Page 19 of Claimed By the War Brute
I nod once. “Expect more. We’re not messing around.”
Back at the ship, I slough off armor on the bulkhead. Syd is waiting in the doorway—blaster strapped, stance matched in stark confidence. The air hums with anticipation.
Her tone’s breezy, but I detect a tremor. “You get us new friends?”
“Yeah.” I shut the hatch. “Kex will outfit us. For a price.”
“What kind of price?”
I meet her gaze. “Loyalty—and explosives.”
She smirks, but fear shadows her eyes. I step close, arm sliding around shoulders to lower lean in. My voice softened, intent whispered. “You sure?”
She doesn’t flinch. “He threw me away like I was defective merchandise. I’m more than sure.”
I exhale once—a predator releasing coiled intent. “Then we go all in.”
Our eyes lock—two fugitives, rogue lovers forging purpose out of chaos.
We set nav coordinates to the Drift safe zones and make systems checks. I glance sideways: she’s plugged comm codes for allied smugglers, cross-checking access lanes. Flames of resolve flicker in her face. My pulse syncs.
“Once Kex outfits us,” I say, voice quiet, “we hit his network. Weapon shipments, ledgers, secure comm logs—everything that connects back to him. We’ll burn that empire to garbage.”
She says nothing for a moment. Then: “Let’s make sure he feels it.”
My chest rumbles low. “We will.”
The silence settles between us like armor—but it's different now. Charged. Purposeful. I rest a hand on the console, feeling systems purr at restraint. She leans back, hair falling lightly across metal, a wisp that mirrors fading smoke.
She tilts her head, voice soft. “You ready for this?”
I look at her—vestiges of fear, but nowhere near weak. She’s defiant reborn. Vital. “I am. You?”
Her smirk is wickedly sure. “Born ready.”
Under the rusted lights of Grimface Four, we embody reclamation—not escape. We’re fugitives, rebels, warriors. And now? We’re strategizing an empire’s undoing.
The port buzzed earlier with murmurs—tonight, it will light with fireworks.
She’s my reason. My purpose.
I nod once, stepping forward. “Let’s gear up,” I say firmly. “And let’s give Malmount a war he can’t outsource.”
She catches my hand and pulls me close for a brief touch—fingers braided through claws, skin pressed to scale. “Together,” she murmurs.
“Together,” I echo.
Out here, gravity is optional—but loyalty weighs everything.
And in Grimface Four? We’re about to tip the scale.
CHAPTER 17
SYD
The courier’s command terminal hums with malfunctions—flickering lights, cracked casing, half-dead circuitry begging for reboot. Its raw, gutted state feels like home. I slip my damp hair behind my ear, neon reflections simmering across my soaked scalp. The smell of melted plastic and ozone drifts from open panels, punctuated by the stale tang of recycled air—an echo of cell-block nights.
I slot the cracked neural band into its port, electricity arcing across contact points like tiny lightning bolts. My skull hums in response, reconnecting to that third layer of me where rhythm and code are interchangeable. This instrument aches to sing.
