Page 10 of Claimed By the War Brute
A message: plans forming. Intent. I sink into the bed, exhale like escaping air. I’m not alone anymore. That revelation crashes me down: This mission isn’t just escape. It’s revolution.
I close my eyes, and the ship’s layout unfolds inside my head—the cot position, the panel code beats, the ventilation ducts, the fluorescent tube angles. Medical bay peripheral tubes, the ceiling grid’s pulse patterns, the vantage point on the mercenary bay I glimpsed through sedation. The ship isn’t infinite. It’s a puzzle with fractures—and now, I have brute strength and war scars on my side.
A thrill pulses through me. The plan reboot starts now.
Next shift, I stage it: during meal transfer, I fumble my tray off one arm, stumble toward the panel, and “accidentally” brush the locking mechanism. The magnet sweeps with a quick click-click, and I freeze long enough to feel its two-second cycle. I don’t flinch. I note it, imprint it. The guard leers at my cleavage and mutters, “Better luck next time, sweetheart.” I memorize his face. His arrogance will be currency later.
I stand straighter, dignity intact, as he leaves. No hesitation. He won’t know why I remember, but I will.
Another cycle, another test. I pace deliberately, timing my hisses of shuffling boots to the hum of the maintenance fans to sound accidental. The panel hums quieter here—something I can exploit later. If I trigger the field off-cycle… maybe I slip through, even if just for a second.
At lights-down, I hum my own rhythm quietly, a compliment to his message. I rest my fingers on my chest, feeling my heart’s code: thump-thump, steady, defiant. The camera above meshifts focus slightly, like it’s responding—but it doesn’t jump. It doesn’t, yet.
My mind clicks through contingencies: What if I black out sensors by overloading a line? What if I flag a minor internal breach to lure guards away? I taste adrenaline the way I used to taste applause before SynthDust Nights. Everything’s potential.
Later, during the last cycle of the day, I pretend to shift painfully, testing the panel’s tolerance. It doesn’t alarm—but I feel the static tug as the field reacts to my proximity. Small success. My breath shudders. I swallow, eyes catching the camera’s quiet whirr as it pans away.
Mission objective resets: Get to him. Synchronize. Exit with intent.
Between the codes, I whisper rhythms to myself: tap-tap, pause, long draw… under breath. I treat them like lyrics, each beat a line in our clandestine anthem. He sends. I respond. And now, I stand in the center of a silent concert of defiance.
My father’s empire can rot in orbit. The ship’s golden palace can clang itself into dust. This cadence is my weapon. And when he emerges from the corridor—when his presence bleeds into the next stage—it’ll be more than escape. It'll be a symphony of sabotage and fire.
Tonight, I rewrite the song. His rhythm is the overture. Mine is the rebellion.
And the chorus—our freedom—will be unstoppable.
CHAPTER 10
GARRUS
The rhythm changes.
It’s subtle, barely perceptible through the bulkhead, but my kind are made for this. For war’s silence. For survival in places where sound betrays and breath kills. Four quick taps. One long. Two sharp like stiletto strikes.
Reply.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just let the message bleed into my chest through steel and static. It’s not just acknowledgment—it’s intelligence. A counter-rhythm. An answer crafted in pressure and defiance. She’s not just awake in there. She’s plotting.
I shift my weight, just enough to crack my neck. No smile—Vakutans don’t waste expressions—but my stance sharpens, bones coiled tight beneath my armor. This girl—no, this woman—isn’t dead weight. She’s not flailing. She’s ready. And I’ve gone into firestorms with worse odds and dumber allies.
I cross to the back wall of the cell and slide open the compartment on my vambrace. The echo chip I lifted is no bigger than a fingernail, but it pulses with promise. I’ve rerouted its frequency twice, but now it needs real processing power. Real distraction.
The kind that spills blood.
Perfect timing. Vortaxian guards file past, their footfalls syncopated and dull—tight, controlled. One pauses by my cell, the squad leader with the sunburst sigil and a voice like chewed gravel.
“Loyalty trials. You’re up next rotation.”
I grunt. “Bout damn time.”
The “arena” isn’t an arena, not really. It’s a retrofitted cargo hold ringed in electrified steel. Crowds gather in the galleries above—Vortaxian elites and command staff watching behind shimmering safety fields. They want a show. Good. I’m giving them one.
They shove three of us into the ring. A pair of mercs I’ve seen before—brash, overarmed, undertrained. One’s got a grin like he’s auditioning for a pirate holodrama. The other’s twitching already, nerves shot. I roll my neck, feel the tension in my joints. My armor creaks with old blood.
They announce the match with a siren shriek. The crowd roars.
I don’t wait. I move.
