power coupling here, an energy focusing crystal there, various small parts that were apparently essential for full functionality. But looking at Ryder's organized workspace, Ratchet could see exactly what was needed.

Let's see what we can do about that.

His hands moved almost without conscious thought, selecting parts from the organized bins around the workspace. His fingers seemed to know exactly what to do, muscle memory guiding him as he installed the missing components with precision that surprised even him.

The kid had collected an impressive array of materials—some clearly obtained through legitimate channels (receipts were meticulously filed), others that had probably required more creative acquisition methods (no receipts, but helpful notes like "definitely didn't fall off a transport" and "borrowed from the school lab with full intention to return eventually, probably not. Thank you, Riv~").

"Let's see," Ratchet muttered, installing a power coupling with the satisfaction of someone solving a particularly challenging puzzle. "Quantum harmonizer... check. Energy focusing matrix... check. Stabilization dampeners... check. And for the kinetic tether system..."

Twenty minutes later, he was holding a completed OmniWrench that surpassed anything he'd ever wielded. The balance was perfect, the weight distribution ideal for his build, and the integrated systems responded to his touch like the weapon had been crafted specifically for him.

"This is without a doubt my OmniWrench Millennium 12," he said with satisfaction, recognizing the design from his final adventure with Clank. "But enhanced. Improved. Like Ryder saw it in his dreams and decided to make it better."

Testing the kinetic tether, Ratchet was delighted to find it responded perfectly—capable of grabbing distant objects, manipulating machinery, or in combat situations, disarming opponents by yanking away their weapons or shields. The energy projection systems were equally impressive, allowing the wrench to fire concentrated bursts or create protective barriers.

"Outstanding work, Kid!" Ratchet murmured appreciatively. "Though I'm curious about these defensive modifications..."

Examining the shield generators more closely, he found a note that made him pause: "In case Alister tries to shoot me again. I can't get that dream out of my head—the way he looked at me right before he fired that energy blast into my chest. Why would he want to hurt me? Why did it feel so REAL?"

Ratchet's blood ran cold. Ryder had dreamed about Alister's betrayal. The moment when the elder lombax, consumed by guilt and desperation, had killed him in his attempt to use the Great Clock. Even across timelines, that traumatic memory had somehow reached Ryder's consciousness.

"No no wonder he built defensive capabilities into everything…" Ratchet whispered. "He's been preparing for a threat he doesn't understand but somehow knows is real."

The implications were staggering. If Ryder had been receiving memories or impressions from the original timeline, then his pacifist stance made perfect sense. Who would embrace violence after dreaming about being murdered by a trusted family friend?

Poor kid. Living with dreams about betrayal and death, not understanding why.

Ratchet carefully gathered all of Ryder's projects—the mysterious device, the various gadgets, tools and components—and loaded them into the dimensional storage unit and it clipped easily onto his belt before returning his attention to his omniwrench.

A small smile formed on his muzzle as he tightened his hold on the wrench.

Without thinking, Ratchet began moving through combat stances—flowing from defensive positions to attack forms, spinning the wrench with practiced ease. His body, despite its youth and relative weakness, seemed to remember every technique, every movement pattern he'd perfected through years of fighting.

The familiar weight in his hands, the precision of the movements, the satisfaction of perfect form—for the first time since awakening in this timeline, Ratchet felt truly like himself.

"Better," he murmured, transitioning from a defensive stance to an aggressive combo sequence. "Much better. Now I feel like—"

"Quite impressive, though your stance could use some adjustment."

Ratchet spun around, wrench at the ready, to find Kaden leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His father's expression was unreadable—somewhere between concern, confusion, and what might have been pride.

"Dad!" Ratchet exclaimed, heat rushing to his ears as he realized he'd been caught red-handed. "I wasn't—I mean, I was just—"

"Testing your balance?" Kaden suggested with raised eyebrows. "Because from where I'm standing, it looked more like you were practicing combat forms with a level of expertise that should be impossible for someone with no formal training."

Kaden stepped into the workspace, his eyes scanning the completed wrench in Ratchet's hands. "That's quite the piece of craftsmanship. Where did you get the designs?"

"I... designed it myself?" Ratchet offered.

"You designed this?" Kaden repeated, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. "The same son who once told me that weapons were 'the tools of those too intellectually limited to find peaceful solutions'?"

"People change," Ratchet said, using what was becoming his standard response to this type of question.

"Overnight, apparently," Kaden muttered. "Along with acquiring advanced engineering skills and combat expertise that should take years to develop." He looked at Ratchet intently. "Is this what you've been working on in secret? This wrench?"

"…yes. Among other things," Ratchet admitted, lowering the wrench but not releasing it entirely.

"What other things?" Kaden asked, his curiosity clearly piqued.

Ratchet gestured vaguely around the workspace. "Just... improvements. Modifications. Projects that might help with... things."

"Ah yes, 'things,'" Kaden said with mock solemnity. "The most specific and informative category in all of scientific classification. Right up there with 'stuff' and 'whatsits.'"

"Hey!" Ratchet protested. "I'm being deliberately vague for a reason!"

"And what reason is that?" Kaden asked. "Are you planning to surprise us? Revolutionize lombax technology? Accidentally create a new form of matter that exists exclusively on Tuesdays?"

"It's complicated," Ratchet said, which was the understatement of several centuries.

"I love complicated," Kaden replied with a grin. "I'm a lombax physicist who married a heritage preservation specialist and somehow ended up as Minister of Defense. My entire life is complicated. Try me."

Where to begin?

"I've…" Ratchet was quick on his feet as he answered, "…well, I've been thinking about our family legacy," he said carefully. "The Keeper tradition. The responsibility that's supposed to pass to me someday."

Kaden's expression grew serious. "You mean the responsibility you've been vehemently rejecting for the past three years? The one you've written several manifestly against? The legacy you once described as 'an archaic burden that perpetuates dangerous technology in the hands of those too stubborn to admit it should be dismantled'?"

"That was... perhaps an overly dramatic stance," Ratchet admitted.

"Overly dramatic?" Kaden snorted. "Son, you organized a protest march with signs reading 'DOWN WITH DIMENSIONAL TYRANNY' and 'STERLING FAMILY: ENABLERS OF COSMIC DESTRUCTION.' Your mother had to explain to the neighbors why our teenage son was picketing our own house."

"I picketed our house?" Ratchet asked, horrified.

"For three hours," Kaden confirmed. "With a bullhorn. And pamphlets. You handed one to the mail carrier titled 'Why Your Package Delivery Route Contributes to Dimensional Oppression.' Poor man hasn't been the same since."

"Oh cosmos!" Ratchet groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I'm surprised you didn't disown me..."

"The thought crossed my mind," Kaden admitted with a chuckle. "Especially when you tried to register as a conscientious objector to your own family heritage. But your mother pointed out that passionate conviction, even misguided passion, is better than apathetic acceptance of tradition without understanding."

"That sounds like something she'd say," Ratchet agreed.

"Plus, she reminded me that I'd been equally dramatic at your age, just in different directions," Kaden continued. "Instead of protesting against family legacy, I was trying to enhance it beyond all reasonable safety margins. My father found me building what I called an 'improved Dimensionator' in our basement when I was fifteen."

"Really?" Ratchet asked, fascinated.

"Oh yes. It was going to be 'smaller, faster, and with better cup holders for interdimensional travel comfort,'" Kaden said with self-deprecating humor. "The theoretical framework was sound, but the practical applications would have torn a hole in reality large enough to drive a space cruiser through. Backwards. While singing show tunes."

"What happened to it?"

"My father made me dismantle it. Then he made me write a research paper on 'Why Teenagers Shouldn't Attempt to Improve Upon Technologies That Have Functioned Safely for Centuries.'" Kaden's eyes twinkled with mischief. "I got an A+. Thirty-seven pages of detailed analysis on the hubris of youth and the wisdom of established engineering practices."

"And now I'm following the family tradition of questionable teenage engineering projects," Ratchet observed.

"Apparently so," Kaden agreed. "Though I must say, your work shows considerably more wisdom than mine did. At least you're not trying to add cup holders to dimensional manipulation technology…." his emerald eyes fell once again on the omniwrench.

"Son, may I?" Kaden asked, extending his hand.

Reluctantly, Ratchet handed over the wrench. Kaden examined it with the expert eye of someone who understood both engineering and combat applications.

"The balance is extraordinary!" Kaden murmured, testing the weight. "The metallurgy is flawless. The integrated technology ports are... actually, these are beyond anything I've seen in current military specifications. Where did you learn to create something like this?"

"I've been studying," Ratchet said weakly.

"Studying what? Advanced weapons engineering at the University of Impossible Knowledge?" Kaden gave the wrench a experimental swing, and his eyes widened at its responsiveness. "This isn't amateur work, Ryder. This is master-level craftsmanship."

Suddenly, Kaden's expression sharpened with concern as he watched Ratchet swaying slightly on his feet. "Whoa there, easy now!" he said, immediately dropping the wrench and moving to steady his son. "You should be taking it easy, not practicing combat stances in the garage!"

His hands gripped Ratchet's shoulders firmly, scanning his face for signs of distress. "Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Please tell me you haven't been pushing yourself while your mother and I were distracted—"

"I'm fine!" Ratchet protested, though he was touched by the immediate concern. "Really. I was just... testing the balance."

"Testing the balance by running through a complete combat routine?" Kaden's voice shifted into what Ratchet was beginning to recognize as protective parent mode. "Ryder, you collapsed mere days ago from overexertion. Dr. Castleberry specifically said no strenuous activity!"

"It wasn't that strenuous," Ratchet tried to argue, but Kaden's expression made it clear this was not a negotiable point.

"You're swaying, and I can see the strain in your posture," Kaden said firmly, guiding Ratchet to a nearby chair with the gentle insistence of someone who would not be argued with. "Sit. Rest. And thank the cosmos your mother didn't see this, or she'd have you back in bed for another week with hourly medical monitoring."

Ratchet allowed himself to be seated, partly because he was genuinely tired and partly because he was still processing the overwhelming concern in his father's voice. "Sorry. I guess I got carried away."

"Clearly," Kaden agreed, though his tone was gentling now that Ratchet was safely seated. "Though I must admit, I'm impressed by your technique. Where did you learn to move like that?"

"Like what?" Ratchet asked cautiously.

"Like a trained fighter," Kaden replied, picking up the wrench again and examining it thoughtfully. "Your stances were not necessarily textbook perfect—however, I dare say it's better, as they seemed to be stances forged not by drilling but real combat experience…."

Here we go, Ratchet thought. Time to dance around the truth again.

"I've been watching holovids," he said. "And reading about combat techniques. Theoretical study."

"Theoretical study doesn't produce muscle memory like that," Kaden observed, his analytical mind clearly working through the puzzle. "The way you moved... it was instinctive. Natural. Like you'd done it thousands of times before."

Ratchet shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Maybe I'm a quick learner?"

"Aphelion," Kaden called out to his starfighter, "have you observed Ryder practicing combat techniques before today?"

"This is the first time I've witnessed such activity," Aphelion replied. "Though I should note that his biometric readings show familiarity with the movements—increased confidence, decreased stress indicators, improved coordination. It's as if his body remembers what his mind has learned, which is quite fascinating from a neurological standpoint."

Kaden frowned, clearly puzzled by this information. "Muscle memory without practice. Impossible... unless..." His eyes widened slightly. "Ryder, have you been having those dreams again? The ones about adventures and combat?"

"Maybe," Ratchet admitted carefully.

"And in these dreams, you use weapons like this?" Kaden hefted the wrench meaningfully.

"Sometimes," Ratchet replied, surprised by how close Kaden was getting to the truth without realizing it.

"Fascinating," Kaden murmured, his scientific mind clearly engaged. "Dreams vivid enough to create muscle memory... or perhaps..." He trailed off, lost in thought.

"What?" Ratchet prompted.

"Nothing. Just a theory that's probably too outlandish even for a lombax physicist," Kaden said, shaking his head. "Though I must say, this wrench is remarkable work. The engineering is flawless—better than anything I could produce, and I've been working with advanced metallurgy for decades."

Despite everything, pride swelled in Ratchet's chest. "Really?"

"Really," Kaden confirmed, handing the wrench back to him. "It's perfectly balanced for your height and build. The weight distribution is ideal for someone of your stature. It's almost as if..." He paused, studying Ratchet intently. "It's almost as if you knew exactly what you needed before you built it."

"Lucky guess?" Ratchet suggested.

"Hmm." Kaden didn't look convinced, but he let it slide. "Well, whatever the source of your inspiration, this is exceptional work. I'm proud of you."

The simple words hit Ratchet like a physical blow. Pride. From his father. For work that was genuinely his, not borrowed or inherited.

"Thank you," Ratchet said quietly, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't quite hide.

"For what?" Kaden asked, tilting his head curiously.

Ratchet looked up at him—this man who should have been dead, who had sacrificed everything in another timeline to save a son he barely knew. In this reality, Kaden was alive, whole, and standing here expressing pride in his son's work.

"For being proud of me," Ratchet said simply. "For... for being here."

Something in his tone made Kaden's expression soften completely. He reached out and ruffled Ratchet's headfur affectionately—a gesture so casual, so naturally parental, that it nearly undid Ratchet entirely.

"Of course I'm proud of you," Kaden said gently. "You're my son. And seeing you embrace new challenges, expand your horizons, and even admit when you might have been wrong about something... that takes courage. More courage than your mother and I have sometimes shown."

He glanced around conspiratorially before lowering his voice. "Between you and me, we were getting a bit worried about your... intensity regarding the protest activities. Don't get me wrong—we support your right to your own opinions, and questioning authority is healthy to a point. But when you started organizing sit-ins during your lunch periods and writing manifestos about the 'ethical implications of parental technology choices,' we began to wonder if perhaps we'd overdone the 'think for yourself' lessons."

Ratchet couldn't help but smile. "I may have been a bit... extreme in my positions."

"A bit extreme?" Kaden laughed. "Son, you tried to get the Dimensionator classified as a 'crime against dimensional sovereignty' by the Polaris Ethics Committee. Your mother found the seventeen-page petition you'd written, complete with footnotes and a bibliography that included three books you'd clearly made up just to pad your reference list."

"I was very committed to the cause," Ratchet said sheepishly.

"That's one way to put it," Kaden agreed. "Another way would be 'obsessed to the point of concerning your parents about your future career prospects and social development.' But seeing you now, working with your hands, embracing practical applications instead of just theoretical protests... it's a relief. A wonderful relief."

The warmth in Kaden's voice made Ratchet's chest ache. This was what having a father felt like. Not just genetic connection, but genuine care, pride, and support.

But he's not really your father, the cruel voice in his head reminded him. He's Ryder's father. You're just borrowing this life.

"Now," Kaden continued, "about your technique. You mentioned wanting to learn proper form?"

"You'd teach me?" Ratchet asked, surprised.

"Of course," Kaden replied, producing his own wrench from a holster at his side. The weapon was clearly military grade—larger than Ratchet's creation, with a more aggressive design that spoke of serious combat applications. "Though I should point out that your current stance is better suited for someone taller. You're compensating for your height in ways that actually work against you."

"I'm not that short," Ratchet protested automatically.

"You're built like your maternal grandfather," Kaden said with a shrug that suggested this was simply genetic fact rather than criticism. "Theodore Hart is an outstanding scholar and a brilliant tactician, but he needed different techniques than someone with my build would use. There's no shame in adapting to your physical advantages." 

He fell into a ready stance that was immediately recognizable as Praetorian Guard standard form. "Your current stance tries to create reach you don't naturally have. But if we adjust like this..." He demonstrated, lowering his center of gravity and shifting his weight distribution. "You can maximize your natural speed and agility instead of fighting against your proportions."

"That actually makes sense," Ratchet admitted, mirroring the stance. It felt more natural, more balanced than his usual approach.

"Good!" Kaden said approvingly. "Now, remember that you're still recovering from medical issues, so we'll keep this light. Just basic forms and positioning. Follow my lead, and I'll correct your technique as we go."

What followed was one of the most surreal yet wonderful experiences of Ratchet's life. His father—a man he'd thought lost forever—patiently teaching him combat techniques with the patience of a professional instructor and the care of a concerned parent.

"Excellent!" Kaden praised as Ratchet executed a complex defensive sequence. "Your reflexes are remarkable. Are you certain you haven't been practicing in secret?"

"Just natural talent, I guess," Ratchet replied, though privately he was shocked by how skilled Kaden actually was. His father moved with the fluid grace of a true master warrior, each technique precise and economical, with absolutely no wasted motion. Every defensive maneuver flowed seamlessly into the next potential counter-attack, and his footwork demonstrated the kind of muscle memory that only came from years of serious combat experience.

"Whoa!" Ratchet gasped, his eyes tracking every movement as Kaden demonstrated another sequence. "That transition from defensive stance to counter-strike—that was incredible! The way you shifted your weight distribution while maintaining perfect balance... and that footwork pattern! It's like watching poetry in motion, except the poetry could probably take down a small army! Dad, seriously—where did you learn to move like that?"

"You sound surprised that I know how to fight," Kaden observed with amusement. "What exactly did you think the Minister of Defense did all day? Push papers and attend budget meetings?"

"Well... yeah, kind of," Ratchet admitted.

Kaden laughed, a sound of genuine mirth that echoed through the garage. "Oh, my dear boy. I'm not just a politician with a fancy title. I'm a reserve member of the Praetorian Guard, a former field operative, and someone who's seen more combat than you can imagine. These muscles don't maintain themselves through paperwork, you know."

He executed a lightning-fast combo that left Ratchet staring in awe. "Just because I spend most of my time in meetings these days doesn't mean I've forgotten how to handle myself in a fight."

"Anyway," Kaden continued, "you seem to be picking this up remarkably fast. Your form is improving with each repetition. But I think that's enough for today—you're still recovering, and I don't want to risk another episode."

"I feel fine," Ratchet protested, though he could feel fatigue beginning to creep into Ryder's still-healing muscles.

"You always feel fine right up until you don't," Kaden pointed out. "Come on, let's move this to the gym where you can practice safely. And where your mother won't find us and decide to demonstrate her own improvised techniques on both of us for ignoring medical advice."

Ratchet's ears perked up with interest. "We have a home gym?"

Kaden rolled his eyes. "Don't act so surprised. Where exactly did you think I maintained this physique? Through the power of positive thinking and wishful metabolism?"

"I guess I never really thought about it," Ratchet admitted.

"Well, it exists," Kaden said dryly, steering him toward another section of the garage complex. "Complete with everything needed for proper physical conditioning. Though I suppose you were too busy writing protest essays to notice the fully equipped training facility in your own home."

Dr. Nefarious's Personal Shuttle - W Sector, Solana Galaxy

Dr. Nefarious stood hunched over his tracking console like a mechanical vulture examining roadkill, his dome-encased head twitching with mechanical spasms that suggested either deep concentration or complete system failure. The tracking display showed a chaotic mess of blinking dots scattered across three different star charts like someone had sneezed glitter onto navigation equipment.

"This is absolutely, categorically, cosmically impossible!" he screeched, red eyes blazing with frustration that could power small cities. "According to my flawless tracking technology, our little temporal anomaly is simultaneously located in seventeen different sectors, moving in twelve contradictory directions, and apparently visiting three planets at once! Either he's developed ability to exist in multiple locations simultaneously, or my equipment is suffering from catastrophic existential crisis!"

The tracking device readings scrolled past with enthusiasm of slot machine having nervous breakdown:

SIGNAL DETECTED: Sector Z-Alpha, coordinates 447.3
SIGNAL DETECTED: Sector Z-Beta, coordinates 891.7
SIGNAL DETECTED: Bogan Galaxy, Sector Twelve
SIGNAL DETECTED: Inside this very ship (ERROR - IMPOSSIBLE)
SIGNAL DETECTED: Planet Novalis gift shop
SIGNAL DETECTED: Your mother's house (ERROR - LOCATION DOES NOT EXIST)

His communicator crackled to life with voice of increasingly panicked Blarg officer whose day had obviously gone sideways in spectacular fashion.

"Dr. Nefarious, sir!" came the transmission, background filled with sounds of chaos suggesting someone's command center was experiencing technical difficulties of catastrophic proportions. "We have... uh... situation developing with tracking operation."

"SITUATION?" Nefarious shrieked with volume that probably registered on seismic equipment in neighboring star systems. "Define 'situation' with mathematical precision! Is it 'minor technical difficulty' situation or 'complete operational disaster requiring immediate damage control' situation?"

"Well, sir," the voice continued with tone of someone delivering news that might result in immediate termination of employment and possibly existence, "our fleet has been chasing target signals for past six hours. We've dispatched units to forty-seven different locations across three galaxies. Half our ships are lost in asteroid fields pursuing false readings, twelve vessels are stuck in Bogon Galaxy customs arguing with bureaucrats about visa requirements, and three crews have somehow ended up at vacation resort on Pokitaru where they're currently participating in mandatory relaxation therapy."

"WHAT?!" Nefarious's dome cracked slightly from internal pressure, mechanical systems struggling to process incompetence of truly spectacular proportions.

"It gets worse, sir..." officer continued with dedication to complete reporting that was either admirable or massively stupid. "Squadron Seven followed signal to what they believed was target's location, only to discover they'd been chasing automated garbage disposal unit. Squadron Twelve engaged in high-speed pursuit through Korebo System, only to realize they were tracking commercial advertisement hologram for new hoverboard models. And Squadron Fifteen... well..."

"What happened to Squadron Fifteen?" Nefarious demanded with dread of someone who suspected worst was yet to come.

"They followed signal directly into middle of Galactic Ranger training exercise," officer admitted with embarrassment detectable through communication system. "Currently they're all in custody, being lectured about proper fleet identification protocols and forced to attend seminar on 'Responsible Space Combat: Why Shooting First and Asking Questions Later Is Problematic for Everyone Involved.'"

Nefarious's left optic began twitching with mechanical rhythm like metronome keeping time for orchestra of incompetence. His dome flickered with internal lightning suggesting either deep thought or complete system meltdown.

"He's... he's actually outsmarted me..." Nefarious whispered with horror approaching religious epiphany, optical sensors widening as realization struck with force of cosmic revelation. "That compact little mechanical genius has somehow turned my own tracking technology against me! He's using my signal to create false readings! Dispersing my entire fleet across three galaxies while he escapes in completely different direction!"

The tracking console continued its electronic seizure, displaying readings that grew increasingly absurd with each update:

SIGNAL DETECTED: Inside black hole (Occupancy: UNKNOWN)
SIGNAL DETECTED: Emperor Tachyon's breakfast table
SIGNAL DETECTED: Past, present, and future simultaneously
SIGNAL DETECTED: Dimension of infinite Tuesday afternoons
SIGNAL DETECTED: Your worst nightmares (Reservations required)

"Sir?" came another transmission, this one from different Blarg officer whose voice carried exhaustion of someone who'd been dealing with impossible situations for extended period. "We've lost contact with most of our fleet. Ships are reporting mechanical difficulties, navigation errors, and in at least three cases, crews experiencing what they describe as 'existential confusion about purpose of existence and whether following orders from distant superiors really counts as meaningful employment.'"

"HOW IS ONE SMALL ROBOT CAUSING THIS MUCH OPERATIONAL CHAOS?!" Nefarious bellowed with rage that could have registered on Richter scale, throwing mechanical arms into air with theatrical despair.

