Page 3 of Claimed By the War Brute
“Yeah, we got a situation. Some asshole is interrupting my workout.”
Old man Dowron doens’t so much as twitch. He’s prepared to be patient. I try to ignore him but he’s as relentless as his reputation.
“I need you to do an extraction.”
“Another civilian got kidnapped. I don’t do civilians anymore.”
He grunts. “This one’s high-value. Arms-merchant’s daughter—Sydney Malmount.”
I snort. “Daddy’s pet? I’m not about to rescue a little trust-fund princess.”
“She’s not like him,” Dowron snaps. “Plays music, helps people. She’s good.”
“You don’t know good, General.” I step closer to the screen, letting the old fury show. “You knew me. You knew Horus IV. And you left us there.”
“I did what I had to.”
“You did what was easy.”
He slams a fist on his own console. “This isn’t about the past!”
“It’s all I’ve got,” I bark. “I should kill you for even asking.”
“They took her to breed, Garrus. To own.”
That shuts me up. My claws twitch.
Dowron exhales, softer now. “They don’t just kill. They strip you down until nothing’s left.
My voice drops to a low rasp. “If I do this… I go alone.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And afterward?”
“You vanish. Clean slate.”
I kill the feed.
Later, I load crates onto the Nighthawk—pulse rifles, incendiaries, unregistered. This isn't a mission. It’s a reckoning. I outfit the hull, tweak stealth systems, adjust my armor—worn, merc-branded, Karrux-coded. Let them think I’m fodder.
At the terminal, I study the attack vector again. Surgical. Predatory. Not a raid. A hunt. These bastards have plans.
In the cockpit, stars blur ahead. I catch my reflection—gold eyes, dull scales, fire still inside. I strap in.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, girl.”
I launch. And just like that, I vanish into the dark.
CHAPTER 3
SYD
The humming wakes me.
Not the soft kind that rocks you back to sleep, but a mechanical drone—low, metallic, like an engine idling with menace. It pulses in sync with my heartbeat, a predator's breath filtered through steel lungs. My eyes peel open against the assault of harsh blue light, everything sharp and sterile like I’ve woken inside a weaponized spa. The walls shimmer with sleek, brushed metal. The floor’s so clean I can see my reflection, and gods, I look like I’ve been chewed up and spit out by a meat grinder.
My wrists are suspended in these translucent restraints, humming with soft mag-energy, holding me just off the floor. Ankles too, shackled in glowing rings that throb with every pulse of the room’s ambient field. It’s like floating in tension. The gravity’s turned up too high—just enough to make my muscles scream when I shift. Like the room wants me to *feel* how small I am.
