Chapter One

Every civilization has its bedtime stories and the Union of the Seventy-Seven Planets had built a galaxy on theirs. After all, bedtime stories were almost all they had left.

True, there were records from the last two thousand years or so. But anything before that? The answers to their deepest questions about who they were and how the Union even came to be? A mystery—for the billions of citizens across the Setrix Galaxy.

There was an abundance of legends but a scarcity of any kind of hard factual evidence. 

Across the galaxy, a similar story was told, though with each generation the truth seemed to get further diluted: once, long ago, there was a galaxy-spanning war. No one remembered who fought it. No one knew what it was about. Only that it ended in the formation of the Union. And then—everything else vanished.

All of it.

The ancient languages. The books. The designs for engines, for satellites, for cities and shoes and spoons. Gone. People called it The Purge. No one even knew how it all happened, and they certainly didn’t know why. 

Without any written records, historical artifacts, or centralized archives, the truth dissolved fast. People remembered what had happened—but memory faded, details blurred, and knowledge splintered. Skills once common—how to build, how to repair, how to understand the tools of civilization—vanished in a generation. A few tried to preserve what they knew, but they passed on too little, too late. Even now, some technological relics from the pre-Purge era remained scattered across the galaxy: some still functional, most simply fossils. 

Some claimed the final battle destroyed a universal archive. Others blamed a mythical child who accidentally deleted the galaxy’s servers. One widely mocked legend even involved a vengeful fairy, punishing the galaxy for the war by burning all the books. 

But there was one story almost everyone believed, or at the very least wanted to believe. 

The legend of Brava Sentalla.

A great starship. Two protectors.

Not warriors—rescuers. They appeared when hope was lost, ferrying out refugees, shielding orphanages, evacuating hospitals. Some stories said the Protectors General were boys. Others, gray-bearded men. Maybe there were dozens over time. Maybe they were actually women. Maybe it was all fiction.

But everyone knew the iconic shape of the ship. A sculpture of it hung in the Great Pyramid of Sabria, near the edge of the galaxy. It had been designed by the artisan Tagalleus, who claimed to have seen it himself. True, he had three heads and a history of neurological trauma. Still—his story endured.

But here on Earth, in rural Jasper Creek, Tennessee—in a rusted-out Ford Ranger outside a big-box grocery store—there were no bedtime stories. Only cold, hard reality.

It was ten o’clock at night when seventeen-year-old Zane Harper pulled into the cracked concrete lot of Red Ridge Market and parked beneath a buzzing streetlamp that should have been replaced long ago. 

The old Ford Ranger coughed as it shut off. Zane shifted the truck into park, the gear stick grinding like it wanted to retire. His grandfather had left him two things four months ago: this truck, and a mountain of credit card debt.

Outside, the night air was thick with Appalachian summer—humid, pine-scented, and still. The smell of rain from earlier in the evening still clung to the pavement.

Zane leaned forward, elbows on the wheel, and rubbed his eyes, careful not to close them for too long. He’d already done school and work before even getting to this job. 

Getting out of the car, he swapped his battered leather jacket for the red apron hanging off the gearshift. He caught a glimpse of himself in the side mirror—messy hair, tired eyes, a face too young for how tired he felt.

Another day, another dollar.

“Hey buddy!” a voice called out as a heavy hand slapped his back.

Zane turned. Carl—the store’s long-time stock manager—had approached him with a grin and a tired gait.

“Ready for another thrilling evening stocking canned soup and frozen peas?”

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day,” Zane said dryly, falling into step beside him.

Carl chuckled. “Well I tell ya, after fifteen years, the magic kinda fades.”

They stepped through the sliding glass doors and into a blast of over-bright fluorescent lights and floor polish.

Inside, the store was quiet—just the hum of coolers and the occasional scuff of a lone cart.

A few minutes later, they clocked in and joined the rest of the night crew near the break room for the pre-stock meeting.

The night manager, clipboard in hand and enthusiasm on backorder, stood beneath a flickering fixture. “Okay, folks. Let’s settle in. Long night ahead.”

The crew—maybe eight or nine in all—stood in matching red aprons. Some were just out of high school. One man with a full-face tattoo. A couple of older guys with pasts they didn’t talk about.