"Perhaps," nervous Blarg officer suggested with brave stupidity, "we should recall all units and regroup with comprehensive strategy review and possibly professional counseling for crews experiencing existential crisis?"

Dr. Nefarious's dome began sparking with electrical discharge suggesting his mental state was approaching critical overload. His optical sensors locked onto tracking console with intensity of someone whose reality was crumbling in real time.

The final reading appeared on screen with timing of cosmic punchline delivered by universe with questionable sense of humor:

SIGNAL DETECTED: Everywhere and nowhere
SIGNAL DETECTED: The friends we made along the way
SIGNAL DETECTED: You are the true treasure... TO YOUR MAMA
SIGNAL DETECTED: [ERROR 404: ROBOT NOT FOUND]

"IMPOSSIBLE!" Nefarious screamed with voice approaching frequencies that could shatter crystal, mechanical frame shaking with rage beyond measurement. "COMPLETELY IMPOSSIBLE! ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE! I am DR. NEFARIOUS! Evil genius of unlimited brilliance! Scourge of organic life forms! Master of all things mechanical and several things that aren't! I do NOT get outwitted by compact robots with delusions of heroism and probably warranties that specifically exclude 'damage caused by brilliant evil schemes'!"

His hands flew over control panel with manic energy, attempting every scanning frequency, every detection protocol, every piece of tracking technology at his disposal. But tracking device continued reporting gibberish with consistency of someone specifically designed to cause mechanical nervous breakdowns.

"Maybe he's just really good at hiding?" suggested young Blarg technician whose career was about to become extremely short-lived.

Nefarious slowly turned toward source of comment, optical sensors blazing with unholy light. His entire frame began vibrating with rage approaching nuclear levels, dome crackling with electrical discharge that made nearby equipment nervous.

"REALLY GOOD AT HIDING?!" he repeated with volume that probably violated noise ordinances in seventeen different star systems. "He's not playing intergalactic hide-and-seek like child with exceptional talent for concealment! He's using my own technology to make fools of my entire operation! He's turned my brilliant tracking device into cosmic joke at my expense!"

The technician wisely decided that maintaining silence was optimal survival strategy and found something extremely important to examine on floor.

Nefarious continued ranting as his voice climbed several octaves, mechanical systems straining under emotional pressure: "FORTY-SEVEN DIFFERENT LOCATIONS! TWELVE GALAXIES! THREE SEPARATE DIMENSIONS THAT SHOULDN'T EVEN BE ACCESSIBLE-Oh Lance! Why do I feel like tiny robot is making mockery of my carefully laid plans? Is this what they call 'being outsmarted by superior intellect disguised as innocent automation'?"

"Don't worry, Janice!" came Lance's reassuring reply through Nefarious's vocal processors. "Sometimes when we encounter opponents who challenge our expectations, it's universe's way of teaching us humility and possibly better planning strategies! Perhaps you should consider asking for help from trusted ally who specializes in bureaucratic manipulation and casual villainy!"

The assembled Blarg officers stared at their frozen leader, expressions ranging from mortification to resigned acceptance that this was simply Tuesday in their professional lives.

"Well," muttered one officer with philosophical acceptance, "at least this episode is providing useful strategic advice rather than relationship counseling about trust issues and baking metaphors."

"Should we... just wait?" asked another uncertainly.

"Absolutely not," declared the first officer with sudden determination. "I'm not spending my afternoon listening to fictional characters discuss proper communication techniques while our actual boss stands there like decorative statue with built-in entertainment system."

He carefully approached Dr. Nefarious, raised his hand with precision of surgeon, and delivered precise mechanical tap to back of villain's dome with efficiency of someone who'd done this before and hoped to avoid doing it again.

Nefarious's head snapped forward with mechanical violence, systems rebooting with sounds like computer recovering from serious crash while running multiple virus scans simultaneously.

"—AND FURTHERMORE, I WILL NOT BE MADE FOOL OF BY—" he continued with seamless fury, then paused as awareness returned with confusion of someone whose internal clock had skipped several minutes. "What exactly happened just now? And why does everyone look like they've been traumatized by educational television?"

"No reason, sir!" chorus of Blarg officers replied with synchronized enthusiasm of people who definitely did not want to explain what had just occurred.

"Excellent!" Nefarious declared with suspicious acceptance, apparently satisfied with non-explanation that explained nothing. He immediately moved to communication console with renewed purpose, entering secure frequency with dramatic precision of someone about to execute backup plan.

After moment of anticipation, screen flickered to life revealing Vice President Artemis Zogg's bloated, self-satisfied features. But instead of his usual political smile, Zogg's expression showed immediate concern as he observed Nefarious's obviously agitated state.

"Dr. Nefarious," Zogg greeted with cautious professionalism of someone who'd learned that upset evil geniuses were unpredictable and potentially explosive. "You appear... distressed. What's wrong? Has something interfered with our operations?"

"Everything has gone catastrophically sideways!" Nefarious declared with theatrical despair that could have powered small tragedy. "That temporal anomaly robot has somehow corrupted my tracking device! My entire fleet is scattered across three galaxies chasing false signals while he escapes with information that could ruin all our carefully orchestrated plans!"

"Ah," Zogg nodded with understanding of someone who'd dealt with technological failures before, though his tone carried a undertone of satisfaction suggesting he wasn't entirely displeased by Nefarious's difficulties. "Technology can be... unreliable. Perhaps you need more direct approach to this problem."

"I need current coordinates of the Stargazer!" Nefarious demanded with urgent authority. "If I can intercept Phyronix's ship before they reach port, I can retrieve robot and eliminate witnesses simultaneously. Efficient, elegant, and appropriately dramatic for conclusion of this embarrassing chapter in my otherwise flawless career!"

Zogg's expression shifted to what might have been genuine regret, though with his multiple chins it was difficult to determine if he was showing emotion or simply experiencing indigestion.

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Doctor," he said with carefully measured disappointment. "Captain Phyronix's patrol routes are classified at highest levels—even I don't have access to real-time positioning data. Fleet Command maintains those coordinates under strict security protocols specifically to prevent exactly the kind of interference you're suggesting."

"WHAT?!" Nefarious's optic began twitching again with renewed intensity. "You're telling me that you, as VICE PRESIDENT of the entire Solana Galaxy, cannot access location data for single patrol vessel? What exactly is the purpose of your political position if it doesn't include basic administrative privileges?"

"It's complicated political situation involving bureaucratic oversight, fleet autonomy, and approximately forty-seven different committees that must approve requests for classified information," Zogg replied with weary resignation of someone who'd spent years navigating governmental inefficiency. "Captain Phyronix specifically requested enhanced operational security after series of 'incidents' involving information leaks to hostile forces. Ironically, those very security measures that prevent me from helping you were probably instituted to prevent exactly this kind of situation."

Nefarious made sound like steam escaping from overheated engine, mechanical frame vibrating with frustration approaching critical levels.

"However," Zogg continued with pause for dramatic effect, his expression slowly shifting to grotesque smile that created new geological formations in his already heavily creased features, "I've been contemplating this problem, and I believe I have solution that addresses multiple concerns simultaneously."

"Explain with comprehensive detail," Nefarious demanded with impatience of someone whose day had already involved too many complications.

"Two birds, one stone," Zogg said with satisfaction. "We can't track the Stargazer directly, but we can certainly arrange for it to come to us. And in process, we eliminate Captain Phyronix permanently while making it appear completely accidental."

Nefarious's optical sensors brightened with interest, rage temporarily replaced by professional curiosity about colleague's scheming capabilities.

"I'm listening with fascination and growing appreciation for your devious political mind," he said with approval usually reserved for particularly clever evil schemes.

"Leave that particular aspect to me," Zogg replied with confidence of someone who'd been planning this for considerable time. "It may take few days at most to arrange proper circumstances, but when the signal comes up—when Captain Phyronix's ship is exactly where we need it to be, disabled and defenseless—you and your men move in for cleanup operation. Complete elimination of witnesses, recovery of sensitive materials, and solution to multiple problems that have been plaguing our operations."

Nefarious nodded with growing admiration for political manipulation that achieved efficiency through bureaucratic warfare rather than direct confrontation.

"Finally!" he declared with relief of someone discovering competent assistance after dealing with extended incompetence. "At least someone understands proper application of strategic thinking rather than simply charging at problems with brute force and hoping for best results! Your political approach demonstrates precisely the kind of elegant, sophisticated evil planning that I respect and appreciate!"

"Professional courtesy between experienced practitioners," Zogg replied with false modesty that couldn't hide his obvious pleasure at recognition. "I'll contact you the moment everything is in position. Until then, perhaps you should recall your scattered fleet and prepare them for more... focused operation requiring precision rather than random searching across multiple star systems."

"Agreed with enthusiasm!" Nefarious confirmed. "Contact me immediately when opportunity presents itself."

Planet Marcadia - Solana Galactic Government Headquarters

Vice President Artemis Zogg ended the call with Dr. Nefarious, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his multiple chins. The opportunity he'd been waiting for had finally arrived—a chance to eliminate Captain Phyronix once and for all, while simultaneously dealing with that bumbling fool Qwark.

But this required finesse. Subtlety. The kind of elegant, untraceable solution that only someone with his political experience and access to classified government resources could arrange.

"Barnaby!" he called, his voice echoing through his opulent office in the Solana Galactic Government headquarters.

His assistant, a nervous Terachnoid with clipboard in hand, scuttled into the room. "Yes, Mr. Vice President?"

"Contact Captain Qwark immediately. Tell him I have an urgent mission of galactic importance that requires his... unique talents."

"Captain Qwark, sir?" Barnaby repeated hesitantly. "Are you certain? His last mission resulted in three diplomatic incidents, a formal complaint from the Agorian ambassador, and something the cleaning staff is still referring to as 'The Unspeakable Pudding Catastrophe.'"

"I'm quite certain," Zogg replied, his jowls quivering with barely suppressed glee. "In fact, his particular brand of bumbling incompetence is exactly what this situation calls for. Plus, he's the only person in the galaxy with clearance to access Fleet Command's deep patrol routing system."

Barnaby looked confused. "Sir?"

"Fleet Admiral Starborn granted Qwark those clearances after that business with the Goons-4-Less incident last year," Zogg explained with the patience of someone whose knowledge of bureaucratic loopholes was encyclopedic. "Something about 'recognizing his heroic service to galactic security.' It was meant to be purely ceremonial—a meaningless honor to inflate his ego. But those clearances give him access to real-time fleet positioning data that even I can't obtain through normal channels."

The irony was delicious. Fleet Command's own security protocols—designed to prevent exactly this kind of interference—had accidentally created the perfect backdoor through their sentimental gesture to a hero.

"Ah," Barnaby said with dawning understanding. "So he can locate the Stargazer when no one else can."

"Precisely. And better yet, he's the only person stupid enough to deliver what I'm about to give him without asking inconvenient questions."

Barnaby looked like he wanted to argue further but thought better of it. "Right away, sir. Shall I inform him of the mission parameters?"

"No," Zogg said, moving to his private safe and retrieving a specially designed data disk that glowed with ominous energy. "I'll brief him personally. This requires... a very specific touch."

The disk represented months of careful preparation—a master virus he'd secretly commissioned from a corrupt Gadgetron programmer using taxpayer funds, naturally. The beauty of it was that it would appear to be legitimate fleet communication protocols while actually being digital plague designed to cripple any ship's systems it infected.

Once inserted into the Stargazer's main computer, it would disable their engines, communications, tracking scramblers, and most importantly, their ability to defend themselves. They'd be sitting space ducks, helpless and isolated, when Dr. Nefarious arrived for the kill.

And the best part? Captain Qwark would deliver it personally, with all the enthusiasm and complete lack of suspicion that made him such a perfect unwitting accomplice.

"Perfect," Zogg murmured to himself, admiring the disk's innocent appearance. "Two birds with one stone. Three, if you counted the troublesome robot. Sometimes political solutions were far more elegant than brute force—and considerably more satisfying."

As his assistant left to carry out his orders, Zogg leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his substantial weight. Soon, Captain Phyronix would be nothing more than space debris, and that mysterious robot with its dangerous knowledge would be in Dr. Nefarious's capable mechanical hands.

"Useful idiots are still useful," Zogg reminded himself, reaching for a box of imported Agorian chocolate truffles—his fourth of the day. "And Qwark is the most useful idiot of all."

Twenty minutes later, the office door burst open with enough force to rattle the expensive artwork on the walls. Captain Qwark strode in, striking a heroic pose that showcased his impressive physique and the "Q" emblazoned on his chest.

"Never fear, citizens! Captain Qwaark is here!" he announced to the empty room, his voice booming. "Ready to face danger, defeat evil, and look spectacular while doing it!"

Zogg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Captain Qwark. Thank you for coming so promptly."

"When duty calls, Vice President Zogg, Captain Qwark answers!" Qwark declared, flexing unnecessarily. "Though I must say, your secretary could use some work on his greeting protocol. He didn't even ask for my autograph! I had to force three signed headshots on him just to maintain my brand integrity."

"How... conscientious of you," Zogg replied dryly. "Please, have a seat. We have important matters to discuss."

Qwark dropped into a chair that seemed comically small beneath his massive frame. "Is this about the incident with the Agorian ambassador? Because in my defense, how was I supposed to know that presenting him with a bouquet of carnivorous Flibisk flowers would be interpreted as a death threat? On Umbris, flesh-eating flora is a traditional gift of friendship!"

"This isn't about the ambassador," Zogg assured him, though he made a mental note to follow up on that particular disaster later. "This is about a new threat to galactic security—one that requires your... special access privileges."

Qwark leaned forward eagerly, his chair groaning in protest. "A new threat? Is it pirates? Rogue AI? Those suspiciously friendly telemarketers who keep calling about extended warranties for spaceships?"

"It's Captain Phyronix," Zogg said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I have reliable intelligence suggesting he may be involved in espionage activities against the Solana government."

Qwark's jaw dropped comically. "Captain Phyronix? The decorated fleet officer? The man whose holiday fruitcake recipe won the Marcadia Bake-Off three years running? That Captain Phyronix?"

"The very same," Zogg nodded gravely. "His ship, the Stargazer, has been observed making unauthorized contact with known Blarg vessels. We believe he may be passing classified information to Chairman Drek."

"But... but that's impossible!" Qwark sputtered. "Phyronix is a hero! A legend! A man whose collection of novelty coffee mugs is second only to my own!"

Zogg pushed a folder across the desk—filled with doctored images and falsified reports that Dr. Nefarious had provided. "See for yourself, Captain. The evidence is quite damning."

Qwark flipped through the folder, his expression growing increasingly troubled. "This is... this is terrible! If Captain Phyronix has turned traitor, who can we trust? What about his secret recipe for spicy Markazian chili? Was that all a lie too?"

"Focus, Captain," Zogg snapped. "This is a matter of galactic security, not culinary betrayal."

"Right, right," Qwark nodded, attempting to look serious and mostly succeeding in looking constipated. "So what's the mission? Dramatic confrontation? Epic space battle? Stirring monologue about the nature of heroism followed by a slow-motion walk away from an explosion?"

"Nothing so... theatrical," Zogg replied carefully. "We need you to deliver a message to Captain Phyronix. A classified data disk containing updated security protocols that will help us monitor his activities."

"A sting operation!" Qwark exclaimed, slapping his thigh with enthusiasm. "Brilliant! Captain Qwark, undercover agent of justice! I'll need a code name. Something subtle yet masculine. How about 'The Flexinator'? Or 'Muscles McTruth'?"

"How about 'Captain Qwark'?" Zogg suggested dryly. "Since the point is for Phyronix to trust the information is legitimate because it comes from you, a recognized hero."

"Ohhh," Qwark nodded sagely. "Hiding in plain sight. Very sneaky. I like it!"

Zogg handed him the specially designed data disk that glowed with ominous energy. "Deliver this to Captain Phyronix personally. Tell him it contains critical fleet security updates that must be installed immediately."

"And then we'll catch him in the act of sharing this information with the enemy!" Qwark concluded triumphantly.

"Precisely," Zogg lied smoothly. "However, there's a complication. The Stargazer operates on deep patrol routes—classified navigation paths that even I don't have access to. But your special clearances from Fleet Admiral Starborn..."

"Oh yes!" Qwark brightened. "The Hero's Access Protocol! Admiral Starborn said I could use it to check on any fleet vessel for 'morale purposes.' Something about how seeing a real hero would boost crew spirits during long patrols."

"Exactly. You're the only one who can locate the Stargazer and deliver this disk personally," Zogg emphasized. "But Captain, this is crucial—if Phyronix refuses to accept the disk or seems suspicious, you must understand your heroic duty. The security of the entire galaxy depends on those protocols being installed on his ship."

Qwark's face scrunched in concentration. "You mean... if he won't take it, I should...?"

"Insert it directly into their main computer terminal yourself," Zogg said firmly. "Use your access codes if necessary. The data must be uploaded to the Stargazer's systems at all costs. Can I count on you to do whatever it takes to protect the galaxy?"

Qwark stood, striking another pose that threatened to tear his already strained uniform. "Captain Qwark never fails when the fate of the galaxy is at stake! Except for that one time with the space pirates. And the incident with the mutant sewer slugs. Oh, and I suppose the Protopet fiasco counts too. And—"

"Yes, thank you, Captain," Zogg interrupted hastily. "Your illustrious record speaks for itself. Now, time is of the essence. Use your clearances to locate the Stargazer and deliver that disk immediately."

"I'm on it!" Qwark declared, tucking the disk into his utility belt. "For justice! For Solana! For dramatically increased approval ratings!"

As the door closed behind Captain Qwark's retreating form, Zogg allowed himself a moment of pure, unfiltered satisfaction. Soon, Captain Phyronix would be eliminated, removing one of the few remaining obstacles to Zogg's political ambitions. And if the plan failed? Well, who would believe that the bumbling Captain Qwark was part of a conspiracy rather than simply being his usual incompetent self?

"Checkmate, Phyronix," Zogg murmured, reaching for another chocolate truffle. "Your move."

Planet Fastoon - Lombaxia City 

Monday morning in Lombaxia City arrived with its usual orchestrated chaos—a symphony of hover-vehicles weaving through designated sky-lanes, automated news broadcasts projecting from public holo-screens, and the distinctive hum of a civilization that had perfected the art of efficient morning commutes.

Now, as the morning sun glinted off the sleek, midnight-blue ministerial hover-car cutting through Lombaxia City's skyline, two lombaxes sat inside: one gripping the controls with practiced military precision, the other slouched in the passenger seat with the resigned expression of someone who had negotiated his freedom but at considerable cost.

"Remember what we practiced yesterday," Kaden said, his voice carrying the tone of someone reviewing critical mission parameters. "Proper stance, controlled movements, and absolutely no spontaneous demonstrations of your improved wrench technique."

"I'm going to school, not infiltrating a Blarg fortress," Ratchet replied, though he appreciated the concern. "I think I can manage to sit through origami class without accidentally starting a revolution."

"Your previous attempts at 'managing' academic situations have included organizing protest rallies during lunch periods," Kaden pointed out. "Forgive me if I'm cautious about your definition of low-profile behavior."

The hover-car swerved gracefully around a slower transport, accelerating through a gap in traffic with the precision one would expect from Fastoon's Defense Minister—a man who, paradoxically, seemed far more comfortable navigating interstellar political tensions than his son's return to school.

"You know," Ratchet observed, watching his father's hypervigilant scanning of every hover-vehicle within a three-kilometer radius, "you're more tense about this than you were when you taught me those combat stances yesterday."

"That was controlled practice in a secure environment," Kaden replied, adjusting his rearview mirror for the fourth time. "This is unleashing you into an uncontrolled social ecosystem populated by teenagers with poor judgment and insufficient supervision."

"Wow. When you put it like that, it sounds like a nature documentary about survival in hostile territory."

"It essentially is," Kaden said grimly. "Except the predators wear school uniforms and communicate through eye-rolling and dramatic sighing."

Below them, the daily programming on the massive public holo-screens switched to the morning news broadcast. A female lombax with lilac fur appeared, delivering updates with polished professionalism. Her distinctive bob-cut hairstyle framed her face perfectly, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with the same intensity Ratchet recognized immediately.

"And don't forget to join us this weekend for comprehensive coverage of the Heritage Festival," the reporter was saying, her professional smile beaming across the city. "I'll be interviewing Defense Minister Kaden Sterling about the historical significance of traditional lombax defensive technologies—a segment you won't want to miss!"

Ratchet stared at the screen, mesmerized. The resemblance was unmistakable—the same facial structure as Rivet, the same expressive eyes, even the same way of tilting her head when concentrating. But where Rivet was all rough edges and practical attire, this lombax was polished perfection, every detail carefully curated for maximum professional impact.

"Your interview prep notes arrived yesterday," Ratchet mentioned, still watching the broadcast. "Mom said they're on your desk."

"I've reviewed the preliminary questions," Kaden replied, his ears twitching slightly. "Though I've been somewhat preoccupied with more immediate concerns."

The hover-car's entertainment system suddenly activated, interrupting their conversation with an incoming call notification. The same reporter from the broadcast appeared on screen, her professional demeanor brightening when she saw them.

"Minister Sterling! Perfect timing," the reporter's voice filled the hover-car, and Ratchet could hear the same warm undertone that Rivet used when she was genuinely pleased about something. "I was hoping to catch you before my next segment."

"Good morning, Lyra," Kaden replied formally. "I was planning to contact your producer later today about the interview."

Ratchet's jaw nearly dropped. The voice, the mannerisms, even the way she gestured with her hands—it was like seeing an alternate version of Rivet, one who had chosen sophistication over rebellion, professional polish over practical efficiency.

"Wonderful! But actually, I was calling about our children. I understand Ryder is returning to school today after his recovery?"

"Wait, Rivet's mom is a news reporter?" Ratchet whispered, his eyes widening in surprise as he studied Lyra's features more closely. The bone structure was identical to Rivet's, but where his friend favored a practical, slightly tousled appearance, Lyra had a sleek and sophisticated style that certainly required professional maintenance.

Kaden gave him an odd look. "Of course she is. Lyra Silvermane is only the most recognized journalist on Fastoon. How could you not know that?"

"I've been... distracted?" Ratchet offered weakly, still fascinated by the genetic similarities. 

"Yes, Dr. Castleberry has cleared him for normal activities," Kaden replied to Lyra, shooting a warning glance at his son.

"Excellent news! Rivet has been quite concerned," Lyra continued, and Ratchet could hear genuine maternal worry beneath her professional tone. "I must say, your son's recovery couldn't be better timed. My article on the team's championship qualification has been generating tremendous buzz! The feature highlights how Rivet practically carried the team single-handedly, but this season, with Ryder's contributions, they've finally broken through!"

So that's where Rivet gets her competitive drive, Ratchet realized, watching Lyra's eyes light up with pride when discussing her daughter's achievements. 

"We're very proud of Ryder's athletic development," Kaden said to Lyra, though his expression betrayed his confusion at his son's apparent amnesia regarding basic facts about his closest friends.

"Absolutely! That synchronized move they pulled off was spectacular!" Lyra gushed, and for a moment her professional mask slipped entirely. "Though I must say, Thalwen's reaction to all this attention has been... less enthusiastic. The school network posted that video of the victory celebration, and his whiskers have been twitching non-stop."

"Oh?" Kaden's ears perked up with interest.

