Mulgore wasn’t born. He was made—grown in a sealed lab, deep off-record, under the watch of a weapons division that officially doesn’t exist. His father figure, the lead scientist on the project, built him to end wars before they started. Engineered muscle. Spliced aggression. No conscience. No memory.
The experiment succeeded, then failed exactly how you’d expect expect as his handlers were tore apart and a large cell door ripped out in which he had been crushed under.
The facility’s gone now—burned, buried, erased. Everyone involved either vanished or cashed out early and quiet. Mulgore didn’t vanish. He surfaced two years later when he was declared war againstst by a interdimentional weapons trader who was found to be dead when his head showed up in a package.
Since then, he’s built a gang—other prototypes, castoffs, lab-born things like him. Hybrids with broken DNA and unfinished minds. They don’t follow orders. They follow him. Not because he inspires loyalty, but because they’re animals and he’s the alpha.
Their ship is a moving wreck, welded from scrapped war machines and armored haulers. No transponder. No ident. It doesn’t land—it crashes. They trade in slaves, guns, organs, and fuel. They take what they want and kill what they don’t.
Full uv everywhere I could manage. Ships with some bonus goodies and comes ready to wear on an adjustable paracord.