All of them were there for the same reason: to get boxes on shelves, paychecks in pockets, and dodge the occasional lonely customer hunting for ice cream at one in the morning.

Zane opened his eyes. Either he’d blinked, or nodded off for a few minutes while holding a box of lima bean cans.

“Harper!”

The voice snapped down the aisle like a whip.

Mr. Matthews, the shift supervisor, was already striding toward him in his crisp red vest, hands planted on his hips like he’d been born disapproving.

“Let’s pick up the pace a little, hmm?”

“Sorry, Mr. Matthews.”

“Not getting enough sleep during the day? Well, maybe it’s time to work on your personal organization. Whatever the case—when you clock in at Red Ridge Market, we expect that Red Ridge Market attitude.”

“Absolutely.” Zane was trying hard not to give any Red Red Market attitude. 

And just like that, Matthews pivoted and marched off, on the hunt for someone else to scold.

Zane exhaled and turned back to the shelf, sliding cans into place one by one. He didn’t love stocking groceries all night. But Red Ridge Market offered benefits—even to part-timers—and he needed every ounce of support he could get right now.

Especially with his grandpa gone.

Especially when the only family he had left was his cousin.

And especially when he still had to finish senior year… and show up every afternoon at Intrepid Motors.

Sometimes, Zane wondered if exhaustion was just his new resting state.

In another blink, Zane was pulling the old pickup into the gravel driveway.

The house sat alone at the end of a dirt road, half-swallowed by pine trees and creeping kudzu. It was the kind of place an old man might’ve built with his own hands and then stubbornly refused to leave. Tin roof, warped porch steps, screen door with a permanent lean. Some repairs had been made—patches of fresh paint, a new windowpane here or there—but the house still groaned when the wind hit it wrong. It was holding on. Same as them.

Zane killed the engine and stepped out into the cool, pine-scented dark. Flynn’s bedroom light was still on.

Inside, the house creaked as Zane pushed the door open and stepped into the warm, dusty quiet. He poked his head into Flynn’s room.

Flynn sat at an old wooden desk, hunched over three open textbooks—trigonometry, political science, and biochemistry—bathed in the harsh yellow glow of a single desk lamp.

“What in the world are you doing up this late?”

“Early,” Flynn corrected, without looking up.

“I haven’t slept yet, so no—late,” Zane muttered.

“Sorry,” Flynn said, brushing hair from his face. “Just trying to finish some homework.”

“Yours or somebody else’s?”

“Mostly mine,” Flynn said, finally smiling.

Zane shook his head and turned toward his own room. “All right. You do you, cuz. I’m out.”

He barely made it to the mattress before he was asleep.

Less than three hours later, the beat-up pickup was on the move again with Zane driving himself and his sixteen-year-old cousin to school. 

Jasper Creek High smelled like mop water, teenage ambition, and something the janitor swore wasn’t mold. The red brick walls hadn’t changed since the Roosevelt administration, and the off-white floor tiles had seen more shoe tread than the football field—except for the ones in the back wing, where the budget gave up completely and the carpet tiles curled like burnt toast.

Portable classrooms out back dotted between the pine trees handled the town’s modest student growth, but the only real upgrade in decades was the football stadium—which gleamed like a UFO had landed in the middle of a salvage yard. Last year, the Cougars went to state. Which meant the boosters got serious, and the field got lights.

Zane Harper, high school senior, had already disappeared into the crowd, likely cruising through his day like always—visible enough to be respected, distant enough to be left alone.

Flynn moved differently.

He wasn’t part of any clique, but he knew how to navigate most all of them. The drama kids asked him to troubleshoot their lighting cues. The football team slid him test reviews under the table. Teachers trusted him to pass out quizzes when they were late.

Flynn didn’t demand attention.

He just had gravity.

And while most of the student body was still shuffling to second period, one particularly unfortunate freshman had just made the classic mistake of looking a little too long at the wrong girl.

Skippy adjusted his glasses as Emma walked by—platinum hair, bare midriff, perfect posture, and a little more bounce in her step than the dress code allowed. He tried not to stare. He really did.
But his neck betrayed him.