"He spent breakfast muttering about 'that Sterling boy' this, 'that Sterling boy' that, and questioning whether Rivet's sudden sports stardom was worth the public attention!" Lyra said with a laugh that sounded exactly like Rivet's when she was amused by someone's overprotective behavior.

"Governor Silvermane is entitled to his concerns..." Kaden replied diplomatically, though his eyes briefly flickered to Ratchet with a knowing look.

"Wait, Rivet's dad is the Governor?" Ratchet blurted out, unable to contain his shock.

Both Kaden and Lyra fell silent, staring at him with identical expressions of confusion.

"Ryder…" Kaden said slowly, "Governor Thalwen Silvermane has been our Regional Governor for the past eight years. You've met him at multiple official functions."

"Of course!" Ratchet backpedaled frantically. "I just meant... temporary confusion. You know how stress can affect memory."

"What stress?" Kaden demanded, his parental alarm bells clearly ringing. "Dr. Castleberry said you were completely recovered!"

"School stress!" Ratchet said quickly. "The pressure of returning to academic life."

Kaden's expression suggested this explanation was about as convincing as a Agorian claiming to be vegetarian.

"Well, regardless," Lyra said diplomatically, though Ratchet could see her maternal instincts kicking in as she studied his face through the screen. "I should let you go. Give my best to Mirabelle, and tell her I'm still waiting for that recipe she promised!"

As the call ended, Kaden's hover-car fell into an uncomfortable silence.

"Would you care to explain," Kaden finally said, "how you could possibly forget that your friend's father is a Governor?"

"Look, I've just had a lot on my mind lately," Ratchet said desperately. "Minor details slipped through the cracks."

"The identity of our Regional Governor is not a 'minor detail,'" Kaden said, his scientific mind clearly working through troubling scenarios. "Particularly when his daughter is one of your closest friends."

As they approached Lombaxia High, Ratchet was relieved to see Dexon and Rivet waiting by the entrance. Anything to escape this uncomfortable interrogation.

"Look, my friends are waiting!" Ratchet said, reaching for his bag. "I promise to take it easy. No spontaneous athletic feats, no challenging anyone to combat demonstrations, and absolutely no organizing protest rallies during lunch!"

"Remember," Kaden said, his protective instincts clearly engaged, "if you feel any muscle fatigue or if anyone challenges you to another athletic competition—"

"Call you immediately," Ratchet finished. "I've got your instructions memorized."

"And remember what we practiced yesterday about proper stance and control—"

"Dad," Ratchet interrupted gently. "I'll be fine. It's just school."

Kaden's expression softened slightly, though concern remained etched in his features. "Just... be careful, son. And remember that you don't have to prove anything to anyone."

"I know," Ratchet said, genuinely touched by the concern. "See you later."

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Kaden immediately rolled down the window and waved enthusiastically at Rivet and Dexon. "Rivet! Make sure he sits down if he looks even slightly faint! And tell your mother her article was excellent—I've already framed it for my office! The part about your 'remarkable synchronicity' was particularly well-observed!"

Rivet's ears flattened in mortification as she offered a weak wave back.

"And Dexon!" Kaden continued, seemingly oblivious to the teenagers' embarrassment. "Make sure Ryder doesn't overexert himself! I'm counting on you two to implement reasonable safety protocols! If he starts looking tired, implement the S.T.E.R.L.I.N.G. protocol: Sit, Test vitals, Evaluate symptoms, Rest, Locate medical assistance, Inform parents, Neutralize all threats, Get him home!"

"Don't worry, Minister Sterling!" Dex shouted back, giving an exaggerated salute. "We'll also implement Protocol: Bubble Wrap simultaneously! No sharp objects or sudden movements allowed within a ten-foot radius! And I've already programmed the school's sprinkler system to follow him with a gentle mist of electrolyte solution!"

"I'm starting to think staying home wasn't so bad…" Ratchet muttered as he joined his friends, his cheeks burning with embarrassment despite the genuine affection he felt for his father's ridiculous overprotectiveness.

As the hover-car finally departed, the three friends stood watching it disappear into the morning traffic.

"Freedom at last!" Dex exclaimed, slinging an arm around Ratchet's shoulders. "We were taking bets on whether the Minister of Defense would actually let you out of protective custody."

"I had my money on him following you to class in disguise," Rivet added with a smirk. "Maybe wearing one of those fake mustache and glasses combinations."

"He probably did consider it at one point," Ratchet admitted as they walked toward the entrance.

As they entered the building, the usual morning hubbub of Lombaxia High seemed to pause momentarily. Heads turned, conversations halted mid-sentence, and then—like the crescendo of a symphony reaching its peak—someone shouted, "STERLING'S BACK!" The hallway erupted in excitement. Laughter and chatter filled the air as students rushed to greet their returning classmate, and suddenly Ratchet found himself surrounded by classmates he barely recognized, all vying for his attention.

"Dude, that game was INSANE!" A lanky lombax with copper-colored fur clapped him on the shoulder. "I've watched the replay like fifty times!"

"Are you feeling better?" asked another, a girl with cream-striped fur who Ratchet was pretty sure had once called him "The Protest Pest" to his face.

"Will you be playing in the Metropolis game?" questioned a third, practically bouncing with excitement.

Ratchet blinked, overwhelmed by the sudden attention. From infamous pacifist to school celebrity overnight—it was like watching someone flip a switch and suddenly becoming the protagonist of his own holovid.

"GIVE HIM SPACE EVERYONE!" Dex announced, making exaggerated shooing motions. "The man's just returned from the death's door! He needs at least three feet of personal bubble for recovery purposes!"

"I wasn't at death's door," Ratchet clarified quickly. "Just needed some rest-"

"STERLING!" Coach Ironhide's voice thundered down the hallway. The burly lombax with copper-colored fur pushed through the crowd like a battleship parting waves. "There's my star player! Where have you BEEN, son? I've been sending smoke signals, carrier pigeons, and telepathic messages to your house for DAYS!"

"Sorry, Coach," Ratchet replied, slightly overwhelmed by the man's enthusiasm. "Dr. Castleberry said I needed complete bed rest. Severe muscle inflammation, electrolyte depletion—the works."

"But you're cleared for practice now, right?" the coach asked anxiously. "The Metropolis Meteors game is next week, and without your moves, we're just a bunch of fur-covered disappointments with fancy boots!"

"Doc says I in the clear, coach!" Ratchet confirmed. "I've been taking those nano-enhanced protein supplements she prescribed and-"

"OUTSTANDING!" The coach slapped Ratchet's back with enough force to realign his vertebrae. "The team's been running the Sterling Spin-Flip maneuver all week! Well, trying to. Mostly they just spin and then flip onto their faces. It's both hilarious and deeply depressing. Like watching a group of newborn tharpods trying to operate heavy machinery."

As the coach moved on, shouting encouragement and mild threats to the other team members, Rivet rolled her eyes.

"They've been butchering our move all week," she muttered to Ratchet. "Coach has me demonstrating it every practice, but no one can nail the timing like we did. It's like watching someone try to perform surgery with oven mitts on."

"Our move?" Ratchet asked, rubbing his shoulder where the coach had hit him. "I'm still not entirely sure what we did. It's all kind of a blur."

"Are you kidding?" Rivet looked at him incredulously. "That synchronized aerial spin-flip we pulled off in the final seconds? The one where I launched the ball and you somehow caught it mid-rotation? The move that's now immortalized in my mother's front-page article with its own special name?"

Before Ratchet could respond, they were interrupted by a new wave of students surging toward them in the hallway. Wide-eyed freshmen pointing and whispering while upperclassmen tried (and failed) to look casual as they angled for a better view of the school's newest celebrity.

"Sterling! That move was EPIC!"

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Can I get your autograph on my hoverboot?"

"Will you go to the Celestial Dance with me?"

The barrage of attention was overwhelming, and Ratchet found himself backing up slightly, his ears flattening against his head. A girl he'd never spoken to before somehow materialized at his side, clutching his arm and snapping a selfie before school security could intervene.

"Would you look at that," Dexon whispered dramatically as they navigated the packed hallway, "it's the rare and elusive Social Hierarchy Jumper in his natural habitat! Scientists believed this species was mythical, but here we have a prime specimen!"

"Knock it off," Ratchet muttered, awkwardly returning yet another enthusiastic thumbs-up from a student whose name he couldn't remember.

"I'm just saying," Dex continued in his mock nature-documentary voice, "the transformation from 'That Guy Who Chained Himself to the Weapons Lab Door' to 'Everyone's Favorite Superstar' typically takes years of intensive therapy and personality transplants. You've somehow managed it in approximately—" he checked an imaginary watch, "—one hundred twenty hours and twenty-seven minutes."

"RYDER STERLING!" A high-pitched squeal cut through the hallway chatter like a plasma cutter through butter. Brittany Moonbeam, head cheerleader and self-appointed queen of Lombaxia High, was gliding toward them with the practiced grace of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of walking while being admired. Her sandy gold fur gleamed under the hallway lights, and her squad of similarly perfect lombaxes flanked her like an honor guard.

"You're BACK!" she gushed, somehow managing to touch his arm, fix his collar, and check his forehead for fever all in one fluid motion. "We were all SO worried! The whole cheer squad has been sending healing vibes your way! We even created a special chant just for your recovery!"

Before Ratchet could respond, Brittany and her squad arranged themselves in formation and began an enthusiastic cheer:

"RYDER, RYDER, FEELING BETTER?
GOT THAT FEVER ON THE ROPES!
RYDER, RYDER, LOOKING STRONGER!
FULFILLING ALL OUR HOPES!
GOOOOO RYDER!"

The performance concluded with a series of synchronized jumps and a pyramid formation that seemed both unnecessarily complex and dangerously wobbly for a high school hallway.

"That was... something," Ratchet managed, genuinely unsure how to respond to having an entire cheer routine dedicated to his health.

"We've been practicing it every day," Brittany said, somehow appearing completely unruffled despite the acrobatics. "We're having a special cheer practice today dedicated to your winning move—'The Sterling Sensation.' Would you like to come watch? You know, to make sure we're capturing the essence of your technique correctly?"

"I, uh—" Ratchet began, but was saved by Rivet's intervention.

"OKAY!" Rivet suddenly exclaimed, loud enough to make everyone jump. "Ryder needs space! He's been sick, remember? Doctor's orders: no crowding, no excessive socialization, and absolutely no batting of eyelashes within a ten-foot radius. Medical condition. Very serious. Called... Excessive Female Attention Syndrome. Can be fatal."

"Oh, Rivet," Brittany said with a saccharine smile, acknowledging her for the first time. "I didn't see you there. Still rocking that... unique... look, I see. How's the governor? We were all so inspired by your teamwork with Ryder during the game. Your mom's article really captured the moment beautifully."

Rivet's tail bristled behind her. "Thanks, Brittany. Your ability to deliver compliments that somehow sound like insults is as impressive as ever."

"And you are as charmingly direct as always," Brittany replied with a practiced laugh before turning back to Ratchet. "So, Ryder, about practice—"

"Thanks for the offer," Ratchet interjected, "but I should get to class. We'll talk later."

As Brittany and her squad moved on, clearly displeased at being dismissed, Ratchet turned to his friends with relief.

"Thanks for the save," he told Rivet quietly. "I wasn't sure how to escape without being rude."

"Don't mention it," Rivet replied. "Though I'm not sure how long my 'medical condition' excuse will hold up. By lunch, half the school will probably be convinced you have some rare disease that makes you allergic to cheerleaders."

"If only," Ratchet muttered, earning a surprised laugh from Rivet.

Before they could continue, Jenkins appeared with a group of JROTC cadets in tow, all wearing their perfectly pressed uniforms.

"Sterling! Good to see you back," Jenkins said, offering a casual salute. "Heard you'll be at practice this afternoon?"

"That's the plan," Ratchet replied, genuinely appreciative of the respectful tone. "As long as everything goes smoothly."

"Well, don't push too hard too fast," Jenkins advised. "But speaking of pushing yourself, you were pretty impressive in Intro to Firearms the other day. For someone who used to call weapons 'primitive tools of intellectually stunted minds,' you handled that blaster like you'd been training for years."

The cadets behind Jenkins exchanged surprised glances, their expressions ranging from confused to wary.

"Yeah, about that..." Ratchet rubbed the back of his neck. "I've been reconsidering a lot of my... previous positions."

"Reconsidering?" one cadet scoffed. "Last semester you organized a sit-in at the JROTC recruitment booth with pamphlets about 'The Military-Industrial Complex.'"

"I was probably too extreme in my views," Ratchet admitted. "The JROTC teaches valuable skills—discipline, teamwork, leadership. I was wrong to dismiss it."

The cadets stared at him in stunned silence. Even Jenkins looked momentarily speechless.

"Who ARE you and what have you done with Sterling?" one cadet finally asked, only half-joking.

"I get that question a lot lately," Ratchet laughed. "Let's just say I've gained some perspective!"

Jenkins studied him thoughtfully. "Well, whatever caused this change of heart, it's welcome. We're having an information session next month about career paths in the Defense Force and Praetorian Guard. You should come."

"I'd like that," Ratchet replied sincerely.

As the cadets moved on, Dex shook his head in amazement. "Did that just happen? Did Ryder 'War Is Never The Answer' Sterling just make peace with the JROTC?"

"Character development," Ratchet said with a grin. "It's a wonderful thing."

"The apocalypse must be nigh," Rivet mutters, though she was looking at Ratchet with newfound respect. "What's next? Are you actually going to join the Praetorian Guard?"

"Is that so hard to imagine?" Ratchet asked, genuinely curious about her reaction. "I may want to give it a go."

"The old you? Absolutely impossible!" Rivet replied. "You once spent an entire lunch period explaining why the Praetorian Guard's existence was 'a symptom of societal paranoia and institutional militarism.' You used charts, Ry. Actual charts with little clipart pacifist symbols."

"I was thorough, at least," Ratchet offered with a self-deprecating smile.

As they walked through the hallway toward the art wing, Ratchet began to notice things that made his lombax instincts prickle with unease. A custodial worker who seemed to be cleaning the same window for an unusually long time while keeping his eyes on the main entrance. A substitute teacher he didn't recognize standing in a doorway, ostensibly reviewing lesson plans but actually scanning the crowd of students.

"Hey Rivet," he said quietly as they continued walking, "is it normal for the school to have this much... adult supervision during morning transition?"

Rivet followed his gaze, her expression immediately becoming more alert. "You noticed that too? Some of them are definitely security personnel. The one by the main entrance is Agent Magoosh, and the lady near the hover-bike racks is Agent Nova."

"Your dad's people?" Ratchet asked.

"Some of them," Rivet confirmed, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I only recognize about half of them. Which means either my dad assigned additional security without telling me, or someone else is running surveillance on the school."

"That's not ominous at all," Dex muttered, though his usual jovial demeanor had become more serious. "Any particular reason why random security forces would be interested in our humble educational institution?"

Before Ratchet could respond, his attention was caught by a figure positioned near the science building—a lombax in a maintenance uniform who seemed to be paying far too much attention to their group for someone supposedly checking equipment.

"Rivet, is that guy also one of yours?" Ratchet asked, nodding toward the maintenance worker.

"Which—" Rivet began, following his gaze, but when they looked back at the spot, the figure had vanished completely. Only an abandoned tool cart remained where the worker had been standing moments before. "There's no one there, Ry."

"What?" Ratchet looked again, scanning the area carefully. "That's... weird. There was definitely someone there watching us."

"Maybe he went inside?" Dex suggested, though his tone suggested he didn't quite believe it either.

"Maybe," Ratchet agreed, though his instincts were telling him otherwise. Years of being hunted by various galactic villains had taught him to trust those instincts. "Let's just keep moving."

They reached the art wing of the school, where Ratchet's origami class was held. Through the window, he could see a room filled predominantly with female students, many of whom were pretending not to watch the door while obviously waiting for his arrival.

"Well, this is me," Ratchet said, gesturing to the classroom. "Unless you two want to spy on me in here too? I'm sure you could find another door to press your faces against."

Rivet's ears flattened in embarrassment. "That was a one-time reconnaissance mission."

"For scientific purposes," Dex added solemnly. "We needed to document the rare phenomenon of Ryder Sterling not falling over his own feet."

"Well, feel free to observe the equally rare phenomenon of me folding paper without delivering a lecture on how origami perpetuates cultural appropriation," Ratchet replied with a grin. "Though I can't promise it'll be as exciting as dancing."

"We have actual classes to get to," Rivet said, though she was eyeing the room full of female students with suspicion. "Just... try not to develop a paper cut that requires specialized attention from the Cheerleading Medical Response Team or something equally ridiculous."

"Is that a common treatment for paper cuts on this planet?" Ratchet asked innocently with a wink. "Medical science has really advanced!"

Dex snorted with laughter while Rivet's tail lashed behind her.

"You know what I mean…" she muttered. "Those girls are like ravenous Sargasso leeches who've just discovered a new food source!"

"Did you just refer to me as dinner and dessert?" Ratchet asked, placing a hand over his heart. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Rivet!"

"I—that's not—ugh!" Rivet threw up her hands in frustration. "Just go fold your stupid paper!"

Just as Ratchet turned to enter the classroom, the hallway suddenly felt colder. Evalina Primrose was approaching from the opposite direction, her perfectly groomed cream-colored fur practically gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Her violet eyes locked with Rivet's, and for a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle with tension.

Evalina's ears tilted back slightly, a subtle but unmistakable challenge. Rivet's did the same, her posture stiffening as they passed each other without a word.

"Wow," Dex whispered, watching the silent exchange. "I haven't seen that much hostility since my mom caught my dad trying to 'upgrade' her kitchen appliances with experimental rocket boosters from the company."

"What was that about?" Ratchet asked as Evalina disappeared into the classroom ahead of him.

"Nothing," Rivet said too quickly. "Just Evalina being her usual charming self."

"Uh-huh," Dex said skeptically. "And I'm secretly Emperor Tachyon in a very convincing lombax costume."

"We should get to class," Rivet said, pointedly ignoring Dex's comment. "See you at lunch, Ry."

As his friends departed, Ratchet took a deep breath and entered the origami classroom for his first session, immediately finding himself the center of attention as every female head turned in his direction.

"It's him!" whispered one student loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

"I told you he'd show up," another replied with smug satisfaction.

Ratchet stood awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly feeling like an exotic specimen in a zoo exhibit. The sunlit art room was arranged with tables in a circle, and he was indeed the only male among fifteen female lombaxes, all of whom were regarding him with varying degrees of surprise and interest.

"We never get boys in here," whispered a pretty lombax with rich brown fur marked by elegant black stripes, her gold eyes sparkling as she demonstrated a traditional crane fold. "Especially not overnight sports celebrities."

"I'm hardly a celebrity..." Ratchet replied, looking for an empty seat that wasn't surrounded by expectant gazes. There weren't any.

"Mr. Sterling!" called Professor Papyrus, a slender, elderly lombax with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "How delightful to have you join us! Please, take any seat you like."

Ratchet chose the least crowded table, which still put him between a silver-furred lombax and a petite student with amber fur. Across from him, Evalina sat with perfect posture, her violet eyes following his every move.

"Today we'll be working on the lotus blossom," Professor Papyrus announced, distributing sheets of colorful paper. "A challenging design that requires precision and patience."

Ratchet found unexpected comfort in the precise geometry of the paper folds. Each crease and turn reminded him of the origami training he'd received during his Megacorp commando days—a skill that had saved his life during more than one covert infiltration. The muscle memory was still there, his hands moving with practiced efficiency through the complex sequence.

"Like this?" he asked, completing the lotus blossom while most students were still struggling with the initial folds.

The circle of girls fell silent, staring at his creation with undisguised amazement.

"That's... incredible!" breathed the silver-furred lombax seated beside him. "It took me weeks to master that fold!"

Ratchet shrugged, offering her the finished piece. "Just got lucky, I guess."

She accepted it with reverent hands, a blush spreading visibly up her ears. Something unfamiliar stirred in Ratchet's chest—a warm, pleasant sensation he couldn't quite name. He'd spent his life as the last lombax in the universe, surrounded by aliens and robots. Being among his own kind—especially female lombaxes—awakened feelings he'd never experienced before.

"Mr. Sterling," Professor Papyrus called, adjusting his spectacles as he peered at Ratchet's work. "My goodness! That's professional-level craftsmanship. Would you mind demonstrating for the class?"

Before Ratchet could respond, the professor was ushering him to the center of the room. Standing before fourteen pairs of attentive female eyes (and one pair of narrowed violet ones), Ratchet took a fresh sheet of paper and began to fold.

"The key is to be decisive with your creases," he explained, finding himself surprisingly comfortable in the teaching role. "If you hesitate, the fold won't be clean."

"Where did you learn to fold like that?" asked a student in the front row, her expression genuinely curious.

"I, uh, had a mentor who believed in developing precision skills," Ratchet replied, thinking of his Megacorp training officer who had drilled him relentlessly. "He always said that the smallest details often make the biggest difference."

"That's very profound," sighed another student dreamily.

"He also said if I didn't get it right, he'd make me run laps until my legs fell off," Ratchet added with a grin, "so I had extra motivation."

The class laughed, and Ratchet felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. This wasn't so bad. If he focused on the origami itself rather than the unexpected attention, he could almost enjoy the experience.

As he completed the demonstration, producing a perfect lotus blossom that seemed to bloom in his hands, the class erupted in spontaneous applause.

"Magnificent!" Professor Papyrus exclaimed. "I've never seen such natural talent in a first-time student!"

"First time?" Evalina's voice cut through the admiration like a laser through butter. "Are we supposed to believe you've never done origami before, Ryder? Just like we're supposed to believe you suddenly learned to dance and play hover-ball overnight?"

The room fell silent, all eyes darting between Evalina and Ratchet.

"I never claimed to be a beginner," Ratchet replied calmly. "I've just never taken a formal class before."

"How convenient," Evalina said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "You seem to be full of hidden talents lately."

"Maybe I just needed the right motivation to explore them," Ratchet suggested, returning to his seat.

For the remainder of the class, Ratchet continued to impress both the professor and his fellow students with his origami skills. He created delicate birds, intricate geometric shapes, and even a miniature dragon that seemed ready to breathe paper fire. Each creation was met with admiration, and soon students were asking him for help with their own projects.

"Could you show me how to make that corner fold again?" asked the amber-furred lombax beside him. "I can't seem to get it right."

"Sure," Ratchet said, demonstrating the technique slowly. "It's all about the angle. See how I'm holding it?"

As the class progressed, Ratchet found himself genuinely enjoying the creative process and the satisfaction of helping others learn. It was a welcome change from fighting galactic supervillains or navigating interdimensional crises. There was something meditative about the precise folds and transformative nature of origami—taking something flat and unremarkable and turning it into something beautiful and complex.

By the end of the session, Ratchet had accumulated a small menagerie of origami animals gifted to him by appreciative classmates, along with several thinly veiled invitations to "practice together" outside of class. Even Professor Papyrus seemed thoroughly impressed, asking Ratchet to consider becoming a teaching assistant for future sessions.

"Your technique is remarkable," the elderly professor said as the class began to disperse. "Though I must admit, I'm somewhat perplexed by your sudden appearance in my class. Especially given your rather... vocal opinions about traditional art forms last semester."

"I wrote something about that too?" Ratchet asked, wincing internally. Was there anything safe from Ryder's critiquing? 