And then it happened.

“HEY!” 

Burt Schott’s voice could have stopped traffic—and probably had.
Six foot two, three hundred pounds, and built like a Chevy Silverado in cleats. He’d been shaving since preschool. Now, surrounded by his usual linebacker entourage, he was glaring down at Skippy like he’d just stolen something sacred.

“You lookin’ at my girl?”

Skippy’s words died somewhere between his throat and his brain.
“Uh… no, sir?”

Burt stepped in. Two other linemen flanked him.

Skippy was now officially in the circle of doom.

That’s when Flynn Harper slipped in—shoulders square, expression easy. Not tense. Not cocky. Just... confident.

He was average. Not ugly. Not Zane. Not built like Burt. Not built like Skippy. Just somewhere in the middle—except for the eyes. His eyes were present. Watching everything.

Flynn eased his way between the enforcers and Skippy like a diplomat navigating a border standoff.

“Burt,” he said softly, hands low and open, “you really wanna risk Friday night over this?”

Burt didn’t answer. Just kept breathing like a bull before a charge.

“Come on,” Flynn continued. “You’re the heart of this team. Riverside Station doesn’t stand a chance if you’re in the game. But if Coach hears you laid out some freshman in the hallway, how’s that going to go down?”

A lineman cut in: “Coach don’t gotta hear nothin’.”

Flynn turned his eyes to Burt.

“Yeah. But broken noses speak for themselves. Coach isn’t going to think somebody like me did a number on Skippy’s face.” 

Burt’s jaw flexed.

“He was starin’.”

Flynn nodded as if he agreed. “Because you’ve got the girl, man. You are Burt Schott! Every guy at this school wishes he were you.”

One of the linebackers muttered, “Facts.”

Flynn leaned in—voice low, not public. Not performative.

“And you know what happens if you break this guy's face? Coach benches you. Without you, Riverside clobbers us. ”

Burt’s fists tightened. His breathing got heavier.

Flynn stepped closer—just enough. Just him and Burt now.

“Drop this… or I drop your trig grade. Then the rest of the season is you watching from the bench.” 

Burt blinked.

Flynn didn’t flinch. Just held the gaze.

Flynn let the silence do the talking. Then Burt backed off a step.

“You better be glad your friend showed up, dweeb.” He turned to leave, and his crew peeled away with him.

Flynn waited until they were gone before turning to Skippy.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, man. I thought I was gonna die.”

Flynn half-smiled, then gave Skippy a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Just... stop looking at his girl.” Then, after a pause—so soft it might’ve been missed: “She’s not a trophy.”

Skippy blinked. His shoulders shrank a little. Flynn didn’t say it again. He didn’t need to.

The hallway had mostly cleared. Skippy had vanished.

Flynn leaned against the lockers, mentally reviewing trig formulas and trying not to think about how close that had been.

Then she walked up.

Jenna Liu.

Red Converse, jeans, a faded hoodie that probably had animal fur on it from her shelter shift. Dark black ponytail, freckles, soft eyes that squinted when she smiled.

She’d been in his classes since middle school—always two rows over, always scribbling something thoughtful. Science club secretary. Animal shelter volunteer. Lowkey hilarious when she wanted to be.

Flynn had liked her for, oh… ever.

“Hey, Flynn,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear in a way that wasn’t helping his blood pressure.

He blinked and smiled. “Hey.”

“I, uh… saw that whole thing with Burt and Skippy. That was pretty impressive.”

He shrugged. “They just like to pal around. You know… loudly. With threats.”

She grinned. “You have a gift, you know that? People actually listen to you.”

Flynn gave a modest smile. “I just begged and groveled, and I think Burt took pity on me.”

She laughed. Then— a pause. Shift of her feet. Fingers twisting her ponytail.

Flynn’s internal alarm system lit up.

“I know this is probably a crazy question,” she said, not quite making eye contact. “And I’m sure girls ask you stuff like this all the time…”

No, they don’t, he thought. But please go on.

“I was just wondering… is your cousin seeing anyone right now?”

Cue internal crash.

Flynn kept the smile up, almost as a reflex at this point.