"Oh my, yes," Professor Papyrus confirmed with a chuckle. "A rather passionate essay titled 'The Oppressive Nature of Traditional Art Forms and Why They Perpetuate Systemic Inequality.' You argued that origami, in particular, represented 'the rigid folding of free expression into predetermined patterns dictated by cultural hegemony.'"

"That's... quite a take," Ratchet admitted, wondering how Ryder had found time to protest literally everything. "I guess I've reconsidered my position."

"Evidently," the professor agreed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, whatever the reason for your change of heart, I'm delighted to have you in class. Your presence seems to have energized the other students considerably."

As Ratchet exited the classroom, he found the hallway mercifully empty of admirers. Most students had already hurried to their next classes, leaving him a moment of peace to gather his thoughts.

The peace didn't last long.

"Well, well, if it isn't the origami master himself," came a familiar voice, dripping with false sweetness.

Evalina stood leaning against the wall, her perfectly manicured claws tapping against her crossed arms. Years of Ryder's devoted attention had clearly not prepared her for his sudden indifference.

"Evalina," Ratchet acknowledged with a nod, continuing to walk. "Shouldn't you be heading to class?"

"Don't you want to walk me there?" she asked, falling into step beside him. "You used to beg for the privilege."

"Did I now?" Ratchet replied mildly. "Sounds exhausting."

Evalina's steps faltered momentarily before she recovered. "You've changed, Ryder. It's... interesting."

"People change," Ratchet shrugged. "Isn't that what growing up is about?"

"Is that what this is? Growing up?" Her violet eyes studied him intently. "Or is it just an act to get attention?"

"I'm not the one who seems concerned about attention," Ratchet pointed out, stopping to face her directly. "Why do you care what I do, Evalina? You've made it pretty clear in the past that you're not interested in me."

Evalina's tail lashed once, betraying her irritation despite her composed expression. "I'm just looking out for you, Ryder. All this sudden popularity might go to your head. You wouldn't want to forget who your real friends are."

"Were we friends?" Ratchet asked genuinely. "Because from what I've gathered, you mostly kept me around to help with homework and boost your ego."

Evalina's eyes widened in genuine shock, her composure cracking for just a moment. "That's not—I never—"

"I should get to class," Ratchet said, stepping around her. "See you around, Evalina."

As he walked away, he didn't see the way Evalina's expression hardened, her claws digging into her palms. Nor did he see her pull out her communicator and send a quick message before stalking off in the opposite direction.

Chad Marlowe was not known for his academic achievements, his compassion, or his personal hygiene. What he was known for, however, was his impressive ability to make smaller students regret crossing his path. Currently, he was demonstrating this talent by holding a freshman upside-down over a trash can while his friends laughed.

"Please, I just want to go to class," the freshman pleaded, his glasses sliding up his forehead.

"Should've thought of that before you existed in my hallway," Chad replied philosophically, dangling the smaller lombax a little lower.

"Chad," came a silky voice from behind him. "I need to talk to you."

Chad turned, his grip on the freshman's ankles never faltering, to find Evalina Primrose regarding him with cool violet eyes. His expression immediately shifted from bored menace to eager attention.

"Evalina! Hey!" He straightened up, accidentally bonking the freshman's head against the trash can in the process. "What's up?"

"I need a favor," she said, glancing distastefully at the upside-down student. "Put that down first. It's unsanitary."

Chad immediately dropped the freshman, who tumbled into the trash can with a yelp before scrambling away. "Anything for you," he said, running a hand through his slicked-back fur. "You know I'm always happy to help."

Evalina's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I need you to remind someone of their place in the social hierarchy."

"Oh yeah?" Chad cracked his knuckles enthusiastically. "Who's the lucky winner of a Chad Marlowe attitude adjustment?"

Evalina pointed down the hallway to where Ratchet was chatting with a group of students, all of whom seemed to be hanging on his every word. "Sterling."

Chad's eager expression faltered, confusion replacing it. "Ryder Sterling? The self-righteous windbag who gave me a three-hour lecture on 'The Psychological Roots of Bullying' when I tried to stuff him in a locker last year? That Sterling?"

"The very same," Evalina confirmed. "He's gotten... ideas lately. Delusions of grandeur. He needs to be reminded where he belongs."

Chad scratched his head, genuinely perplexed. "But... why? He's harmless. What'd he do, start another petition?"

"He's changed," Evalina insisted, her tail lashing with irritation. "Haven't you noticed? Suddenly he's Mr. Popular, playing hover-ball, making origami animals for his little fan club. It's ridiculous!"

Chad's eyes narrowed as he studied Ratchet from a distance. "Huh. Now that you mention it, he does look different. Standing taller. And are... are people actually laughing at his jokes and not at him?"

"Exactly," Evalina said, her voice hardening. "The social order is being disrupted. Sterling needs to remember his place!"

"His place being...?"

"MINE," Evalina snapped, then quickly composed herself. "I mean, he was useful when he knew his role—helping with homework, being available whenever I needed him. Now he's acting like he's too good for that."

Chad's expression shifted as understanding dawned. "Oh, I get it. You want him back to being your personal homework slave, but now he's got options."

Evalina's ears flattened against her head. "That's not—I just think someone needs to deflate his suddenly enormous ego before it gets out of hand."

"And you want that someone to be me," Chad concluded, a slow grin spreading across his face. "No problem. Sterling's overdue for a reality check anyway. All that pacifist talk was starting to get on my nerves."

"So you'll do it?" Evalina asked, her expression brightening.

"Consider it done," Chad promised, flexing his considerable muscles. "By the time I'm finished with him, the only thing Sterling will be folding is himself—into a very small, very quiet ball."

"Perfect," Evalina purred, her violet eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she watched Ratchet laugh with his newfound friends. "It's time Ryder remembered who he really is... and who he belongs to."

As Chad and his friends sauntered off to plan their ambush, Evalina allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Soon enough, Ryder would be back where he belonged—grateful for her attention, desperate for her approval, and most importantly, hers alone.

Chapter Text

Planet Veldin - The Sandrift Badlands 

Cole's hands trembled as he adjusted his scanner for the hundredth time, the device's screen casting an eerie blue glow across his dirt-streaked face. He crouched behind a rusted mining drill, its massive bulk providing cover while Blarg patrol ships hummed overhead like mechanical vultures searching for carrion. The drill's corroded surface told its own story—hastily abandoned when Veldin's inhabitants realized their quiet desert world was about to become ground zero for something unspeakable.

Three days. Three endless, soul-crushing days of playing hide-and-seek with death squads while the images from their journey burned behind his eyes like brands.

His gray eyes squeezed shut, but the memories came anyway, uninvited and relentless.

Quantaris Prime. He could still taste the salt spray from their floating cities, feel the gentle sway of coral platforms that moved with the tides like living things. The Quantarians had welcomed him with traditional fish songs during that diplomatic mission, their scaled faces bright with hospitality. Their children had performed a dance about ocean currents while their parents explained how they'd learned to build ships that could survive in any atmosphere.

When the Reavers passed through that sector three days ago, they'd found those same coral cities drifting in space like broken toys. Empty windows stared out at the void, perfectly preserved dining tables still set for meals that would never be finished. No bodies. No evacuation ships. Just the echo of fish songs that no one was left to sing.

Cole's jaw clenched, his fangs grinding together as another memory surfaced.

Rillos Station. The massive rotating trade hub had been a marvel of engineering—twelve spinning rings connected by gravity tubes, each level dedicated to different types of commerce. He'd bought his first plasma pistol there from a Markazian dealer who'd thrown in a holographic targeting sight "for the handsome young customer." The merchant district had been chaos incarnate—a thousand species haggling in a hundred languages while the smell of exotic foods and starship fuel created an atmosphere that was somehow both nauseating and exhilarating.

Now those spinning rings were geometric fragments arranged in perfect mathematical spirals, like someone had used the station as raw material for a cosmic art project. The emergency beacon still transmitted, but instead of distress calls, it broadcast what sounded like someone humming a work song while they sorted through debris.

Cole's scanner beeped softly, pulling him back to the present. Still no trace of robot XJ-0461, just the endless static of a planet under siege.

His comm crackled to life, making him flinch despite three days of expecting it.

"Status report," Axel's voice carried the ragged edge of someone who'd been running on caffeine and stubbornness for seventy-two hours straight. "Please tell me someone found evidence of our target instead of more proof that the universe is actively trying to destroy our faith in cosmic justice."

Cole pressed himself closer to the mining drill's bulk, its rough metal cold against his armor. Through his enhanced optics, he could see Blarg soldiers methodically searching the ruins of what had once been Veldin's primary settlement. They moved with mechanical precision, checking every building, every cave, every hiding spot where a small robot might seek shelter.

"Jax reporting," came the analytical voice that had grown increasingly hollow over their three-day nightmare tour. Lieutenant Jax Caliber had always found comfort in numbers, in mathematical certainty, but what they'd witnessed defied every equation he'd ever learned. "Assigned sector completely swept. No robot signatures detected."

Cole heard the lieutenant's voice crack slightly—barely perceptible, but after years of serving together, he could read the subtle signs of his teammate's deteriorating mental state.

"But I have now documented seventeen distinct methods of systematic population removal," Jax continued, his tone taking on the clinical detachment of someone cataloging atrocities. "And my statistical models suggest we're witnessing organized genocide with quarterly profit projections and performance metrics."

The mathematical precision of that statement made it somehow worse. Seventeen methods. Like someone had researched the most efficient ways to process entire civilizations and implemented them with corporate enthusiasm.

"Of course we are," Axel replied, his voice flat with acceptance. Cole could picture his captain's face—the way Axel's emerald eyes had grown darker each day, the slight tremor in his hands when he thought no one was looking, the way he'd stopped sleeping and started staring at star charts like they contained answers to questions he was afraid to ask.

"Nyx, tell me your sector contained something that won't require therapy to process."

Sergeant Nyx Starfall's laugh came through the comm with the brittle quality of broken glass. "Nyx reporting! My quadrant has been thoroughly examined with only moderate psychological scarring!"

Cole could hear her moving through debris, her boots crunching on what might once have been someone's home. Nyx had always used humor as armor, but three days of horror had worn her defenses thin. Her usual stream of technical babble now carried an edge of hysteria that she couldn't quite hide.

"No tiny robot friend located, but I did make a discovery that's going to ruin everyone's day!" Her voice pitched higher with each word, like a string being wound too tight. "Remember Benny's Palace? That five-star restaurant where we celebrated after the Korovan mission? The one with the seven-hour waiting list and the pasta that could make grown Agorians weep with joy?"

Cole's stomach dropped. He could still taste Benny's famous antimatter ravioli, could still see the elegant dining room with its crystal chandeliers and view of the Helix Nebula. The maître d' had been a dignified Cazar who remembered everyone's preferences and never once smiled but somehow made you feel like the most important customer in the galaxy.

A collective groan echoed through the comms—three voices sharing the same horrible realization.

"Please tell me you didn't find a piece of Benny's here," Jax pleaded, his mathematical composure cracking completely.

"Oh, I found Benny's alright!" Nyx's voice took on the manic enthusiasm of someone whose sanity was hanging by a thread. "Or what's left of it! The sign's still there—'Benny's Palace: Where Dreams Come True!'—except now it's floating in vacuum next to what appears to be the crystallized remains of their famous Sunday brunch buffet!"

Cole pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the mining drill, his eyes squeezing shut as grief mixed with rage. That restaurant had been more than fine dining—it had been a symbol of civilization, of culture, of the belief that beauty and craftsmanship mattered in a universe full of violence and chaos.

"That was the best restaurant on this side of the galaxy," he said, his voice barely controlled. "Their Quantos steaks were legendary! The chef studied for twenty years just to learn proper temperature control! You had to book reservations eight months in advance because every diplomat and trade minister in three systems wanted to eat there!"

"HAD being the operative word," Nyx continued, her scientific training warring with emotional breakdown. "The kitchen was apparently mid-service when it happened. I found a perfectly seared Rilgarian fish floating in space, still garnished with those little parsley sculptures they were famous for! The presentation was flawless—temperature perfect, seasoning balanced—right up until the atmosphere got sucked into space!"

Cole's fists clenched involuntarily. "This is why I hate Solana," he muttered, his voice carrying three days of accumulated frustration. "Backwards technology, communication systems that belong in a museum, and apparently no evacuation protocols worth mentioning. If this had been a Polaris world, they would have had escape pods and early warning systems that actually functioned instead of whatever joke they call planetary defense out here!"

"Easy there," Axel warned. "Not everyone has access to cutting-edge Lombax technology-"

"Well maybe they should!" Cole shot back, his controlled demeanor finally cracking. "Maybe if these planets had proper defenses instead of relying on good intentions and presumably positive thinking, millions of people wouldn't be decorating space as organic confetti!"

He was breathing hard now, his chest rising and falling as three days of suppressed emotion finally found an outlet. His scanner nearly slipped from his shaking hands.

"We've all seen too much," Axel said quietly, his command voice carrying the understanding of someone who'd watched his team slowly fracture under the weight of systematic horror.

"Too much?" Cole laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. "Axel, we watched them process the Helix Medical Station! Twenty million patients and staff, gone in seventeen minutes! I timed it! Seventeen minutes to reduce the most advanced medical facility in three systems to geometric debris patterns!"

"Which brings us to our betting pool," Nyx announced with vindicated satisfaction that couldn't quite mask her pain. "Payment time, gentlemen! Because apparently my cynicism was exactly the right amount of pessimistic for this situation!"

"Seriously? Right now?" Axel asked with disbelief.

"Especially now!" Nyx's voice pitched higher with manic energy. "I predicted systematic governmental conspiracy—which, HELLO, obviously correct given the complete media blackout! Jax bet on discovering organized atrocities—tragically accurate! And Cole wagered on finding significance beyond simple robot retrieval—which, based on the small army searching for one tiny robot, seems increasingly probable!"

Cole could hear her moving through wreckage, each footstep accompanied by the soft clink of debris. "And you, dear Captain, bet this would be a routine patrol mission with minimal complications and standard equipment requirements!"

"Fine," Axel sighed with defeated resignation. "Digital transfers sent. Congratulations on predicting the apocalypse with mathematical precision."

"Thank you!" Nyx replied with vindicated cheer that bordered on unhinged. "And I'm still collecting on that forty-bolt side bet that everything will somehow end up being your fault personally, Axel. The way our luck's running, I'm on such a winning streak I should quit the military and become a professional doomsday prophet!"

"How could this possibly be my fault?" Axel protested, his voice carrying genuine confusion mixed with exhaustion.

"I don't know yet," Nyx replied with malicious anticipation. "But I have complete faith in the universe's sense of irony and your remarkable talent for attracting complications through no obvious fault of your own but with statistically impossible consistency! Something will go wrong, and somehow your personal decisions will be the catalyst!"

"Your confidence in cosmic injustice targeting me specifically is both inspiring and deeply concerning," Axel replied dryly.

Cole shifted position, his armor scraping against the mining equipment as another Blarg patrol passed overhead. The sound made him freeze—even the smallest noise could give away their positions to sensors designed to detect exactly this kind of unauthorized military presence.

"Analysis of what we've documented," Axel continued with renewed command focus. "Jax, those destruction patterns you've been calculating—what's your assessment?"

"The extraction techniques are beyond anything in our database," Jax reported, his voice taking on the clinical tone he used when reality became too horrible for emotional processing. "These worlds aren't being conquered through conventional warfare—they're being systematically harvested. Resource extraction with industrial precision that suggests extensive planning, unlimited budgets, and complete disregard for anything resembling ethics or basic decency toward civilian populations."

Cole's scanner beeped again, still registering empty readings. He adjusted the sensitivity, hoping against hope for any trace of their target. "The precision is what makes it terrifying," he added, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "They're not just destroying these worlds in fits of rage or military conquest—they're processing them like raw materials. Population centers, resource nodes, anything valuable gets carefully extracted while everything else gets blown to bits or left to drift as expensive space debris."

"With no evacuation warnings," Nyx added, her footsteps pausing as she presumably examined something in her sector. "No emergency broadcasts, no governmental aid requests, no acknowledgment that millions of people are being systematically murdered for construction materials!"

"Because it's becoming increasingly obvious that the Solana government are maintaining active information suppression," Jax concluded with mathematical certainty applied to conspiracy theories. "You cannot hide missing planets through simple bureaucratic incompetence—this requires deliberate effort, massive resource allocation, and probably the kind of IT support that costs more than most planetary defense budgets."

"So we're dealing with government-approved genocide," Cole said with bitter understanding, his free hand clenching into a fist. "Their leaders are complicit in systematic extermination for... what? Profit margins? Political convenience? Premium industrial materials?"

Axel's personal communicator chimed softly, the gentle sound somehow cutting through their conversation like a beacon of warmth in an ocean of horror. Cole watched his captain's expression transform as he read the message—exhaustion and anger melting away, replaced by something approaching actual happiness.

"Oh, here we go," Nyx's voice carried delighted malice through the comm. "Captain Axel's getting his daily dose of romantic correspondence from the mysterious lady friend whose name he definitely hasn't told us but who clearly has him wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger!"

"It's professional communication!" Axel protested with dignity that convinced absolutely no one after three days of obvious romantic messaging. "Strategic updates from classified contacts regarding operational parameters and possibly weather conditions-"

"Professional communication that makes you smile like a teenager who just got his first kiss?" Cole asked with amusement that temporarily pushed back the horror. "Axel, we've seen you read actual military reports. Your face doesn't light up like a cosmic lighthouse when you're reviewing tactical intelligence."

"Unless that tactical intelligence includes measurements of someone's eyes compared to binary star systems," Nyx added with sisterly cruelty. "What's this one say? 'Missing you across the cold vacuum of space, my brave warrior'? 'Please don't die because I haven't finished criticizing your tactical decisions yet'?"

Axel's ears flattened against his helmet as he typed a response with obvious affection that made his tough-guy image crumble like poorly constructed military rations. "She's... expressing concern about mission duration and requesting confirmation of my continued existence in operational condition."

"Aww!" Nyx cooed with the enthusiasm of someone who'd found premium blackmail material. "She's worried about her big, strong captain!"

"What are you telling her this time?" Cole asked, genuinely curious about romantic messaging during active combat operations. "Because your response time suggests either professional efficiency or the kind of desperate affection that makes grown soldiers write terrible poetry during their spare time."

"That I'm maintaining operational readiness and will provide comprehensive debriefing upon mission completion," Axel replied with forced military precision that fooled no one, hitting send with the satisfied expression of someone who'd delivered exactly the right words.

"Ooh, mysterious and evasive!" Nyx exclaimed with delighted malice. "She's going to absolutely love receiving non-answers about obviously dangerous classified operations! Nothing says 'I'm definitely in life-threatening situations' like refusing to explain why you can't explain anything!"

Cole chuckled despite their situation, the sound rough from three days of dust and tension. "She's going to see right through that diplomatic non-response and probably send increasingly threatening messages about your communication skills until you provide actual information."

"Which will be never, because this mission is classified beyond her clearance level," Axel replied with authority that suggested he'd had this argument before, possibly multiple times during previous dangerous assignments.

Before Cole could respond with another observation about transparent romantic denial, mechanical whirring announced incoming problems with the subtlety of a freight train. Three Blarg surveillance drones descended from Veldin's perpetually overcast sky like metallic angels of death, their optical arrays sweeping the terrain with systematic precision that was approximately thirty seconds from discovering elite military personnel conducting unauthorized reconnaissance.

"Drones," Axel reported with tactical analysis tinged by resignation about blown stealth operations. "Three units, approaching with search patterns that suggest they know exactly what they're looking for. My position's been compromised."

Cole pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the mining equipment, watching the mechanical hunters circle Axel's coordinates like vultures who'd found something interesting and possibly delicious. Their movements were too coordinated for random patrol behavior—someone had directed them to that specific location with intelligence that shouldn't exist.

"Orders?" Jax asked with professional calm that masked three days of accumulated stress.

"Elimination with extreme prejudice," Axel decided with command authority applied to immediate survival requirements. "Cannot risk data transmission to orbital command revealing Lombax military presence and compromising entire operation."

The sharp crack of plasma weapons echoed across Veldin's wasteland, followed by the satisfying crash of mechanical debris achieving intimate contact with local geology. But even through the comm static, Cole could hear Axel cursing with the creativity of someone whose day had just gotten significantly worse.

"Targets neutralized," Axel reported with professional satisfaction undermined by growing tactical concern. "But they were networked surveillance units with real-time data streaming capabilities. My genetic signature, tactical position, and probably my breakfast preferences are now filed in Blarg intelligence databases with applications for future targeting and possibly bounty hunting operations."

"Meaning they know Lombax forces are operating on Veldin," Cole concluded, his stomach sinking as implications cascaded through his military-trained mind like dominoes made of pure dread.

"Meaning they know WE'RE here specifically," Axel corrected with grim understanding about escalating threat levels. "Those surveillance networks don't just record presence—they catalogue everything. Species, approximate age, equipment specifications, tactical capabilities, and probably our favorite colors for future psychological warfare applications."

The weight of being hunted by an enemy with unlimited resources and systematic approaches to elimination settled over Cole like a lead blanket. His breathing became shallow as he processed what this meant for their mission, their survival, and their families back home who were expecting them to return in recognizable condition.

"Time to scatter before they send heavy units with considerably more firepower and significantly less interest in taking prisoners," Axel continued with tactical authority that couldn't quite hide his own mounting concern. "New search assignments—Cole, go far west. Investigate thoroughly for any evidence of where our target may be. Check for footprints, energy signatures, discarded components, anything that suggests direction of travel."

"Understood," Cole replied, checking his scanner again for the fiftieth time in an hour.

"Jax, northwest mining facility. If any civilians managed to avoid the harvesting operations, they'd seek shelter in underground structures with multiple escape routes. Nyx, southwest spaceport ruins—examine evacuation evidence, refugee populations, anyone who might have witnessed our target's passage."

"Copy that," came Jax's response with mathematical precision applied to increasingly desperate search parameters.

"And what about you, sir?" Cole asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"I'm going mobile until the heat dies down," Axel confirmed with tactical realism about blown operational security. "Cannot risk leading them to the rest of the team through my compromised position. Radio silence until emergency or mission success. If you don't hear from me in four hours, implement Protocol Seven and extract to safe distance."

The finality in Axel's voice made Cole's chest tighten. Protocol Seven meant abandoning the mission and reporting failure to General Azimuth—an outcome that would mean not only personal disappointment but the knowledge that they'd failed to prevent whatever cosmic catastrophe their target's capture might enable.

"Understood, sir," came three professional responses that masked the growing fear that their captain might not survive his sudden transition from hunter to hunted.

As the comm channel fell silent, Cole found himself alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that their "routine robot retrieval" had evolved into something that would either save or damn entire civilizations.

The scanner remained stubbornly empty of robot signatures, but the destroyed surveillance drones served as eloquent testimony to how quickly their situation had deteriorated from covert observation to active combat with an enemy that possessed unlimited resources and absolutely no compunction about processing entire worlds for raw materials.

Find the robot, he told himself with determination born of desperation. Before he becomes another entry in the universe's expanding catalog of systematic horror.

The debris of civilizations floating in space behind them suggested that time was running out faster than anyone wanted to admit, and the universe's sense of humor remained as twisted as ever.