“No,” he said evenly. “Zane’s, uh… not really seeing anyone.”

Jenna’s eyes brightened. “Could you maybe… put in a good word for me?”

He nodded just once. “Sure.”

His stomach gave a quiet twist. One he didn’t show. He’d had practice. After years of unrequited crushes, one more wouldn’t kill him. Probably.

“You?” he said. “Jenna Liu? Science club, dog whisperer, human golden retriever? He’d be an idiot not to notice.”

She smiled wide. “Thanks for being my wingman.”

He nodded. “It’s kind of my brand.”

She walked off, ponytail bouncing, disappearing into the crowd like a thought he couldn’t finish.

Flynn let out a slow breath and said, mostly to himself:

“Always the wingman.”

Second period hadn’t even started, and Zane had already turned down two offers for tutoring, one invitation to the movies, and one very unsubtle hand on his bicep.

“You know,” said a girl in a peach hoodie, twirling her hair, “if you ever need, like… a study partner. Or someone to talk to. Or just… y’know…”

Zane smiled the way you smile at a puppy chewing the furniture

“Thanks. I’m good.”

He shut his locker, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway like a man on a mission: just get through the day.

History class used to be his favorite, although this late in the year, even the teachers were checked out. Mr. Tidewell was both history teacher and football coach. Lately, he seemed more interested in reeling Zane back onto the field than in teaching about McCarthyism or the Red Scare.

Some classmates—mostly former teammates—were already goofing off before class even started. When Tidewell strolled in, dressed like he was about to lead warm-ups instead of a civics discussion, nobody flinched.

“Okay, class,” he said, clapping his hands. “Same as yesterday. Laptops out, hop on the school portal. Finish your papers and let’s try to keep things at a voice level one or lower.”

Zane raised his hand, then stood and walked up front.

“Hey, Coach. Just wondering if you had a chance to look at my paper?”

Tidewell blinked—like he’d forgotten he was a teacher for a second.

“The one on Castro’s rise to power and its effect on the Kennedy administration,” Zane added.

“Oh. Uh… nah, not yet. Been busy with Riverside coming up.”

“Right. Sure. Just wanted to get your feedback.”

Zane turned to go, but the coach motioned him back with a curling finger.

“Come on, Harper. You took us to state last year, and then you quit on the team. What’s that about?”

Zane met his eyes, not disrespectful, just unflinching. “A lot’s happened since then.”

The coach shifted, a flash of awareness crossing his face. “Yeah. I know. Sorry about your granddaddy. And I get it—it’s just you and your brother now.”

“Cousin.”

“Right.”

Tidewell leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Look, Thompson is great and all that,” the coach began, talking unconvincingly about his new starter. “But he can’t wrap his head around the playbook.”

The coach leaned in even tighter.

“He isn’t you. Zane… you could have a real future. Football, baseball—whatever you want. It’s your ticket outta here.”

Zane nodded. More acknowledgement than agreement.

He wanted to say something. Wanted to explain how he was holding together a household, finishing high school, working two jobs, and managing grief no scholarship offer could fix.

But he didn’t.

“I appreciate that, Coach.”

Then he returned to his desk, opened his laptop, and quietly got back to work.

Both cousins had been up since before sunrise, and by midafternoon, they were running on fumes. But this—working at Intrepid Motors—was arguably the best part of their day.

It felt wrong to think about it just as a job. It was so much more. It was their legacy, their safe place, their home. 

The shop sat just off one of Jasper Creek’s main roads, tucked between a faded billboard and a line of tall pines. On this particular Tuesday, the lot out front was mostly empty—just an older Honda Civic that had just gotten a new transmission, and a shiny Corvette waiting on its owner.

Zane was flat on his back beneath an old truck, not much different than his own. Something was leaking—probably coolant—but tracing it was the real game. Frayed hose? Cracked reservoir? 

This kind of job? He’d do it for free, which was lucky, because that’s roughly what the owners were paying him.

Flynn, meanwhile, was inside—behind the desk in the cramped, sun-warmed office. He wasn’t allowed near the actual repairs anymore. After the spark plug incident, that was made crystal clear.

So he handled the paperwork. Invoices. Calls. Scheduling.
Or he would have, if there had been any work to schedule.