D-Sector, Solana Galaxy - Aboard the Dreadnought Harvester

Meanwhile, aboard his flagship, Chairman Drek paced the length of his executive suite, his polished boots clicking rhythmically against the obsidian floor tiles that had been specially imported from the mines of Orxon. The room was a monument to megalomaniacal luxury—walls adorned with holographic displays of planets he'd already harvested, furniture crafted from endangered materials, and a ceiling that projected real-time destruction statistics in glowing green numerals.

The surveillance footage played on loop on his viewscreen—unmistakable images of a lombax in military-grade armor staring directly into the camera before shooting it out of existence with infuriating precision.

"Lombaxes," he muttered to himself. "Why did it have to be lombaxes? Couldn't it have been something reasonable, like a horny toad infestation or a tax audit? Even a Galactic Ranger investigation would be preferable—at least they're predictably incompetent!"

He stopped at the viewport that spanned the entire eastern wall, staring out at the rust-colored surface of Veldin beneath him and the cold, unfeeling stars beyond. The view should have filled him with satisfaction—another world ripe for harvesting—but instead, his reflection showed only rising anxiety.

Nefarious had warned him about this—several times in fact—about that ridiculous prophecy claiming the lombaxes would be the cause of his downfall. The doctor had been particularly emphatic during their last strategy session, his transparent cranium practically glowing with agitation as he'd ranted about "furball interference patterns" and "wrench-wielding destiny disruptors."

"Your ultimate demise will come at the hands of a lombax!" Nefarious had shrieked, his mechanical body vibrating with intensity. "It is WRITTEN in the cosmic algorithms of fate!"

Every single time Drek had dismissed it as superstitious nonsense from an increasingly unstable mind. After all, the lombaxes rarely ventured outside their own galaxy these days, too busy with their advanced technology and self-important research to care about a few missing planets in Solana.

But now... now there were confirmed sightings. And not just anywhere, but on Veldin—the very planet whose orbital position he coveted for his new world, the crown jewel in his real estate portfolio of planetary destruction.

"It's a coincidence," he told himself firmly, watching his reflection mouth the words back at him unconvincingly. "A statistical anomaly. Nothing more. Probably just some adventurous tourist with delusions of heroism or a lost pilot with an outdated navigation system."

Yet the doubt gnawed at him like a hungry Blargian sandworm, boring into the rational part of his brain that had orchestrated the systematic destruction of dozens of inhabited worlds without so much as a twinge of conscience. What if Nefarious was right? What if there was something to that so-called prophecy? What if his perfect plan—years in the making, trillions in resources already committed—was about to be undone by some fuzzy-eared do-gooder with a hero complex?

Drek jabbed at the ornate communication panel on his desk with more force than necessary, leaving a small smudge on the pristine surface that he immediately wiped away with his sleeve. "Send in Dr. Zellpher immediately. And have someone bring me a Blargian acid tea. Extra acid."

Moments later, the pneumatic doors hissed open with the exaggerated enthusiasm of equipment designed to impress visitors with its technological superiority. His head scientist entered—a tall, thin Blarg with perpetually bloodshot eyes, lab coat pockets bulging with half-finished calculations, and the distracted air of someone whose mind was simultaneously solving complex theoretical problems while also wondering if he remembered to turn off the bunsen burner in Lab 7.

"You wanted to see me, Chairman?" Dr. Zellpher asked, clutching a datapad to his chest like it contained the secret to eternal life rather than quarterly extraction metrics. His voice carried the distinctive nasal quality of someone who'd spent too many years inhaling experimental compounds with inadequate ventilation.

"Yes," Drek replied, returning to his desk—a monstrous construction of rare metals that had been designed to intimidate visitors with its sheer excessive size and pretentiousness. He settled into his ergonomically perfect chair with the self-importance of someone whose hindquarters were accustomed to only the finest seating arrangements. "I need a list of suitable planets with orbital positions comparable to Veldin's. Immediately."

Dr. Zellpher blinked in confusion, his protruding eyes magnified to comical proportions by his thick spectacles. "But sir, we've already determined that Veldin's position is optimal for the new planet's solar requirements. Our models predict 97.3% resource efficiency with minimal gravitational disruption to neighboring systems. We've already begun preliminary extraction procedures and calibrated the deplanetizer specifically for—"

"I didn't ask for your opinion on what's optimal," Drek snapped, slamming his tiny fist on the massive desk, causing his collection of planetary paperweights to rattle ominously. "I asked for alternatives. In case... in case adjustments to our plan become necessary. Contingencies, Zellpher! Every successful business operation requires contingencies!"

"Of course, Chairman," the scientist replied quickly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously like a frightened fish. "I'll have a preliminary list for you within the hour. Though I should note that any alternative will likely require significant modifications to our existing calculations and possibly additional resources to recalibrate the deplanetizer's targeting systems. Not to mention the complete rescheduling of our harvesting timetable, which would delay your quarterly profits by approximately—"

"Just get me the list," Drek interrupted, making a dismissive gesture that seemed designed to practice for future press conferences about unfortunate but necessary civilian casualties. "And keep this between us. I don't want anyone else—especially Dr. Nefarious—knowing about this contingency planning. Understood? This stays in this room, or your next assignment will involve testing atmospheric conditions on Orxon without protective equipment."

Dr. Zellpher nodded so vigorously his glasses nearly flew off. "P-P-Perfectly, sir! Absolute discretion! Sealed lips! Information lockdown! Not a word shall pass—"

"Good. Now go," Drek cut him off before the scientist could thesaurus his way through the entire concept of secrecy. "And send in my tea on your way out!"

As the scientist scurried from the office like a lab rat who'd just spotted a particularly sadistic researcher, Drek returned to the viewport, his reflection staring back at him from the polished glass. He straightened his perfectly tailored suit and adjusted his tie pin—a miniature replica of the deplanetizer that actually fired a tiny laser when pressed, mostly used for dramatically punctuating board meetings by incinerating presentation materials he found disagreeable.

Where was that crazy scientist these days, anyway?

Nefarious had left the facility in a rush several days ago, muttering something about "temporal anomalies" and "cross-dimensional interference patterns" while cackling maniacally about "destiny realignment procedures." He'd requisitioned an alarming amount of experimental equipment and three crates of something called "quantum stabilized anomaly detectors."

Drek shook his head.

Typical Nefarious—always chasing after some esoteric scientific concept instead of focusing on the practical business of planetary destruction and reconstruction. The man couldn't just build a normal doomsday device like a professional villain; he had to complicate everything with his obsession with organic lifeforms and dimensional whatnots.

"Sir, your Blargian acid tea," announced a nervous server, carefully placing the steaming mug on a special acid-resistant coaster.

"Leave it," Drek replied without turning around. When the door hissed shut again, he took a contemplative sip, wincing slightly as the caustic liquid burned a path down his throat. The more he thought about it, the more suspicious he became of how deeply Nefarious's influence had spread throughout his operations. The scientist had provided invaluable technology, yes, but at what cost?

The deplanetizer itself had been Nefarious's design, supposedly created for the efficient extraction of planetary materials. But lately, Drek had begun noticing subtle modifications to the blueprints—strange components that seemed to serve no obvious harvesting purpose, energy conduits that didn't connect to any essential systems, and mysterious data collection modules that transmitted information to unknown receivers.

Nefarious clearly had his own agenda—one that extended beyond Solana and possibly into other galaxies as well. Perhaps even beyond this dimension, if his recent ravings about "parallel probability matrices" were anything more than the mechanical equivalent of a mental breakdown.

"He can't be trusted," Drek decided aloud, his voice echoing in the cavernous office with the resonance of someone making proclamations they expect to be historically significant. "From now on, I put my own interests first. Nefarious can pursue his robotic revolution or dimensional whatever-it-is on his own time. MY new world is the priority—MY perfect planet with MY name on all the continents and MY statue adorning every major city!"

Decision made, Drek returned to his desk and began drafting new orders for his fleet, his tiny fingers flying over the holographic keyboard with the enthusiasm of a megalomaniac who's just remembered he's still in charge. If lombaxes were sniffing around Veldin, perhaps it was time to accelerate certain aspects of his plan while delaying others. Flexibility was the key to successful galactic domination, after all.

And if that meant finding a substitute orbit for his new planet to avoid a prophesied confrontation with wrench-wielding furballs, well... that was just good business sense. The Ultimate Supreme Executive Chairman didn't get where he was today by ignoring the occasional strategic retreat when the profit margins demanded it.

"Computer," he announced to the empty room, "begin contingency protocol: Fuzzy Doom Avoidance. And increase security around my personal quarters. I want motion sensors, laser grids, and at least three more layers of robotic guards! And would it kill someone to finally install that crocodile-filled moat I've been requesting for months?"

Planet Fastoon - Lunchroom A-1, Lombaxia High

The cafeteria of Lombaxia High erupted with its usual midday cacophony—trays clattering like cymbals in a deranged orchestra, conversations overlapping into a wall of teenage noise, and occasional bursts of laughter that could shatter glass. Ratchet stood in the lunch line, staring at the digital menu board as if it contained encrypted coordinates to Clank's location.

Rivet, standing behind him with her arms crossed, began tapping her foot so rapidly it could have powered a small hovercraft. "For the love of the universe, Ryder! It's just lunch, not quantum mechanics—though you'd probably find that easier. You've been staring at that menu so long I've aged three years waiting. I'm practically eligible for retirement benefits now!"

"Sorry," Ratchet mumbled, squinting at the bizarre food options. "What is a 'Fastoon Fusion Bowl'? And why does the 'Galactic Goulash' have a warning label that's literally flashing red with a tiny skull animation?"

Dexon leaned forward, his voice booming as always. "The Fusion Bowl isn't bad—it's those spicy noodles with the purple vegetables from the eastern hemisphere. You know, the ones that make your tongue feel like it's having an existential crisis! But the Goulash..." He made a theatrical gagging noise that drew stares from nearby students. "Let's just say the warning label is there because three students from the debate team are still in therapy after trying it last semester. Something about experiencing 'flavor-induced trauma' and 'chromatic hallucinations.'"

From several tables away, Cressida glanced up from her datapad, observing the exchange with quiet interest. Her analytical gaze lingered on Ratchet, and for a moment, her usual guarded expression softened. She remembered his text message from several days ago—that simple "Thanks for being a good friend" that had somehow carried more weight than his usual verbose explanations of everything.

She'd been trying to calculate the probability of understanding his recent behavioral changes. The data points were inconsistent: 47.3% improvement in athletic performance, 23.8% increase in social confidence, and a completely unprecedented shift from pacifist to... whatever he was becoming. But watching him now, standing with Rivet and Dex like he belonged there, she felt something she couldn't quantify with statistics.

He looks... happy, she realized with surprise. Actually happy. Not the forced cheer he's been wearing lately, but genuine contentment.

Her eyes drifted to Rivet and Dex standing with Ryder. Seeing them all together again, even from a distance, stirred something in her chest that had nothing to do with mathematical analysis.

Maybe I should take Ryder up on his offer to explain things...

"I'll stick with the Fusion Bowl then," Ratchet decided, stepping forward. "It sounds less likely to violate interplanetary weapons treaties."

"Finally!" Rivet threw her hands up dramatically. "I thought I'd have to retire and collect my pension before you made a decision! They were about to name the cafeteria after me—'The Rivet Silvermane Memorial Waiting Area.'"

As the lunch lady—a robotic unit with eight arms and a permanently cheerful expression that bordered on terrifying—scooped a generous, wiggling portion of the colorful dish onto Ratchet's tray, an unnatural hush fell over the cafeteria. The silence spread like a virus, starting at the entrance and working its way toward the lunch line.

Dexon's shoulders immediately tensed. "Uh-oh. Chad alert. Code Red. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill! Everyone assume crash positions and prepare for incoming stupidity!"

"Who?" Ratchet asked, already knowing he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Just keep moving," Rivet said firmly, positioning herself at Ratchet's right side while Dexon flanked his left. "Don't make eye contact. It's like dealing with a wild Blargian Beast—they can smell fear and eye contact triggers their hunting instincts."

Too late. Chad Marlowe and his three cronies had already altered course, strutting toward them with the swagger of someone who believed the universe revolved around him and should pay rent for the privilege. Chad was tall for a lombax, with muscles that strained against his designer school uniform and a smirk that made Ratchet miss the straightforward hostility of space pirates.

"Well, well, well!" Chad announced with theatrical volume, ensuring the entire cafeteria could hear. "If it isn't Sterling and his pathetic little entourage! I saw you in origami class earlier, playing with paper like a kindergartener. What's next, Sterling? Gonna fold us all some pretty flowers? Or maybe demonstrate your ballroom dancing for the lunch crowd? I heard you've got a mean waltz—perfect for a total pacifist wimp!"

Across the cafeteria, Evalina Primrose sat at the popular table, surrounded by her usual entourage. Her gaze was fixed on the unfolding scene, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she twirled a lock of fur between her manicured claws. Cressida noticed, her eyes narrowing as she observed the calculated interest in Evalina's posture. Her analytical mind processed the data instantly: strategic positioning, expectant expression, deliberate attention to the confrontation. The pieces clicked together with algorithmic precision.

She orchestrated this.

"Maybe try picking on someone your own intellectual level, Chad," Rivet interjected sharply, stepping partially in front of Ratchet. "Though I suppose that would leave you talking to the cafeteria's decorative plants. At least they have a chance of photosynthesizing a brain cell or two."

"Yeah!" Dexon boomed, moving to block Chad's path completely. "WHAT'S THE MATTER, MARLOWE? RUN OUT OF FRESHMEN TO TERRORIZE?"

Chad's cronies spread out in response, clearly preparing for confrontation. The cafeteria's background noise died completely as everyone sensed the brewing storm.

Ratchet kept his expression neutral. His body felt strong—fully recovered from the overexertion, with the lingering ache finally gone. More importantly, he was already analyzing Chad's stance, identifying at least seventeen different ways to incapacitate him without spilling his Fusion Bowl. "Just trying to learn like everyone else, Chad," he replied calmly, his stance shifting subtly as he adopted the lower center of gravity Kaden had shown him.

"Leeeaarn?" Chad stretched the word into three syllables, looking around for approval from his audience. "Please! You think because you scored a few lucky points in a hoverball game and did some fancy twirls on the dance floor that you're suddenly somebody? You're like a defective toaster that occasionally works—impressive to people who've never seen actual kitchen appliances!"

He stepped closer, deliberately shouldering past Dexon and knocking into Ratchet's tray. The Fusion Bowl went flying, splattering across the floor in a psychedelic explosion of purple and orange noodles.

"Oops! Butterfingers!" Chad sneered with theatrical innocence. "Guess you'll have to start over, loser. Maybe write a poem about how your lunch's rights were violated! 'Ode to My Spilled Noodles: A Pacifist's Lament in B-Minor!'"

The cafeteria fell deathly silent. All eyes locked onto the unfolding drama. Ratchet felt the familiar sensation wash over him—the preternatural calm that preceded combat, a feeling he'd experienced countless times facing down galaxy-threatening villains. But this wasn't Dr. Nefarious or Emperor Tachyon. This was high school, and he was supposed to be playing the part of an ordinary teenager. He'd need to adjust his fighting style accordingly, using the Bogon Ninjitsu techniques his Megacorp instructor had drilled into him for situations exactly like this.

"Listen up, furball! If you're ever injured, weak, or caught without your arsenal," Commander Kane had told him during training, "this style will keep you alive. It's designed for precision over power, using your opponent's strength against them. Perfect for when you need to survive, not dominate!"

"That's IT!" Rivet snarled, stepping forward aggressively. "You've crossed the line, you overgrown pile of space junk! Nobody messes with our friend!"

"Back off, you wannabe tough girl," Chad's largest crony, Kren, said as he moved to intercept Rivet. "This is between us and Sterling-"

"Like hell it is!" Dexon roared, positioning himself protectively between Kren and Rivet. "YOU WANT TO GET TO HIM, YOU GO THROUGH US FIRST! AND I'VE BEEN LIFTING MINING EQUIPMENT SINCE I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD!"

Chad laughed, pushing past Dexon's attempted block. "Oh, this is rich! The Governor's little princess and the mining brat think they can protect their precious pacifist!"

He shoved Dexon hard, sending him stumbling backward into a nearby table with a crash that sent trays flying. 

"Dex!" Rivet spun toward him, but Chad's second crony, Vex, blocked her path with a sneer.

"Where you going, sweetheart?" Vex taunted. "Daddy's not here to protect you now!"

That's when something inside Ratchet snapped. These weren't just Ryder's friends anymore—they were his friends. His team. And nobody hurt his team. "You know what, Chad?" Ratchet said with deceptive calm, his voice dropping to the conversational tone he'd once used right before dismantling Dr. Nefarious's latest scheme. "I've been thinking about what you said. About being a nobody."

Chad blinked, momentarily confused by the lack of expected cowering. "Uh... yeah?"

"And I realized you're absolutely right," Ratchet continued pleasantly. "I am nobody special. Just an ordinary lombax teenager with ordinary teenage problems." His stance shifted almost imperceptibly, weight transferring as he prepared to spring. "But you know what teenagers like me learn real quick?"

"What?" Chad asked, taking the bait like a hungry fish spotting a particularly appetizing worm.

"How to put the hurt on people much bigger than us!"

Before Chad could process this statement, Ratchet's fist connected with his nose in a perfect Rising Phoenix strike—a technique designed to deliver maximum impact while minimizing damage to the attacker's hand. The sound was unmistakable—a wet CRUNCH followed by Chad's surprised yelp that rose about three octaves higher than his normal speaking voice. Blood immediately began trickling from his nostrils as he staggered backward, eyes wide with shock.

"AGHHH! YOU... YOU BROG BY DOSE!" Chad exclaimed, his voice now horrifically nasal as blood immediately began streaming from his nostrils. "YOU ACTUAL PUDGED BE! IB BY DOSE!"

Ratchet's hand still throbbed with pain as Ryder's knuckles weren't conditioned for combat like his adult self had been. "Technically," Ratchet said, flexing his fingers and pleased to find them completely uninjured, "I performed a precision realignment of your cartilage structure. The breaking part was just artistic flair."

The cafeteria erupted in gasps and excited chatter as trays went flying and students scrambled to capture video on their devices. Chad's friends recovered from their initial shock and moved to surround Ratchet with all the tactical brilliance of a herd of confused Blargian slugs. The tallest one, a bulky lombax named Kren, lunged first with all the grace of a drunken Goons-4-Less mercenary attempting interpretive dance.

"YOU'RE DEAD MEAT, STERLING!" Kren bellowed.

Ryder's body might lack strength, but it had excellent balance and agility. Ratchet sidestepped with fluid precision, catching Kren's wrist mid-swing and using the Flowing River technique to redirect his momentum. A subtle twist and hip check sent the larger lombax stumbling into a lunch table, where he became intimately acquainted with several bowls of meatloaf surprise. 

"Fun fact," Ratchet said conversationally as he pivoted to face the next attacker, "momentum is a terrible thing to waste. Physics says so. I'm just helping it along."

The second friend, Vex, came at him from the side with slightly more coordination than his predecessor. Ratchet ducked under his swing and delivered a precise Whispering Palm strike to Vex's solar plexus—not hard enough to cause lasting damage, but enough to introduce his diaphragm to the concept of temporary vacation time.

Vex doubled over, gasping for air like a fish that had just discovered the concept of dry land. "Can't... breathe..."

"That's called the Solar Plexus Reset," Ratchet explained helpfully, dancing away from another wild swing. "It's like hitting the restart button on your respiratory system. You'll be fine in about thirty seconds, though you might taste pennies for a while."

"WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!?" someone in the crowd shrieked with delight.

"STERLING'S GONE NUCLEAR, THAT'S WHAT! THE PACIFIST HAS LOST IT!"

The cafeteria exploded into chaos as students realized they were witnessing something unprecedented—the ultimate smackdown of the decade! Chad Marlowe, the untouchable bully, was getting served a heaping portion of fist justice, and every lombax in the room was here for it. Their excited commentary provided a running soundtrack to the ongoing battle, voices rising and falling with each move like sports announcers calling the game of the century.

"Did Sterling just take down two of Chad's goons without breaking a sweat? He moved like liquid mercury!"

"Wait, wait, wait!" called out Marcus from the debate team, standing on his chair for a better view. "This is the same lombax who wrote a seventeen-page manifesto on why dodgeball promotes systemic violence! He literally tried to get it banned and replaced with 'cooperative meditation circles!'"

"And now he's using Kren's face as a mop!" added a girl named Stella, who was practically bouncing with excitement. "This is better than watching the Megacorp Games Championship highlights!"

Cressida stared open-mouthed at Ratchet's display. Her analytical mind tried desperately to reconcile the fighting machine before her with the pacifist who would grow queasy at the sight of a mere paper cut.

"This doesn't compute," she muttered, adjusting her glasses as they slipped down her nose. "There's only a 0.0087% chance he taught himself those moves…" For just a moment, her usual clinical detachment vanished, replaced by something softer, almost fond. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?" she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

"Holy Zoni!" Rivet gasped, her mouth hanging open. "Where did he learn to fight like THAT? It's like watching a ballet of violence performed by someone who previously thought 'roundhouse kick' was a type of dinner roll!"

"GET 'EM, RYDER!" Dexon roared from where he was picking himself up, pumping his fist in the air. "SHOW THEM WHAT A REAL STERLING IS MADE OF! THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE! SOMEONE TELL ME THEY'RE RECORDING THIS!"

"WE ARE!" came the enthusiastic response from at least twenty students simultaneously.

The third friend, Trell, hesitated, clearly reassessing his life choices. But Chad, wiping blood from his nose, was beyond rational thought.

"GED HIM!" Chad roared through his swelling nose. "ALL OF YOU! AD WUNS!"

Trell reluctantly joined the fray, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. Ratchet caught his half-hearted punch with the Gentle Correction grip, twisted his arm just enough to be uncomfortable but not damaging, and guided him into a polite but firm introduction to the nearest wall.

"Nothing personal," Ratchet told him as Trell slumped to the floor. "But your technique needs work. Maybe consider a nice hobby instead? Knitting? Competitive flower arranging? Something with less potential for public humiliation."

"OH MY COSMOS, HE'S STILL GOING!" screamed a freshman. "STERLING'S LIKE A PACIFIST TERMINATOR!"

A guy from the media club was frantically uploading footage in real-time. "This is already at two thousand views and climbing! The comment section is going insane! Someone wrote 'Plot twist: Sterling was a secret agent all along!'"

Chad, now standing alone and looking significantly less confident than he had five minutes ago, charged forward with a roar that sounded more like a congested vacuum cleaner than an intimidating battle cry. "YOU'RE DEAD, STERBLIG!" he shouted through his swelling nose.

Ratchet pivoted, using Chad's momentum to guide him past and into a graceless tumble that ended with Chad face-planting into a tray of Galactic Goulash. As Chad scrambled to his feet, now covered in the mysterious glowing substance, Ratchet shifted his weight forward slightly to maximize speed over power. "We can stop this now, Chad," Ratchet offered, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "No need to make it worse-"

"WORSE?" Chad sputtered through his broken nose, goulash dripping from his chin like toxic slime. "YOU THINGK THIS IS WORSE? I'B GODDA DESTROY YOU! BY DAD WILL SUE YOUR WHOLE FAMILY! YOU'LL BE LIVING IN A CARDBOARD BOX ON PLANET ORXON!"

Ratchet waited until the last possible moment, then executed a perfect Laughing Crane maneuver—stepping aside while catching Chad's wrist and using his own momentum to guide him into a graceful face-first dive directly into the scattered remains of Ratchet's Fusion Bowl. Chad landed with a spectacular splash, purple noodles exploding in all directions like a particularly artistic food fight.

"And that," Ratchet announced to the stunned cafeteria, keeping his defensive stance even though the threat was neutralized, "is why we don't waste food. Chad's face just became a serving dish."

The silence stretched like a held breath—one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three—before the entire cafeteria detonated into absolute pandemonium. Applause thundered through the room like a meteor shower, mixed with cheers that could have registered on seismic equipment and the distinctive sound of three hundred teenagers simultaneously losing what remained of their collective sanity.

"THAT WAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN!" screamed a girl from the front table, standing and applauding like she'd just witnessed the greatest performance in galactic history.

"Did you see how he just redirected Chad's attack? It was like watching water flow around a rock—if the rock was an idiot and the water had a black belt in awesome!"

"Someone check if Chad's still breathing under all those noodles! I think I see his tail twitching!"

"STERLING! STERLING! STERLING!" chanted a group of seniors, pumping their fists in rhythm.

"Chad's been NOODLED!" howled a freshman, tears streaming down his face from laughter. "He got absolutely FUSION BOWL'D!"

Across the room, Evalina's perfect composure didn't just crack—it shattered like a window hit by a quantum torpedo. Her jaw hung open in utter shock, her violet eyes wide with horror as she watched her carefully orchestrated humiliation plan backfire more spectacularly than a malfunctioning fireworks factory. When Chad managed to lift his goulash-covered face and look in her direction—silently pleading for support, for acknowledgment, for anything—she curled her lip in disgust and turned away with an exaggerated huff, as if she'd never seen him before in her life.

The celebration reached new heights as students began improvising victory chants:

"Who's the king? STERLING'S THE KING!"

"Chad got schooled by the PEACE AND LOVE GUY!"

Before the impromptu Sterling fan club could crown him cafeteria emperor, Principal Neutrino's voice cut through the celebration like a RYNO through tissue paper. "WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS ORDERLY IS GOING ON HERE? HAS THE ENTIRE STUDENT BODY COLLECTIVELY LOST THEIR MINDS AND DECIDED TO COSPLAY AS A RIOT?!"

The crowd parted faster than molecules in a quantum field as the stern-faced administrator stormed toward the scene. Behind him, two security bots hovered, their sensors scanning the area and probably calculating the exact cost of the cafeteria damage down to the last bolt.

Chad struggled to his feet, purple noodles cascading from his fur like colorful rain. "HE ATTACKED BE!" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger at Ratchet while trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose with his other hand. "FOR DO REASON AT ALL! I WAS JUST STANDING HERE BEING A MODEL CITIZEN!"

Ratchet opened his mouth to defend himself, but both Rivet and Dexon stepped forward simultaneously.

"That's a bigger lie than the time you claimed you single-handedly defeated a Blargian Snagglebeast!" Rivet declared, her eyes blazing with protective fury. "Chad knocked his lunch tray down and was bullying him!"

"YEAH!" Dexon added, his voice carrying across the entire cafeteria. "Chad started it! Everyone saw! There are like fifty videos already uploaded to the school network! It's going viral faster than a Gadgetron product recall announcement!"

Principal Neutrino surveyed the scene—the spilled food, Chad's bloodied face and goulash-covered uniform, his friends in various states of disarray, and Ratchet standing calmly in the center of it all like the eye of a hurricane.

"Is this true?" he asked, addressing the sea of eager faces, his ears twitching with the barely controlled irritation of someone whose peaceful lunch break had just been transformed into a war crimes tribunal.

The response was immediate and overwhelming—a tidal wave of voices confirming Chad's instigation with the enthusiasm of eyewitnesses to history in the making. Students practically trampled each other offering to share their video evidence, while a few enterprising seniors were already editing together highlight reels with dramatic music and slow-motion replays.

"He knocked Ryder's food down first! Totally unprovoked aggression!"

"Sterling was just defending himself! And justice! And the sacred right to eat lunch in peace!"

"Look at all this footage! We've got more evidence than a Galactic Court trial!"

"I've got seventeen different camera angles of the nose-breaking moment!"

"My recording caught Chad's voice cracking when he got punched! It's already a meme!"

"Let me see one of those recordings," Neutrino said, accepting a datapad from an eager freshman. As he watched the crystal-clear footage of Chad's spectacular downfall, his expression shifted from administrative annoyance to genuine surprise, then to something approaching professional fascination. "Interesting technique," he murmured, rewinding the footage to study Ratchet's movements more closely. "These are Bogon Combat Forms, aren't they? Specifically the Flowing Water discipline."

Ratchet blinked in surprise, his defensive posture relaxing slightly. "You recognize the style?"

"I should," Neutrino replied with a knowing look that suggested hidden depths beneath his bureaucratic exterior. "I spent three years studying educational administration on Tabora. The Mystic there taught defensive techniques to visiting scholars—said it was essential knowledge for anyone planning to work with teenagers. I never thought I'd see it used in an actual cafeteria food fight, though. Very impressive application of the principles. Though I'm absolutely NOT endorsing violence as a solution to social conflicts," he added hastily, as if remembering his professional obligations.

While all attention remained focused on the principal, Cressida seized her moment. With the calculated precision of a master strategist and movements so subtle they could have been choreographed by invisible ninjas, she "accidentally" bumped into a passing student carrying a bowl of blue gelatin dessert. The collision sent the wobbly, jiggling substance flying in a perfect mathematical arc—directly onto Evalina's elaborately styled head-fur.

The resulting shriek could have shattered crystal in seventeen different galaxies. "MY FUR! MY PERFECT, PROFESSIONALLY STYLED FUR! IT'S COMPLETELY RUINED!" Evalina wailed as the blue goop slowly cascaded down her head like a very expensive, very humiliating waterfall. "THIS IS DESIGNER DYE TREATMENT! IT COST MORE THAN SOME PEOPLE'S HOVERCARS! MORE THAN SOME PEOPLE'S HOUSES!"

Not a single person in the cafeteria connected this secondary disaster to the main event—everyone was too busy watching Chad attempt to extract himself from his noodle grave. Everyone except Dexon, whose sharp eyes had caught Cressida's subtle act of cosmic justice. Their gazes met across the chaos-filled room; he gave her a big, most appreciative thumbs up. Cressida huffed, quickly averting her eyes and returning to her lunch with studied innocence, but there was an unmistakable pleased smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Nevertheless," Principal Neutrino continued, his voice now dripping with the bureaucratic disapproval of someone whose day had gone from routine to completely insane in the span of five minutes, "physical violence is never the answer at Lombaxia High, no matter how cinematically satisfying it might appear to the viewers or how many likes it accumulates on the student social media networks."

He turned to Ratchet with the weary expression of someone who'd seen too many teenage disasters. "Mr. Sterling, you'll be spending the rest of the day in in-school suspension, and your parents will be notified immediately. As for you, Mr. Marlowe, you'll be joining him after an extended visit to the nurse's office and what I suspect will be a very thorough decontamination process. Possibly several showers. That goulash has a tendency to stain permanently."

Chad's face contorted with indignation, an expression made absolutely ridiculous by his rapidly swelling nose and the goulash still clinging to his fur like colorful slime. "BUT HE BROKE BY DOSE! I COULD SUE! BY FATHER WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS! HE'S ON THE PLANETARY COMMERCE COUNCIL!"

"And you instigated the confrontation, according to multiple witnesses and an impressive array of video evidence," Neutrino replied firmly. "Now, to the nurse's office before you drip any more bodily fluids on school property. The janitorial staff already threatened to unionize after last week's science experiment disaster."

He addressed Chad's friends, who were still picking themselves up off the floor. "Clean up this mess. And no, Mr. Trell, recording it for your social media does not count as cleaning. Though I must say your cinematography has improved since last semester."

"This isd't over, Sterblig," Chad muttered through his swollen nose as a janitor bot began hosing him down. "By dad's goig to destroy your family!"

"Your dad can get in line," Ratchet replied cheerfully, finally relaxing his defensive stance. "Right behind my aviation homework and that weird smell coming from my gym locker." 

As the security bots escorted Chad away, leaving a trail of purple goulash behind him, Neutrino turned to Ratchet. "Come with me, Mr. Sterling. We need to have a conversation about appropriate conflict resolution that doesn't involve rearranging your classmates' facial features. Though I must admit, your technique was impeccable—NOT that I'm endorsing it," he added hastily.

Ratchet nodded, the adrenaline beginning to subside. He flexed his hand, wincing at the pain. Several muscles in his arms and shoulders felt strained—his teenage body wasn't conditioned for the moves his mind remembered, but Kaden's training had made all the difference.

As he followed Neutrino toward the exit, he passed by Rivet and Dexon, who had recovered and were now standing together with matching expressions of awe.

"That was... INCREDIBLE!" Dexon whispered, eyes wide with admiration. "You're like a ninja! A lombax ninja! A LOMBINJA! I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO PROUD TO CALL YOU MY FRIEND! I'm getting t-shirts made: 'I Survived The Sterling Smackdown!'"

"Thanks for having my back earlier," Ratchet said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of genuine gratitude. "Both of you. Watching you two step up to defend me... that meant everything."

Rivet's expression transformed from amazement to something warmer and deeper. "Hey, that's what friends do. We protect each other." She paused, studying his face with new understanding, then added with a crooked grin, "Though next time, maybe warn us before you go all secret ninja warrior? I nearly had a heart attack when you started moving like that. Where did that even come from?!"

"My dad's been giving me some basic self-defense lessons," Ratchet replied while unconsciously rubbing his sore knuckles. 

"Basic self-defense?" Dexon laughed incredulously, his voice climbing toward his usual booming volume before he caught himself and whispered instead, "THAT WAS BASIC? What does he teach for advanced courses—how to dismantle Imperial cruisers using only stern facial expressions and disappointed sighs?"

Just as Ratchet was about to exit the battlefield formerly known as a lunchroom, a lombax in a crisp JROTC uniform materialized in his path like a military roadblock. Sergeant Helix, the top cadet who'd been on the receiving end of Ryder's passionate anti-military protests the previous semester, stood with his arms crossed and his face flushed with righteous indignation.

"What the hell, Sterling?" Helix demanded, his voice tight with anger and confusion. "You spent all last semester calling us 'mindless warmongers' and organizing protests against our recruitment drive! You literally created a petition to have our program replaced with 'Advanced Flower Arranging For Inner Peace!' And now you're breaking noses in the cafeteria like some kind of combat specialist? You're the biggest hypocrite in the known universe!"

The cafeteria, which had been buzzing with post-fight excitement, fell silent again as every head swiveled to watch this unexpected sequel to the main event.

Ratchet met Helix's angry glare steadily, then glanced down at his bruised knuckles. "You know what, Helix?" he said, straightening his shoulders and adopting a posture that somehow managed to be both respectful and defiant. "I was wrong. Dead wrong. Sometimes peace needs to be defended, not just preached about from the safety of protest signs and strongly worded essays. Sometimes you have to stand up and fight for what's right—whether that's against cafeteria bullies or actual galactic threats."

He paused, his expression shifting to something approaching sheepish humor. "Besides, I think Chad's nose was the only casualty in an otherwise perfectly executed peacekeeping operation. Minimal collateral damage, maximum educational impact."

A wave of appreciative "Ooooohs" rippled through the assembled crowd, followed by scattered applause and a few wolf whistles from the back tables. Helix's angry expression faltered like a deflating balloon, replaced by reluctant respect and what might have been the beginning of a smile.

"Not bad, Sterling," he conceded, his tone shifting from hostile interrogation to grudging appraisal. "Jenkins was right about you after all—you really have changed. Maybe you should come to drills sometime. We could use someone with those moves. And that attitude adjustment."

"Let's not get carried away," Ratchet replied with a theatrical wink that drew chuckles from nearby students. "I still think your uniforms could use more pizzazz. Maybe some sequins? A little fringe? Perhaps a festive sash or two? War doesn't mean we can't be fabulous while defending the galaxy from the forces of cosmic darkness!"

Principal Neutrino cleared his throat with the volume and authority of someone whose patience had reached its absolute limit. "If you're quite finished with your military recruitment efforts and fashion consultation, Cadet Helix, Mr. Sterling has a date with the suspension room. I'm sure the pressing matter of military couture can wait until after school hours and proper administrative channels."

Ratchet gave his friends one last sheepish smile—a combination of embarrassment and satisfaction that perfectly captured the surreal nature of his day—before following the principal toward his temporary academic exile.

As he walked through the cafeteria, still echoing with excited chatter, he couldn't help but notice the way other students looked at him now. Gone were the dismissive glances and eye-rolls he'd grown accustomed to as Ryder the Eternal Protester. Instead, he saw expressions of awe, respect, and utter confusion—the look of people whose entire understanding of someone had just been turned upside down.

The whispers followed him like a comet tail of reputation transformation:

"Did you see how he took down all four of them?"

"Where did Ryder learn to fight like that? Last year he organized a sit-in when they added basic combat training to the curriculum! He said punching bags promoted 'normalized aggression toward inanimate objects!'"

"I heard his dad's been training him in secret! Turns out the Minister of Defense doesn't just push papers around—he's apparently running a ninja academy in his garage!"

"Chad's voice is never going to be the same! He sounds like he's permanently speaking through a broken air filter!"

By the time Ratchet reached the hallway, the stories were already evolving from fact into legend, growing more elaborate with each retelling.

Principal Neutrino led him down a corridor lined with motivational posters featuring slogans like "Excellence Through Effort" and "Your Future Starts Today" to the suspension room—a sterile classroom with individual desks separated by dividers that looked like they'd been designed by someone with a deep, personal hatred of social interaction and probably teenagers in general.

"Four hours of reflection on your actions, Mr. Sterling," Neutrino said, gesturing to an empty desk positioned strategically away from the windows to minimize distractions. "I expect a comprehensive essay on non-violent conflict resolution by the end of the day. And no, 'I should have kicked him instead of punching him for better leverage' is not an acceptable thesis statement."

As the door closed behind him, Ratchet sank into the chair, examining his throbbing hand. He'd have to be more careful—his mind might remember being a galactic hero, but his body was still that of a teenager with the muscle tone of someone whose most strenuous daily activity was organizing peace rallies. Still, he couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. Chad had needed to be stood up to, and sometimes a lesson had to be learned the hard way.

He flexed his fingers gingerly. Worth it, he decided. Definitely worth it.

General Alister Azimuth sat behind his desk, reviewing tactical reports with the methodical precision of someone who had learned the hard way that overlooking details could lead to catastrophic consequences. The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

His assistant, Randall Voss, sat across from him with his own stack of datapads, his dark blue fur with lighter streaks catching the light as he worked. The comfortable silence of two professionals absorbed in their duties was broken by the soft chime of an incoming priority communication.

"General Azimuth," came the crisp voice through the secure channel, "Lieutenant Caelum reporting from Lombaxia High. I have that update you requested on the... educational situation."

Alister's attention sharpened immediately. "Go ahead, Lieutenant. What's your assessment?"

Randall looked up from his datapad, his bright golden-yellow eyes curious about this mysterious "educational situation" he'd apparently missed in the briefings.

"Well, sir," Caelum's voice carried a note of barely contained excitement through the comm, "let's just say Minister Sterling's son had quite an eventful lunch period. I'm transmitting a video file for your review. You're going to want to see this."

The holographic projector above Alister's desk flickered to life, displaying the chaotic scene of Lombaxia High's cafeteria. Alister leaned forward, his eyes immediately locking onto a familiar figure standing in the lunch line.

What happened next made Alister's breath catch in his throat. The way Ratchet moved—fluid, precise, controlled—was unmistakably the combat style of someone who had faced down galactic threats. The Rising Phoenix strike, the Flowing River technique, the Gentle Correction grip—every move was executed with the muscle memory of a seasoned warrior.

Alister's mind flashed back to Planet Terachnos, fighting alongside Ratchet against Nefarious's forces when they'd been pinned down at Neurox Plaza in Axiom City. Ratchet had run out of ammunition and switched to hand-to-hand combat with exactly these same moves—the same fluid transitions, the same precise application of force. He'd taken down three Nefarious Troopers with nothing but his wrench and techniques that looked exactly like what he was watching now.

"Sweet mother of raritanium!" Randall breathed, his eyes wide with amazement. "Where did the Minister's son learn to fight like that?"

Alister's heart pounded as he watched his godson—his true godson—emerge fully for the first time in this timeline. This wasn't Ryder Sterling anymore. This was Ratchet, his consciousness finally taking control.

"Caelum," Alister said carefully, his voice barely steady, "your assessment of this... performance?"

"Honestly, sir? It was like watching a completely different person," Caelum's voice crackled through the comm. "The technique was professional-grade. Disciplined. And sir... there's something else. Earlier today, the kid nearly spotted me during my routine sweep. Had to move fast to get out of his line of sight before he could get a proper look at me. Kid's got good instincts—really good instincts."

Alister's grip tightened on his desk. Of course he sensed you. Ratchet's fought alongside and against enough covert operatives to develop those instincts.

"Perhaps Minister Sterling has been providing some personal defense training," Randall suggested, still staring at the frozen hologram.

"Yeah, that's what I figured," Caelum agreed through the comm. "The Defense Minister would naturally want his son to know how to protect himself."

"Mmm," Alister murmured in agreement, though his mind was racing. Relief flooded through him—Ratchet was there, alive, whole. But alongside the relief came anxiety. What if Ratchet still resented him for what had happened at the Great Clock? Ryder's five years of silence and disdain hadn't come from nowhere.

Suddenly, a tremendous commotion erupted from the neighboring Defense Ministry building. Shouting voices carried through the connecting bridge, followed by what sounded like someone having a complete emotional breakdown.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE GOT INTO A FIGHT?!" came a voice that was unmistakably Kaden Sterling in full parental panic mode. "HE'S BEEN CLEARED FOR NORMAL SCHOOL ACTIVITIES, NOT CAFETERIA GLADIATORIAL COMBAT! THERE'S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN 'ATTENDING CLASSES' AND 'ENGAGING IN HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT WITH MULTIPLE OPPONENTS'!"

Alister's whiskers twitched with barely suppressed amusement as more shouting followed, interspersed with what sounded like frantic pacing and several voices trying to calm someone down.

"FOUR AGAINST ONE! FOUR! AND APPARENTLY HE WON! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE FOR SOMEONE WHO COULDN'T OPEN A PICKLE JAR LAST MONTH WITHOUT ASSISTANCE?!"

"Kaden must have gotten the news," Alister muttered, shaking his head with fond exasperation.

"Should we send over some medics?" Randall asked, genuinely concerned as the volume from next door increased. "It sounds like Minister Sterling might be having some kind of breakdown."

"He'll be fine," Alister assured him, though he was already standing. "Jenkins, excellent work. Continue monitoring and report any further... developments."

"Copy that, sir. Caelum out."

As the comm channel closed, Alister moved to the window overlooking the courtyard between buildings, his mind churning with possibilities and concerns. Ratchet was back—truly back. Now the question was whether his godson would remember him as the mentor who had cared for him, or as the betrayer who had nearly destroyed everything they held dear.

Only time would tell.

Planet Veldin - Kyzil Plateau

Cole crested the ridge overlooking the Kyzil Plateau and immediately wished he'd packed better equipment for what was apparently going to be the archaeological excavation of disappointment. The crash site sprawled before him like a celestial art installation titled "Technology Meets Terrain: A Love Story Gone Horribly Wrong."

His scanner lit up like a quantum Christmas tree, detecting energy signatures that made his military-trained mind go "oh no" in approximately seventeen different analytical frameworks.

"Well," he muttered, kneeling beside twisted metal that had once been part of an escape pod, "someone had a spectacularly terrible day. Possibly several terrible days condensed into one really efficient catastrophe."

The wreckage was fresh—maybe three days old, judging by the lack of sand accumulation and the still-present scent of burned fuel. His scanner beeped insistently, showing readings for something small. Very small. Robot-sized small.

XJ-0461. Has to be.

Cole's tail swished with satisfaction as he examined the debris pattern. The pod had clearly been designed for stealth insertion, but something had gone wrong during descent. Damaged hull plating, scorched landing struts, a crater that suggested the pilot had been more focused on "reaching the ground" than "reaching it gracefully."

But what really caught his attention were the footprints—tiny impressions in the sand leading away from the crash site. Small, precise, definitely robotic. And they headed northeast with the determination of someone who knew exactly where they were going.

"Found evidence of target passage," he transmitted to his team. "Following trail toward—"

The distinctive whine of charging plasma weapons interrupted him with the subtlety of a freight train crashing through a library during quiet reading hour.

"OF COURSE there are Blargs!" he snarled, diving behind debris as plasma bolts sizzled overhead. "Because why would anything on this mission be straightforward?!"

Six Blarg soldiers emerged from concealment with all the tactical brilliance of people who'd clearly skipped "Ambush 101: Try Not to Silhouette Yourself Against the Sky."

"Lombax confirmed!" one shouted into his communicator. "Repeat: hostile lombax presence at crash site—"

Cole's plasma bolt caught the communicator squarely, reducing it to sparking fragments.

"How rude!" the soldier protested. "That was brand new! The warranty specifically said plasma-resistant up to—"

Cole's second shot introduced him to unconsciousness. "File a complaint with customer service!"

He was dropping behind better cover when another plasma bolt streaked past from an entirely different direction—not at him, but at one of his attackers. The Blarg soldier yelped and dove for cover.

Cole spun, weapon tracking automatically, only to find himself staring at possibly the most beautiful female markazian he'd ever seen. She stood atop wreckage about fifteen meters away, backlit by Veldin's sun like some kind of warrior goddess, wielding a plasma pistol with the casual competence of someone extremely comfortable with violence.

Her jetpack's thrusters gleamed as she descended with perfect precision, landing in a crouch that sent sand rippling outward. Her shoulder-length dark hair whipping in Veldin's wind, and striking green eyes currently focused on the Blargs with predatory intensity.

Cole's brain temporarily forgot how to form coherent thoughts. His tail curled slightly before he forced it straight through sheer willpower.

Focus! You're being shot at! 

"Need a hand?" she called out cheerfully, dropping another Blarg with a well-placed shot. "Because you look like you're experiencing what military strategists call 'numerical disadvantage' and what normal people call 'about to have a really bad day!'"

"Who are you?!" Cole demanded, even as he took advantage of her distraction to drop two more Blargs with quick precision shots.

"Talwyn Apogee! Independent freight captain and currently very concerned about a friend!" She lobbed what appeared to be a concussion grenade with the casual ease of someone who carried such things regularly. "Also, you're welcome for the assist!"

The grenade detonated with a flash and a WHUMP that sent the remaining Blargs flying in different directions with the grace of confused acrobats who'd forgotten their training.

"Friend?" Cole echoed, lowering his weapon slightly as the immediate threat scattered like startled birds. "You wouldn't happen to be looking for a small robot, would you? Green eyes, antenna, approximately this tall?" He gestured to knee height.

Talwyn's eyes widened. "Clank! You've seen him?! Where?! Is he okay?! Did the Blargs get him?! Why are you looking for him?! Are you friend or foe?! Should I be shooting you instead of helping you?!"