Late spring usually brought busted radiators and pre-road-trip oil changes. But this year? The lot was mostly empty. And Flynn, sitting in a squeaky swivel chair, was out of things to alphabetize.

He spun lazily in his seat, eyes drifting to the large photo on the wall—faded and yellowed from the sun pouring through the office windows.

Three men, late twenties or early thirties, arms locked in a side-hug, standing proudly in front of the newly opened shop: Intrepid Motors.

These were the Harper Brothers. 

But rather than the obvious, they had named the shop Intrepid Motors. Growing up, their dad always said they were “intrepid young men.” The word stuck. The name stuck. The dream stuck.

Flynn stared at the photo. And memory took over.

He could see it like a movie in his mind. 

Rain drumming on the tin roof, pine needles stuck to the windshield wipers, the scent of motor oil mixing with mountain air.

He was little, maybe five. Playing with toy trucks in a dry corner of the shop. His mom at the desk, fingers flying across a keyboard. Aunt Rachel chasing Zane away from Uncle Phil’s toolbox. Cars filled the lot. Orders stacked sky-high.

Uncle Phil had his electric-blue truck hoisted in the air. Uncle Roger was elbows-deep in the engine of a neon-green sports car.
And Dad—his dad—was under the hood of some dusty old hatchback.

They were working late. Laughing louder than the sounds of all the power tools. Grandpa always said they were probably teasing Roger about his latest girlfriend—Ashlee with two E’s. Roger, the youngest, was always the easy target.

Flynn couldn’t remember the jokes. 

Just the feeling. 

Warm light. Loud voices. Everything humming with life.

That was eleven years ago. It might as well have been another planet.

After the accident, the shop—like everything else—became just another casualty. Their grandfather didn’t have the technical know-how to keep it running. And after what happened, he didn’t have the heart either.

Foreclosure loomed. But a mechanic from the city looking to start his own business—a man who had worked his way up from a garage worker to vice president of a major company—stepped in and took it over. Out of respect for the legacy, he kept the name. Intrepid Motors stayed open for business.

And when Zane and Flynn got old enough, they were offered part-time jobs. Not because it made financial sense—but because it should’ve been theirs. 

It was a memory. A monument. And now it was the last piece of family they had left.

Like a lot of garages, Intrepid Motors had a key drop box near the entrance for after-hours service—just a metal slot on a rusted box stuck on a pole beside the lot’s edge.

From the office, Flynn spotted an older man depositing something into the box. Thin, weathered. He slipped a small yellow envelope into the slot and paused, his hand lingering like he’d just sealed something important.

Weird. Mr. Carson hadn’t mentioned any new drop-offs. And besides, they were still open—why use the box?

Flynn stood from his chair and stepped toward the glass office door, ready to call out, “Can I help you, sir?”

That’s when the man looked up—and locked eyes with Flynn. 

Just for a second. But something connected them. 

Flynn’s breath caught. He didn’t know this man. And yet… he didn’t feel like a stranger. It was like he recognized him on some deeper level, like someone he’d known forever.

The man’s smile was soft. Kind. Worn out. Like it came from a long way off. He looked a little like Grandpa, but at the same time clearly a different person.

Maybe that was just grief playing tricks.

“Hey Flynn,” came a shout from the garage bay. “Toss me a rag?”

That was Zane. Face dripping with coolant. Grinning like an idiot.

Flynn turned, grabbed a towel off the counter, and when he looked back—

The old man was gone.

No car. No footsteps.

Flynn had almost forgotten the old man—until Mr. Carson’s car pulled into the lot.

The shop owner stepped out slowly, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying something heavier than tools. Carson was a good man—steady, fair—but today he looked gutted.

Flynn crossed the gravel to meet him.

“Hey, Mr. Carson.”

“Flynn.” The man nodded but didn’t smile. His voice was dry.

“You okay, sir?” Flynn asked, picking up on the tension right away.

No answer. Carson just stared at the office door like it might open by itself.

“Anything happen this afternoon while I was gone, kid?” 

“Someone dropped something in the key box—an older guy. Came up from the sidewalk. No car.”

That got Carson’s attention.