"I'm—it's complicated!" Cole replied, because explaining that a Polaris prince was conducting unauthorized reconnaissance in Solana territory required more time than they currently had. "But I'm not here to harm him! I need to locate him for... reasons!"

"'Reasons,'" Talwyn repeated flatly, her weapon raising slightly. "That's possibly the least reassuring thing anyone's ever said. Right up there with 'trust me, I'm from the government' and 'the bomb is mostly defused!'"

"Look, we can debate trust issues later!" Cole gestured at the recovering Blargs who were remembering they had functioning weapons. "Right now, we're both looking for the same robot, neither of us works for the planetary genocide enthusiasts, and standing here arguing is probably the fastest way to end up as statistics in someone's harvest report!"

Talwyn's expression shifted from suspicious to calculating. "Temporary alliance?"

"Temporary alliance!"

"Good! Now MOVE!"

They sprinted toward rocky outcroppings as plasma fire resumed with the enthusiasm of people who were very upset about being concussion-grenaded. Cole's scanner beeped weakly, the signal fading faster than his patience.

"The energy trail is degrading!" he shouted over the weapons fire. "Whatever residual signature he left is disappearing! Give it another hour and there'll be nothing to track!"

"Then we'd better hurry!" Talwyn activated her jetpack, launching upward and lobbing another grenade that created a very impressive explosion and probably violated several safety regulations. "I didn't transport Clank to Veldin just to lose him to Blarg patrols with poor workplace safety practices!"

"You transported him here?!" Cole demanded, diving behind a boulder as plasma bolts scorched the air.

"Long story! Involves Aridia, a cantina, Blarg raids, and me being a decent person for once!" She landed beside him, breathing hard. "He said he was looking for someone important! Someone he needed to find desperately!"

Before Cole could respond—or process the implications of Clank searching for someone important enough to cross galaxies—more Blargs appeared with the persistence of telemarketers during dinner hour.

"THERE THEY ARE!" one shouted. "CAPTURE THE LOMBAX ALIVE! CHAIRMAN DREK WANTS HIM FOR INTERROGATION! ALSO THE MARKAZIAN! SHE MATCHES THE DESCRIPTION OF THAT FREIGHT CAPTAIN WHO EMBARRASSED CAPTAIN VORG LAST MONTH!"

"I didn't embarrass him!" Talwyn protested, shooting the speaker. "His own tactical incompetence embarrassed him! I merely provided the opportunity for self-reflection through humiliating defeat!"

"Save the philosophical discussions for later!" Cole grabbed her arm, pulling her behind better cover as plasma fire intensified. His fingers wrapped around her wrist and he tried very hard not to notice how warm her skin felt or how his pulse jumped at the contact. "We need to move! NOW!"

They ran through the plateau, zigzagging between rock formations while Blargs pursued with the determination of people whose performance reviews apparently depended on capturing them. Cole's scanner continued its death rattle of beeping, the signal growing weaker and weaker until—

It flatlined completely.

"No!" Cole slammed his fist against the scanner in frustration. "The trail's gone! Completely dead! He could be anywhere!"

"Then we search everywhere!" Talwyn declared with the optimism of someone who hadn't fully processed how large "everywhere" actually was. "How hard can it be to find one small robot on an entire planet during an active military occupation?"

"That was rhetorical, right?"

"Extremely rhetorical!"

They dove into a narrow canyon as a Blarg transport roared overhead, its scanners sweeping the terrain with aggressive efficiency. Pressed against the canyon wall, Cole found himself acutely aware that Talwyn was standing very close—close enough that he could smell whatever she used for her hair, which smelled like starship fuel mixed with something floral and completely distracting.

His ears heated beneath his helmet. His tail tried to curl again. He mentally yelled at it to stop being a traitor to his professional military bearing.

"So," Talwyn whispered as the transport passed, her breath ghosting against his ear and making his fur stand on end, "you're from Polaris. Lombax. Military-grade equipment. Classified mission. Let me guess—Praetorian Guard? Special operations? Royal bodyguard moonlighting as a reconnaissance specialist?"

"How did you—" Cole's voice came out slightly strangled.

"Your stance," she said simply, seemingly unaware of his internal crisis. "My father dealt with lombax military enough that I recognize the training. Plus, you've got that whole 'I'm very important but can't tell you why' vibe that screams either royalty or someone with a massive superiority complex and compensation issues."

Cole's ears flattened. "I don't have a superiority complex!"

"Sure you don't, Prince Charming."

"I never said I was a prince!"

"You didn't deny it either." Her grin was infuriating and attractive in equal measure, which was frankly unfair and probably violated some kind of cosmic law about distracting people during combat situations.

The transport moved away, its searchlights sweeping elsewhere. Cole checked his scanner one more time, hoping against hope for any signal.

Nothing.

"We're blind," he admitted, hating how defeated he sounded. "No trail, no signal, no leads. For all we know, he could be fifty kilometers away by now, or captured, or—"

"Or right under our noses," Talwyn interrupted, pointing at the canyon wall. "See those marks? Fresh. Recent. Something small climbed up here." She traced the barely visible scrapes with her finger. "Robot-sized something."

Cole examined the marks with renewed interest. "Following the wall line would lead... northeast. Toward those rock formations."

"Where anyone smart would hide a garage if they wanted privacy and absolutely no governmental oversight whatsoever," Talwyn finished, her eyes lighting up. "Come on!"

They navigated through the canyon, following the subtle trail markers—a disturbed patch of sand here, a scuff mark on rock there. Whoever had passed through had been careful, but not careful enough to completely erase their passage.

The trail led them to a cluster of rock formations where, hidden among natural camouflage and what appeared to be deliberately placed netting, stood a structure that screamed "secret mechanic's workshop operated by someone with trust issues and probably excellent reasons for them."

"There," Cole breathed, his scanner picking up faint energy readings. "That has to be it."

"Paranoid mechanics are the best mechanics," Talwyn said with the authority of someone who'd dealt with many. "They're the only ones who survive long enough to get really good at their jobs!"

They approached cautiously, weapons ready, scanning for booby traps. The structure was indeed a converted hangar, partially dug into the plateau itself, with defensive measures that would make a military installation jealous.

"Your mechanic friend doesn't do anything halfway," Cole observed, spotting at least six different security systems within visual range. "Is that a motion-activated plasma turret hidden in that rock formation?"

"Probably! And I bet it's connected to at least three backup systems in case the primary fails!" Talwyn sounded almost admiring. "Efficient paranoia is an art form!"

They reached the main entrance—a reinforced door with more locks than a paranoid banker's vault. Before they could figure out how to announce their presence without triggering lethal security measures, a cacophony of crashes, bangs, and creative profanity erupted from inside.

"BLASTED CARBURETOR! I SWEAR BY ALL THAT'S HOLY, IF YOU DON'T COOPERATE, I'LL TURN YOU INTO A VERY INEFFICIENT PAPERWEIGHT!"

Cole and Talwyn exchanged glances.

"Sounds friendly," Cole muttered.

"Relax, rookie," Talwyn smirked. "If he wanted to kill us, he'd be quieter about it. Loud mechanics are happy mechanics. It's the quiet ones you worry about."

Before Cole could respond to being called "rookie" by someone who probably violated more laws before breakfast than he'd ever enforced, Talwyn knocked on the door with the confidence of someone who'd done this before.

The noises inside abruptly ceased, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching with the distinctive rhythm of someone who was Not Happy About Interruptions. The door flew open with a screech that could have shattered glass in another galaxy, revealing a fongoid with grease-stained overalls and a scowl that suggested he'd perfected the expression through decades of dedicated practice.

"WHAT?" he bellowed, then paused, blinking at the unexpected visitors. "Oh for the love of—what is this, Grand Central Station? I've had more visitors in the past week than in the last fifteen years! First that little robot, now you two? Did someone put up a sign saying 'Grimroth's Private Garage: Perfect Spot for Mysterious Strangers to Congregate'? Should I start charging admission? Offering guided tours?"

Cole's ears perked up instantly. "A robot? You've seen a small robot?"

"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't," Grimroth crossed his arms defensively, his broken tusk catching the light. "What's it to you? And more importantly, why are you and your girlfriend trespassing on my property during an active planetary occupation? That seems like spectacularly poor judgment even by teenage standards!"

"She's not my girlfriend!" Cole protested, his fur bristling and his tail puffing slightly in a way that absolutely betrayed his emotional state.

"Trust me, I have standards," Talwyn added dryly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement that made Cole's ears heat even more. "And they don't include babysitting lombax special forces rookies on their first field trip outside Fastoon!"

"I am NOT a rookie!" Cole retorted indignantly, his ears flattening against his head. "I'll have you know I'm a member of the Scarlet Reavers! We're the elite special operations unit of the Praetorian Guard! We've conducted operations across three galaxies with perfect success rates!"

"Ooh, 'elite,'" Talwyn wiggled her fingers mockingly. "Is that why you needed my help to fight off six Blargs? Because your 'elite' combat skills were experiencing technical difficulties?"

"I didn't need your help! You showed up uninvited and started shooting things!"

"And saving your life! Don't forget that part! The life-saving was very important and deserves acknowledgment!"

"I had the situation completely under control!"

"You were pinned behind a rock being shot at by six soldiers! That's the opposite of control! That's more like 'controlled chaos spiraling toward uncontrolled disaster!'"

"Would you two take your lover's quarrel somewhere else?" Grimroth interrupted, scowling harder. "Some of us have actual work to do, not whatever relationship counseling session this is turning into! And frankly, your bickering is giving me flashbacks to my second marriage, which ended very badly and required extensive therapy I still haven't completed!"

"We are NOT—" they both began simultaneously, turning to glare at each other before looking back at Grimroth with matching expressions of indignant protest.

"—I don't care!" Grimroth cut them off with the authority of someone who'd perfected the art of not caring through years of dedicated practice. "Look, unless you're here to buy something—which, judging by Mr. Fancy Armor's expression, seems about as likely as a Blargian peace treaty—I've got work to do. Real work. The kind that involves fixing things that are actually broken, not standing around chitchatting with strangers who can't decide if they're rescuing each other or dating!"

He began to close the door, but Cole quickly stepped forward, retracting his helmet to reveal his face—a calculated risk, but one that might help establish trust.

"Wait! Please. We're looking for a small robot named Clank. My equipment indicates he was here recently."

Grimroth froze, his hand tightening on the door. His eyes flickered to Cole's exposed face, widening slightly as he registered the lombax features—dark red fur with distinctive markings, gray eyes that held determination mixed with barely concealed desperation.

"A lombax? Here on Veldin?" He leaned forward, squinting at Cole with the suspicious intensity of someone examining potentially counterfeit currency. "You wouldn't happen to be named Ratchet, would you? Though you don't look much like what I'd imagine a Ratchet would look like..."

Cole's expression shifted from professional to deeply offended so quickly it was almost comical. His ears flattened against his head, his tail puffed up like he'd been electroshocked, and his gray eyes widened with the horrified indignation of someone who'd just been insulted in the most profound way possible.

"RATCHET?!" he echoed, his voice rising a full octave into territory usually reserved for outraged opera singers. "You think any self-respecting lombax would be named RATCHET?! That's like naming a Markazian 'Blaster-finger' or calling a Fongoid as yourself 'Mud dweller!' It's OFFENSIVE!"

Talwyn couldn't help it—she burst out laughing. "Oh, this is GOLD! I wish I was recording this! The look on your face!"

"How was I supposed to know?!" Grimroth defended, raising his hands in surrender. "It's not like I've got a 'Lombax Cultural Sensitivity Guide' lying around in my garage! Haven't seen one of your kind since I migrated from Polaris years ago! You lot tend to stick to your own galaxy with your noses firmly in the air and your advanced technology firmly classified!"

"Tool-based names are considered deeply derogatory in lombax culture!" Cole explained stiffly, his fur still bristled with offense. "It dates back to the Early Mechanical Age when lombax engineers were mockingly referred to by the tools they wielded as a form of class-based discrimination! It's taught in every history class! It's common knowledge!"

"Common knowledge in LOMBAX education maybe!" Grimroth shot back. "Some of us didn't attend fancy Fastoon academies with their cultural sensitivity seminars and probably really expensive textbooks!"

"It's BASIC respect for—"

"Oh, calm down, Your Offended Highness," Talwyn interrupted, still grinning. "He didn't know. Though I have to say, your reaction was priceless. I've never seen someone look so personally victimized by a name before. It was like he'd insulted your entire ancestral line."

"He basically DID!" Cole protested, his ears still flat.

"Anyway," Grimroth continued, clearly deciding to move past the cultural incident before the lombax had an aneurysm, "the little robot DID mention his friend's name. Said he was looking for someone named Ratchet. Talked about him like he was the most important person in the universe. Called him his best friend, said they'd saved galaxies together, whole emotional speech that would've been touching if it wasn't about someone with a name that apparently violates your cultural sensibilities."

Cole's indignation froze mid-expression, transforming into pure confusion. "Wait. His friend is actually NAMED Ratchet? A lombax? Voluntarily?"

"That's what he said!" Grimroth confirmed. "Why? Is that a problem beyond the whole cultural offense thing you just explained in passionate detail?"

"That's..." Cole's brain tried to process this information and failed spectacularly. "That's impossible. No lombax family would name their child something so... so..."

"Offensive?" Talwyn supplied helpfully. "Derogatory? Culturally insensitive? Are we running out of synonyms for 'bad name choice'?"

"ALL OF THOSE!" Cole's tail lashed with confusion. "Unless... unless this Ratchet wasn't raised by lombaxes? Didn't grow up in lombax culture? Maybe he was raised by another species who didn't know better?"

"Huh," Grimroth scratched his chin thoughtfully, spreading grease into new patterns. "That would make sense, actually. The little robot said something about his friend growing up on Veldin. Alone. Without family. Maybe whoever raised him didn't know about lombax naming customs?"

"That's... actually tragic but that's a pity party for another time," Talwyn said softly, her amusement fading. Returning to the matter at hand, Talwyn met Grimroth's eyes directly, "Look, I gave Clank passage to Veldin. Transported him when he had nowhere else to go and Blargs were actively hunting him. He's... important to me, even though we only met a few days ago. There's something special about him. Something I can't quite explain but I know is real."

Grimroth's expression shifted, becoming more thoughtful. "You feel it too, huh? That sense that you've known him longer than you actually have? Like meeting someone who should be a stranger but feels like family you've somehow forgotten?"

Talwyn's eyes widened slightly, her hand unconsciously moving to her chest. "Yes! Exactly that! It's like... I was supposed to meet him. Like the universe arranged it deliberately and I was just following cosmic stage directions!"

"Interesting," Grimroth murmured, stroking his chin and spreading the grease on his face into new artistic patterns. "Very interesting… and you, Lombax Special Forces?" Grimroth turned his attention to Cole with renewed scrutiny. "What's your interest in my little robot friend? And don't give me that 'classified' nonsense. I've dealt with enough military types to know when someone's hiding something significant under layers of bureaucratic deflection."

Cole hesitated, glancing at Talwyn, who gave him a challenging look that clearly communicated 'I saved your life, you owe me honesty.'

"I was sent to retrieve him," Cole finally admitted. "My superiors believe he may possess information vital to lombax security. That's all I know, honestly. I wasn't given details beyond 'find the robot and bring him back.'"

Grimroth studied them both for a long moment, his eyes moving between Cole's earnest expression and Talwyn's protective stance. Then he sighed heavily, like someone accepting that his peaceful day was completely ruined.

"Normally I don't invite strangers into my garage—especially not fancy lombax soldiers and their freight captain not-girlfriends—but this is getting complicated, and I don't fancy explaining quantum temporal mechanics while standing in the doorway getting sand in places sand has no business being."

He stepped aside, gesturing them in with exaggerated formality. "Welcome to Grimroth's Private Garage, where the customer service is as rough as the decor, and the coffee tastes like it was filtered through an engine block—because sometimes it was."

The interior of the garage was surprisingly orderly for a mechanic's workshop, though cluttered with tools and parts. A half-built ship occupied the center of the space, surrounded by workbenches loaded with components in various stages of assembly. Despite its remote location, the garage was clean and well-maintained, with high-quality tools arranged methodically on the walls.

"Don't touch anything," Grimroth warned as they entered. "Half the stuff in here is either explosive, experimental, or acquired through questionable means—sometimes all three. And before you get all 'law enforcement' on me, the statute of limitations has expired on at least 60% of it."

"Nice setup," Talwyn commented, eyeing a modified thruster assembly with professional interest that suggested she knew exactly what she was looking at. "That's a J-27 propulsion matrix, isn't it? I thought those were military-grade restricted."

"It fell off the back of a transport," Grimroth replied vaguely. "Or maybe it was a gift from my aunt. I forget which. Memory gets fuzzy around transactions that might require lawyer consultations."

He led them to a small, relatively clear area at the back of the garage, where a few mismatched chairs surrounded a table made from what appeared to be an old ship hatch. "Sit, if you want. Or stand dramatically if that's more your style. I don't care either way."

As they took seats—Cole deliberately choosing one that wasn't directly next to Talwyn because his tail needed to calm down—Grimroth rummaged through a nearby cabinet, eventually producing a dented metal container. He opened it to reveal an empty lombax storage unit, its interior lined with advanced technology that still glowed faintly despite being empty.

"Your little robot friend opened this," he explained, placing it on the table with surprising gentleness. "Been trying to crack it open for fifteen years. Found it buried right behind this garage when I first set up the shed here. He walks in, touches it once—boom, opens right up like it was waiting for him specifically."

Cole leaned forward, his eyes widening as he recognized the distinctive lombax craftsmanship—elegant curves, precision engineering, and a subtle glow that marked it as coming from the Center for Advanced Lombax Research. "This is... this is advanced lombax technology. What was inside?"

"A holoprojector with a message from some lombax named Kaden, a strange glowing crystal thing Clank called a 'temporal anchor,' and some coordinates," Grimroth explained, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "He took it all with him when he left. Said he needed them for his mission."

"…Kaden?" Cole repeated, his ears perking straight up in surprise. "As in Kaden Sterling?"

"That's the one!" Grimroth nodded, apparently pleased that Cole was keeping up. "Left a whole message about alternate timelines, the universe being rewritten, and some lombax who was supposed to grow up here on Veldin but is now apparently living on Fastoon instead. Didn't give a name though—seemed to think Clank would know exactly who he meant."

"That's... that's impossible!" Cole stammered, his military composure cracking. "Kaden Sterling is the Defense Minister of Fastoon and the current Keeper. Why would he leave a message here, on Veldin, for a robot? That doesn't make any tactical or strategic sense!"

"Keeper?" Talwyn's eyes widened with recognition. "As in keeper of the Dimensionator? So it IS real! The device that can create portals between dimensions?"

Cole stiffened, realizing his slip. His ears flattened against his head in embarrassment. "That's classified information that I definitely should not have mentioned and will probably be filing incident reports about for the next six months-"

"Oh please," Talwyn rolled her eyes with the casual dismissal of someone who dealt in information. "The Dimensionator is the worst-kept secret in the galaxy. My father researched it for years. Most people think it's just a myth, but those of us who deal in... specialized cargo... know better."

"Specialized cargo," Cole repeated, his eyes narrowing. "You mean contraband? Illegal goods? Stolen artifacts that definitely should be in museums instead of private collections?"

"I said specialized!" Talwyn protested with wounded dignity. "Completely legal! Mostly! I've got the proper licensing and everything! Filed with the appropriate authorities! Well, some authorities! The ones that don't ask too many questions!"

"That's not reassuring!"

"It wasn't meant to be reassuring! It was meant to be technically accurate!"

"And speaking of myths and temporal impossibilities," Grimroth interjected before they could continue their argument, "Kaden's message mentioned someone called Orvus. Said he was involved somehow with all this timeline reset business."

"Orvus!?" Talwyn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "The Zoni leader? The mythical being who supposedly controls time itself?"

"The what now?" Cole looked between them, clearly lost. His royal education had covered military strategy, diplomatic protocol, and proper fork usage at state dinners, but apparently not obscure temporal mythology.

"The Zoni," Talwyn explained, her voice hushed with awe that suggested genuine reverence. "Ancient beings said to exist outside normal time and space. My father's research mentioned them extensively. Most people think they're just legends, but there are accounts throughout history of their interventions in critical moments. They supposedly built the Great Clock to repair damage to the space-time continuum."

"Oh, you mean those Fongoid bedtime stories," Cole scoffed, finally recalling his galactic mythology lessons as part of his royal education. "Like the Great Clock. Things parents tell children to make them behave. 'Eat your vegetables or the Zoni will come and put you in a time loop where it's always broccoli night!'"

Grimroth's expression darkened like a storm cloud gathering cosmic rage. "You watch your mouth, you ignorant, disrespectful heathen! Orvus is very real! Every fongoid knows the truth of the Zoni! They're the ones who gave my ancestors the gift of time travel—which we promptly misused and nearly destroyed the universe by creating about a thousand paradoxes, but that's beside the point and we're still very sorry about the whole 'almost ending reality' thing!"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Cole held up his hands. "You're saying the Zoni are REAL? And they gave your species TIME TRAVEL? And you BROKE THE UNIVERSE with it?"

"We didn't BREAK it," Grimroth defended hotly. "We just... bent it significantly. Created some cracks. A few temporal anomalies. Some Tuesdays that happened twice. Nothing that required complete universal reconstruction! The Zoni fixed it! Built the Great Clock to manage time properly since we clearly couldn't be trusted with the responsibility!"

"I feel like I should be writing this down," Talwyn muttered, looking between them. "This is the kind of information that people pay good bolts for in certain markets."

"So let me get this straight," Cole said, rubbing his temples as a headache began forming behind his eyes. "Kaden Sterling—the Defense Minister of Fastoon, current Keeper of the Dimensionator, and one of the most respected lombaxes in our entire government—somehow knew about an alternate timeline where some lombax grew up here on Veldin instead of Fastoon, met a robot named Clank, and they saved the universe together. But someone changed history, and now this mystery lombax is on Fastoon instead, potentially unaware of his destiny. And Clank is trying to find him to... what? Restore the original timeline?"

"Pretty much!" Grimroth nodded with the satisfaction of someone whose student was finally catching up. "Though you left out the part about Orvus and the Zoni being involved, which seems like an important detail when discussing timeline manipulation and cosmic destiny fulfillment!"

"I can't believe I'm even entertaining this nonsense!" Cole muttered, his tail lashing behind him with agitation. "Alternate timelines? The Zoni? Temporal anchors? It sounds like something from a children's holovid! Next you'll be telling me that Captain Qwark is actually competent and space pirates have retirement plans!"

"Says the lombax whose royal family literally entrusted the Dimensionator to Kaden Sterling's ancestors," Grimroth retorted with the devastating logic of someone who'd clearly won many arguments through sheer stubborn reasoning. "If you believe in a device that can open portals to other dimensions, is it really such a stretch to believe in beings who can manipulate time? Your entire worldview already includes impossible technology! What's one more impossibility?"

Cole's head snapped up, his gray eyes widening. "How do you know about the Celestial family's connection to the Dimensionator? That's classified information known only to the highest levels of government and people with security clearances I don't even have yet!"

"Clank may have mentioned it offhandedly on his way out the door," Grimroth shrugged with suspicious casualness. "Smart little fella. Knew an awful lot about lombax history for a robot. Could probably teach courses at your fancy Fastoon universities. 'Introduction to Lombax Political Structures 101' and 'Advanced Royal Family Drama.'"

Talwyn had been unusually quiet, her brow furrowed in thought while her fingers drummed against the table in patterns that suggested deep concentration. "It makes sense now," she murmured, more to herself than the others. "Why Clank was so curious about the lombaxes. Half his questions during our journey were about lombax history, culture, technology... He was looking for information about them—about this particular lombax."

"Where did Clank go?" Cole asked, leaning forward intently, his military composure reasserting itself despite the cosmic insanity of this conversation. "Did he say anything about his plans? Specific destinations? Timeline for arrival?"

"He took my backup ship," Grimroth explained, gesturing out the window toward the empty space where presumably said ship had once been parked. "Headed for Fastoon to find this mystery lombax. Said something about friendship transcending timelines, that even if his friend doesn't remember him, somewhere deep down, they're still connected."

"Friendship transcending timelines," Talwyn repeated softly, her expression becoming distant. "That explains why I felt like I'd known him even though we'd just met. Maybe in that other timeline, we were friends. Maybe that's why I felt compelled to help him, to make sure he was safe."

"Or maybe you just have a soft spot for small robots with big plans and questionable odds of success," Grimroth suggested with a hint of a smile that transformed his gruff features into something almost grandfatherly.

Talwyn returned his smile with genuine warmth. "Probably both," she agreed. "I've never been good at ignoring people who need help, even when helping them involves violating numerous safety regulations and possibly several interstellar laws."

Cole's mind was racing through military protocols and strategic implications. "What was the make and model of the ship? Exact specifications if you have them. I need to know what we're tracking."

"Z-1000 freighter class, manually upgraded with parts I'm not entirely certain were legally obtained," Grimroth rattled off with the precision of someone who knew his equipment intimately. "Old model with an outdated hyperdrive that I've modified personally—works beautifully until it doesn't—manually upgraded thrusters with a temperamental AI named Vee who has strong opinions about everything. The hull is reinforced with plating that definitely did NOT come from my insurance settlement after that incident with the Blarg customs inspector." 

Cole's eyes widened as recognition struck him like a plasma bolt to the face. "A Z-1000... small transport ship... manually upgraded thrusters..."

His mind flashed back to their journey to Veldin—that small, battered vessel they'd passed, the one Jax had dismissed as "automated cargo transport" after their scans showed no organic life forms.

"That's… that's the ship we passed on our way here…" he said slowly, more to himself than to the others, his voice barely above a horrified whisper. "Small, outdated transport, manually upgraded thrusters, hull that looked like it had been assembled during a power outage... THAT WAS CLANK!"

"What?" Talwyn asked, confusion crossing her features.

"My unit passed a small transport ship on our way to Veldin," Cole explained, feeling his stomach drop like a malfunctioning elevator. "It matched the description perfectly. We scanned it, found no organic life forms, and Captain Sterling ordered us to continue on our way. We didn't realize..."

"You passed him?" Grimroth's eyes widened with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering his assessment of elite military competence. "And you didn't stop to check? What kind of elite special forces are you? The kind that specialize in missing obvious clues and making really confident mistakes?"

"The kind with a specific mission and limited information!" Cole defended, though he couldn't help feeling a twinge of regret that was rapidly evolving into full-blown professional embarrassment. "We had no way of knowing that ship contained our target! Our intelligence suggested we were looking for a robot on Veldin, not one leaving Veldin in a ship!"

"Well, that's just perfect," Grimroth grumbled, crossing his arms. "The little fella's out there in that death trap I call a ship, heading straight for Fastoon with an AI who thinks pessimism is a lifestyle choice, while you're here playing detective after the fact. Brilliant work, Special Forces. Truly inspiring display of tactical awareness."

"We need to go after him!" Cole decided, standing up with the decisive authority of someone who was absolutely not going to admit this was partially his fault. "If he's headed for Fastoon, we can intercept him before he arrives! My ship's faster than any old Z-1000, even a modified one!"

"And then what?" Talwyn asked, her voice sharp with suspicion as she stood to face him. "What exactly are your orders regarding Clank once you 'retrieve' him? Because that word has some very unpleasant connotations involving detention facilities and interrogation rooms I've had unfortunate personal experience with."

Cole hesitated, his tail lashing with frustration. "To bring him to General Azimuth. That's all I know."

"And you expect me to believe that's all?" Talwyn pressed, stepping closer with the intensity of someone who'd been lied to before and hadn't enjoyed the experience. "No contingency plans? No protocols for if he resists? No 'use of force authorized if subject proves uncooperative' clauses buried in your mission brief?"

"Look," Cole said, his patience wearing thin even as he tried very hard not to notice how close she was standing or how her eyes seemed to see right through his military training to the uncertain prince beneath, "I understand your concern. But right now, Clank is out there in an outdated ship that probably barely qualifies as space-worthy, heading straight into potential danger. The Blargs are looking for him too, and I guarantee they don't have his best interests at heart or any interests beyond 'capture and interrogate until systems fail.'"

Talwyn studied him for a long moment, her blue eyes searching his face for signs of deception. Whatever she saw must have passed her internal credibility assessment, because she nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But I'm coming with you."

"That's not—"

"Not negotiable," Talwyn cut him off with the finality of someone who'd clearly made up her mind and wouldn't be swayed by military protocols or royal authority. "I don't trust you or your 'Scarlet Reavers' to handle this properly. Clank is my friend—even if I've only known him for a few days—and I'm not letting you take him without me present to ensure he's treated with respect and not like military cargo with feelings."

Cole opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Time was of the essence, and arguing with Talwyn would only delay them further. Plus, something about the determined set of her jaw suggested that arguing would be both futile and potentially hazardous to his health.

"Fine," he conceded, trying to sound authoritative despite capitulating completely. "But you follow my lead. This is still a military operation with protocols and procedures that must be followed."

"Sure it is," Talwyn replied with a smirk that made his ears heat. "Just like your hoverboots are 'field-ready technology' and not clearly designed by someone who prioritizes looking impressive over practical battlefield functionality."

"My hoverboots are perfectly functional!"

"They've got decorative flourishes on the stabilizers! That's the opposite of functional! That's fashion masquerading as equipment!"

Grimroth watched their exchange with barely concealed amusement, his scowl softening into something that might have been a smile if you squinted. "If you two are done with your not-a-couple bickering that definitely sounds like couple bickering, I have one request before you leave..."

They both turned to look at him, Cole's ears flattening in protest he was absolutely going to voice until Grimroth continued.

"Take care of the little fella," Grimroth said, his gruff voice softening in a way that suggested genuine affection beneath his crusty exterior. "He may be a robot, but there's something special about him. Something... important that I can't quite explain but I know is real. I don't know what's going on with all this timeline business and cosmic destiny nonsense, but I do know that Clank is trying to do the right thing. Make sure he gets the chance."

"We will," Cole promised, surprised by the sincerity in his own voice. Despite his skepticism about the whole situation, he found himself genuinely concerned for the robot's welfare.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Razz," Talwyn added, extending her hand to Grimroth with respect that suggested she recognized a kindred spirit. "We'll make sure Clank stays safe. You have my word."

Grimroth shook her hand with his grease-stained one, then turned to Cole with a knowing look that made the young prince distinctly uncomfortable. "And you, Mr. Elite Special Forces, try to stop staring at Ms. Apogee like she's the first woman you've ever seen. It's embarrassing. For both of you. Mostly you. She's handling it better."

Cole's face burned beneath his fur, his ears practically glowing with heat. "I am NOT—"

"Yes you are," Grimroth interrupted with the bluntness of someone who was too old to care about social niceties. "Your tail's been curling every time she speaks. Dead giveaway. Might want to work on that if you're trying to maintain professional military bearing and not look like a lovesick teenager who's just discovered girls exist."

Talwyn turned to look at Cole's tail, which immediately straightened with the guilty speed of something caught doing something it shouldn't. Her expression shifted from surprise to something that might have been pleased before she schooled it back to neutral.

"Your tail curls when I speak?" she asked with dangerous sweetness.

"No! It's a medical condition! Stress-induced involuntary tail movements! Very common in my family! Nothing to do with you specifically!" Cole was backing toward the door with the retreat strategy of someone whose dignity was under heavy fire.

"Uh-huh," Talwyn's grin was absolutely wicked. "A medical condition. That only manifests around me. How very... convenient."

"I'm leaving now!" Cole announced, spinning toward the exit with the tactical precision of someone executing a strategic withdrawal from an unwinnable social situation. "We have a mission! Time-sensitive! Very important! Must locate robot immediately!"

"Take care of each other!" Grimroth called after them, his voice carrying genuine warmth beneath the gruffness. "And for the love of all that's sacred, SOMEBODY bring back my ship eventually! Preferably before I die of old age or this planet gets completely harvested, whichever comes first!"

As they hurried back toward Cole's ship, Talwyn couldn't resist. "So, this tail-curling medical condition... does it come with other symptoms? Elevated heart rate? Difficulty forming coherent sentences? Sudden inability to maintain eye contact?"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Cole activated his communicator with perhaps more force than necessary. "Captain Axel, this is Cole. I've located information on our target. Requesting immediate rendezvous at these coordinates."

"Copy that," came Axel's terse reply. "On my way. Status report?"

"Target is no longer on Veldin," Cole reported, trying to sound professional while Talwyn made exaggerated kissy faces behind him that he was pointedly ignoring. "He left in a small transport ship, heading for Fastoon. I believe it's the same ship we passed on our approach to the planet."

There was a momentary silence that spoke volumes about professional disappointment. Then Axel's voice returned, tighter than a supernova's core. "You're certain?"

"Yes, sir. Description matches perfectly, and we have confirmation from a local who provided the ship. Target is in possession of lombax technology and information that appears to be connected to... alternate timelines and possible temporal anomalies." He paused. "Also, I'm bringing a civilian consultant who has firsthand knowledge of the target and insists on accompanying us. She's very... insistent. And armed. Heavily armed."

Another pause, longer this time. "We'll discuss this when I arrive. Hold position. And Cole?"

"Yes, sir?"

"This better be worth the diplomatic incident we're about to cause."

"Yes, sir. Cole out."

He turned to find Talwyn watching him with a calculating expression that suggested she'd heard enough of that conversation to draw accurate conclusions.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"Nothing," she replied innocently. "Just trying to figure out if I'm making a terrible mistake trusting you and your 'elite' unit that apparently passes target ships in space without bothering to actually confirm if they contain the targets you're looking for."

"The feeling is mutual," Cole assured her with dignity he didn't quite feel. "But right now, we both want the same thing—to find Clank before the Blargs do. After that... we'll see."

Talwyn nodded, her hand resting lightly on her blaster. "Yes. We'll see."

Her tail swished behind her in a pattern that Cole's traitorous brain immediately catalogued as 'interested but wary,' and he had to forcibly stop his own tail from responding with its own 'definitely interested and failing to hide it' pattern.

This is going to be a very long mission, he thought with resignation.

His tail curled slightly at the tip in what could only be described as anticipation.

Traitor.

Captain Axel arrived at the coordinates with impressive speed, the Crimson Phantom touching down with the precision of someone who'd performed emergency landings in worse conditions. Jax and Nyx followed close behind, their ships settling into defensive positions with practiced efficiency.

The three Reavers approached Cole and Talwyn with weapons holstered but clearly ready for trouble, their body language speaking of professional wariness and probably questions about Cole's judgment in bringing civilians into military operations.

"Report," Axel commanded, his emerald eyes flicking briefly to Talwyn before focusing on Cole with the intensity of a commanding officer about to receive news he wasn't going to like.

Cole quickly summarized what they had learned from Grimroth—the lombax container, Kaden Sterling's message, the temporal anchor, and Clank's journey to Fastoon. He deliberately left out the part about his tail curling, because some humiliations were too fresh to share with his commanding officer.

"And you believe this?" Axel asked, his expression unreadable behind his helmet's visor. "Alternate timelines? Temporal manipulation? That's the kind of thing that usually requires either genius-level intelligence or complete psychological breakdown to seriously consider."

"I... don't know what I believe, sir," Cole admitted honestly. "It sounds impossible. But the evidence is compelling. The container was definitely lombax technology from the Center for Advanced Lombax Research, and it responded specifically to Clank's energy signature. And why would Kaden Sterling—the Defense Minister and Keeper of the Dimensionator—leave a message for a random robot unless there was something significant about him?"

Axel was quiet for a moment, his tail lashing behind him in a pattern Cole recognized as 'processing disturbing information and not liking the conclusions.' "And who is this?" he finally asked, nodding toward Talwyn with professional courtesy that didn't quite hide his disapproval of civilian involvement.

"Talwyn Apogee," she introduced herself before Cole could speak, stepping forward with the confidence of someone who'd dealt with military authority before and wasn't particularly intimidated by it. "I transported Clank to Veldin before Blarg patrols forced me to flee. I'm here to ensure his safety."

"Ms. Apogee insists on accompanying us," Cole explained, hearing his own voice take on an apologetic tone he absolutely had not authorized. "She's... protective of Clank."

"Is she now?" Axel's tone was neutral, but Cole could sense the disapproval radiating from him like heat from a plasma core. "And you agreed to this civilian involvement in our classified military operation?"

"Given the circumstances, it seemed the most efficient course of action," Cole replied carefully, using military language to justify what was essentially 'she wouldn't take no for an answer and also she's very attractive which is completely irrelevant to this tactical assessment.' "Ms. Apogee has firsthand knowledge of Clank's recent activities and could be valuable in gaining his trust when we locate him."

Nyx let out a low whistle of appreciation that carried across the desert like a bird call. "She's good. Already maneuvered you into bringing her along using logic that sounds professional but is actually just 'I'm coming and you can't stop me' wrapped in reasonable-sounding arguments."

"Thank you!" Talwyn replied brightly. "I practice in the mirror! It's very effective for negotiations with people who have more authority than common sense!"

Axel turned to Talwyn with the assessing gaze of someone who'd dealt with many difficult people and recognized another practitioner of the art. "Ms. Apogee, while I appreciate your concern for our target, this is a military operation. Civilian involvement is strictly prohibited by about seventeen different regulations I can cite from memory."

"Good thing I'm not a civilian then," Talwyn replied smoothly, producing a datapad from her pack with the flourish of someone revealing a winning hand. "I'm a licensed independent contractor with clearance from both the Polaris Defense Force and the Solana Galactic Rangers. Freight operations, artifact recovery, and occasional consulting work for people who need items transported with discretion and plausible deniability. You can check my credentials if you'd like, but that would waste valuable time while Clank gets further away and possibly into situations requiring rescue operations we'd all prefer to avoid."

Axel took the datapad, scanning through her credentials with the thoroughness of someone looking for a reason to deny her request. His eyebrows rose slightly as he read, then he handed it back with a resigned sigh.

"Your paperwork is... surprisingly in order. Suspiciously in order, actually. These licenses usually take months to acquire through proper channels."

"I'm very good at filling out forms," Talwyn said sweetly. "And knowing which officials appreciate generous donations to their favorite charities during processing periods."

Nyx let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, I like her! She's got style!"

"And she's coming with us," Talwyn added firmly, pocketing her datapad. "Or I can make this mission very complicated for you through entirely legal means involving filing complaints with oversight committees about unauthorized Polaris military operations in Solana space without proper diplomatic clearance. Your choice, Captain."

Axel stared at her for a long moment, and Cole could practically see his captain weighing options and probably calculating how many incident reports this would generate.

"Fine," Axel said finally, each word sounding like it physically pained him. "But you follow our orders without question. One hint of interference with military operations, and you're out. Understood?"

"Crystal clear," Talwyn agreed with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll be the model of cooperative civilian consultation."

"Somehow I doubt that," Axel muttered before turning to his team. "Jax, status report on the Blarg situation."

"Not good, sir," Jax replied, consulting his scanner with the grim expression of someone delivering bad news to people who already looked stressed. "They've detected our presence and are mobilizing forces. I count at least two transport ships heading this way, ETA seven minutes. And there's something else—those surveillance drones Cole destroyed earlier? They were transmitting directly to a command ship in orbit. A big one. Like, 'compensating for something' big."

"Drek," Talwyn muttered. "Has to be. That bloated corporate tyrant loves his oversized everything. His ships, his office, his ego..."

"We need to move. Now," Axel said grimly, his tactical mind clearly racing through implications. "Before this becomes an interstellar incident that requires the General and His Majesty to write very stern letters to various governments."

"What about Randall?" Cole asked, referring to Alister's right-hand man. "Shouldn't we update him on the situation? This temporal timeline reset information seems like something General Azimuth would want to know immediately."

"Already done," Axel replied, tapping his communicator. "Sent him a full brief three minutes ago. He's relaying the information to General Azimuth as we speak, probably using very concerned tones and hand gestures that convey the appropriate level of cosmic anxiety."

"What about the Blarg?" Nyx asked, checking her scanner. "Those transport ships are moving fast. They'll be on us before we can properly evacuate."

"Then we'll give them something to think about," Axel decided, his voice taking on the hard edge that preceded violence. "Jax, you and Nyx run interference. Lead them on a chase away from our exit vector. Cole, you and Ms. Apogee get to your ship and plot an intercept course for that Z-1000. We'll rendezvous at the Polaris border once we've lost our unwanted admirers."

"Sir," Jax began carefully, "leading Blarg forces away will likely require us to engage in combat that could be classified as an act of war if anyone bothers to file the proper paperwork. Are we authorized for that level of escalation?"

"We're authorized to complete our mission," Axel replied flatly. "If the Blargs happen to get in the way and experience sudden structural failures to their ships, well, space is dangerous. Accidents happen. Frequently. Especially to people working for Chairman Drek."

Nyx grinned with the expression of someone who enjoyed her job perhaps a bit too much. "I love it when we get to interpret orders creatively! It's like a permission slip for chaos!"

"Everyone to your ships," Axel ordered. "Ms. Apogee, you'll ride with Cole in the Crimson Phantom II. Try not to distract him with your presence or whatever else causes his tail to malfunction."

Cole's ears flattened completely. "S-Sir, I don't know what you've heard, but—"

"Your tail curled four times during this briefing," Axel interrupted. "I counted. It's distracting. Work on that. Dismissed."

As they hurried toward their ships, Talwyn leaned close to Cole and whispered, "Your tail curled FOUR times? I only caught three. When was the fourth?"

"I'm not discussing my tail's unauthorized activities!" Cole hissed, his ears burning hot enough to toast bread.

"Was it when I smiled? Or when I mentioned staying close to you? Ooh, or was it when I—"

"NONE OF THE ABOVE! ALL OF THE ABOVE! I DON'T KNOW!" Cole practically sprinted toward his ship. "Can we please focus on the mission?!"

"Oh, I'm very focused," Talwyn replied, following with a bounce in her step. "Focused on multiple things simultaneously. I'm an excellent multitasker!"

"Your captain's hiding something," Talwyn murmured as they approached the Crimson Phantom II, her expression turning more serious.

"We all have secrets, Ms. Apogee," Cole replied, helping her aboard with a hand that he told himself was merely being professionally courteous. "Some more than others."

"True enough, 'Sergeant Cole,'" she said, settling into the co-pilot's seat before adding with a knowing look, "Or should I say, Prince Cole Celestial?"

Cole froze, his hand halfway to the ship's controls. "How did you—"

"I'm very good at my job," Talwyn replied simply, gesturing toward his Omniwrench secured in its holster. "And the royal crest is etched into the hilt. Subtle, but noticeable if you know what to look for. Plus, your entire 'I'm very important but mysterious' routine only works on people who haven't dealt with nobility before."

Cole sighed, securing the hatch behind them with more force than necessary. "My title is irrelevant to this mission."

"Is it?" Talwyn asked, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "The son of King Aelion Celestial, part of an elite military unit, chasing a robot with connections to Kaden Sterling and the Dimensionator? Seems pretty relevant to me. Makes me wonder what you're REALLY after."

"The truth," Cole said simply, meeting her eyes. "Just like you."

They stared at each other for a moment, the air in the cockpit suddenly feeling very close and very charged with unspoken questions.

"Can we discuss this later?" Cole asked, breaking eye contact first because looking at her made his brain forget how to pilot ships. "Preferably when we're not being pursued by Blarg forces who want to capture us for questioning that probably involves uncomfortable chairs and inadequate lighting?"

"Fine," Talwyn conceded, though her expression suggested the conversation was merely postponed, not cancelled. "But this isn't over, Your Highness."

"I didn't think it would be," Cole muttered, initiating the launch sequence with hands that were absolutely steady and not at all affected by her proximity. "And stop calling me that."

"Why? It's your title!"

"It's weird when you say it!"

"Why is it weird?"

"Because it just IS!"

The ship hummed to life, engines glowing as Cole guided them skyward. Through the viewport, they could see the first Blarg transport appearing on the horizon, its engines glowing ominously against the dusty sky.

As the Crimson Phantom II broke atmosphere, joining Jax and Nyx in formation, Cole activated the team comm.

"All ships, status report."

"Crimson Specter ready," Jax reported. "Plotting intercept course for the Z-1000. Based on its specifications and probable speed, we should be able to catch it before it reaches Fastoon's outer security perimeter."

"Crimson Wraith standing by," Nyx added. "Also, I'd like to formally lodge a complaint about not being assigned the attractive civilian consultant. Cole gets all the fun missions. But most importantly, captain, remember our betting pool? About how this mission would inevitably become your fault personally?"

Axel's groan was audible across three ships. "No-"

"YES!" Nyx practically squealed with mercenary joy. "Forty bolts, Captain! Pay up! We passed that ship on YOUR orders! You said 'maintain course, it's just automated cargo!' Classic Axel decision-making! This is absolutely, definitively, cosmically YOUR FAULT, and I have witnesses!"

"I hate you all," Axel replied flatly.

"That's forty bolts worth of hate, sir!" Nyx chirped. "I accept payment in credits, bolts, or public acknowledgment of my superior predictive abilities!"

"Can we focus on the mission?!"

"Oh, we can focus AND collect debts simultaneously! We're elite special forces! We're excellent multitaskers! Unlike SOME people who can't both give orders and notice tiny robots in passing ships!"

"THIRTY BOLTS! FINAL OFFER!" Axel snapped. 

"IS THAT HOW YOU'RE GOING TO BE? THEN FIFTY BOLTS OR I'M TELLING YOUR NO SO SECRET GIRLFRIEND ABOUT THE TIME YOU ACCIDENTALLY CALLED HER 'BABE' DURING A TACTICAL BRIEFING!"

Dead silence.

"...Fifty bolts. Transferred. We never speak of this again."

"PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS, SIR!"

In the Crimson Phantom II, Cole and Talwyn listened to this exchange with varying expressions—Cole with professional mortification on behalf of his captain, Talwyn with delighted entertainment.

"I like your team," Talwyn declared. "They're chaotic, insubordinate, and apparently run a gambling operation during active missions. It's like watching a dysfunctional family with weapons!"

"They're the best in the Praetorian Guard," Cole said defensively, even as he tried not to smile.

"I believe you! Dysfunctional families usually are the best at everything! It's the functional ones you have to worry about—they're boring!"

Cole shook his head, setting course for Fastoon with coordinates that would—hopefully—intercept one small robot in a questionable ship before the universe's sense of humor could make this situation any more complicated. At least, he thought with resignation, it can't get much worse.

His tail curled again.

Traitor.