“He didn’t leave a name?”

“No, sir. I was going to go out and talk to him, but then Zane needed something, and by the time I looked back, he was gone.”

Carson frowned. “I’m not expecting anyone. And nobody should use the drop box during open hours.”

“Maybe it’s a note or something,” Flynn offered. “Want me to go check?”

Carson shook his head. “I’ll get it.”

He took a breath, then paused.

“Actually… can you get Zane and meet me in the office?”

Flynn squinted. “Are we in trouble?”

Carson’s mouth flickered into a whisper of a smile. “Just meet me in there, boys.”

The office was quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the ticking wall clock. Zane sat, arms crossed, pretending to be relaxed—but his foot tapped rhythmically under the desk. On the other hand, Flynn was bouncing his leg in his chair like he was trying to generate electricity.

Zane glanced over. “Could you just calm down?”

Flynn shot him a look. “That’s kind of hard to do, considering I’m ninety percent sure we’re about to get the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.”

“You’re about to wear a hole in the floor. Just cool it.”

The glass door creaked open. Mr. Carson stepped in, holding a small yellow envelope: hand-sized, faded, unassuming.

He looked at it, then at them. “Whatever your mystery man dropped off... I think it’s for you. Not me.”

He handed it to Flynn.

The envelope had no stamp, no return address. Just three printed words on the front in clean, bold letters:

THE COUSINS INTREPID

Flynn stared at it; it was heavier than it looked. But before he could open it, Mr. Carson let out a long sigh and sank into his chair behind the desk.

“There’s no easy way to say this…”

Zane didn’t even look up. “Flynn break another Chevy?”

That drew a faint chuckle. “Zane, I’ve made it a personal policy to keep Flynn away from anything with an engine.”

Flynn forced a sheepish smile, but it vanished fast.

Carson hesitated again. Then: “Boys, I had to sell.”

The words hit like a dropped wrench.

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Flynn’s breath caught—but at least now he knew what they were dealing with. “We haven’t had many customers lately.”

Carson nodded, but his expression darkened. “It gets worse. I tried to find a real buyer—someone who’d keep the shop running. But there was no interest. The chain down the highway took most of the work. We just couldn’t keep up.”

Zane’s brow furrowed. He didn’t move, but his shoulders tensed.

Carson looked down. “The buyer’s a developer. They’re planning to tear it all down… turn it into a frozen yogurt place.”

Flynn blinked. “Oh. That’s… yeah. Who doesn’t like froyo?” The words were hollow, an automatic attempt to lighten the air. It didn’t work.

Zane’s fist hit the desk—not loud, but sharp and sudden.

He didn’t explode. He didn’t yell. He pressed his hand against his face, dragging it down like he was trying to wipe the emotion off. When he spoke, his voice was tight with restraint.

“My dad… Flynn’s dad… their brother… the three of them didn’t buy this place.”

Carson looked down, eyes heavy.

“They built it,” Zane said. “Started with nothing but an empty gravel lot. Worked nights. Burned themselves out trying to make something that lasted.”

His voice cracked just slightly.

“This place… it was all we had left of them.”

He turned toward the corner of the office—toward nothing in particular. His final words came quiet, bitter, stunned.

“Frozen yogurt.”

Flynn still hadn’t looked up. He just sat forward, hands clasped together, eyes on the floor.

“It’s not Mr. Carson’s fault,” he said.

Carson looked between them, remorse etched into every line of his face. “If you want someone to blame, blame me. I blame myself. I should’ve found a way to keep it going.”

Flynn shook his head. “Mr. Carson, you’ve looked out for us since day one. You didn’t have to. You did anyway. There was nothing else you could’ve done.”

Zane finally looked up—right at Carson. “I’d never blame you.”

A silence settled between them.

Then Flynn asked, “Where will you go?”

Carson leaned back, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Probably back to Nashville. Back to the corporate world. It’s a shame. I really thought this would work.”

Zane nodded, voice low, resigned. “Life.”

Both boys rose quietly and returned to work, the news sitting heavy in their minds. Flynn slipped the envelope into his pocket, almost as an afterthought—unaware of the doors that key would unlock. For him. For both of them.