Page 5 of Claimed By the War Brute
He snorts, but motions us forward. We proceed along a corridor pulsing with power. Walls hum with energy veins. The lights flicker in alien patterns, shifting rhythm like a heartbeat in polyps. I keep my head down—but my senses are lit up. Every step I take is a silent recalculation: splice-point bolts, layer-gusset seams, breach valve codes, and especially what they hide.
The corridor forks. Guards steer me left. I note the door sub-code—4412-G—but more importantly, I spot the unshown right wing, veiled by shadows. Likely where they keep her, or something worse. They don’t advertise cargo where they store hostages.
I pick up a hushed conversation between two soldiers ahead. “Ransom runs tonight. High command wants collateral sold before jump.”
“Mal-mount name’s headlining.”
My jaw tightens. It’s real. She’s alive, maybe cooperating or maybe broken. Doesn’t matter—I’m here.
We round a corner and enter a holding chamber. Dozens of mercs slumped against walls, jittery, scanning me like prey. They’re the cannon-fodder types—expendable, expendable, expendable. I can almost smell the over-tuned adrenaline and arrogance. I step in, and they shift—some dividing their attention from me, others sizing me up like I’m killer bait.
A few bold ones grunt “At least you got paid,” sneering as they shift in the recycled-air haze. I don’t respond; I lean back against the panel behind me. My armor is burnished, scarred. No need to insult; my posture speaks violence.
They whisper about the warship’s crew. Some talk about Aelphus Rex, a golden-skinned god-king of annihilation,someone fascinating to kill or terrifying to disappoint. More than one secures a pistol with a thumb in flipping-tension. They expect a show. They expect fireworks with a fuse.
I close my eyes and breathe. The recycled air tastes faintly of chlorine and oil. My chest creaks as the gravity pulls at me. I think of Horus IV. I think of Ganymede. Corpses stacked like failed bridges. Trust dried up. U.S. ground shook with betrayal. And women… women in the rubble who smelled of fear and gunpowder and begged for something no one could give.
I exhale. I’m not about redemption. Not about glory.
I inch forward, turning my head just enough to feel the breech code markers on the panel behind me. 7921-alpha. Valuable info. That door opens only with override—goes to core access. If I make it that far…
Someone starts whispering a prayer in an obscure dialect I don’t know. I lean farther, intent for a moment, but shake my head. Save religion for survivors.
Another guard enters. I see him eye the ragged mercs. I register his limp—slight, left leg. Stress fracture, maybe from a weight carried too long. Another detail layered in file memory.
Then the hatch behind me hisses. Guards order everyone up. Someone cracks a joke about "showtime," choking on their own unease. I feel their hope leak away because they know nothing about me, and what they see scares them.
I walk forward, mask locked on, body language a weapon. I’ll make them learn who Ruk Talon really is, or know their false assumptions in my blood. I don’t smile. I don’t speak. I let them think they lead.
They push me through winding halls. Flickers of glyphs pulse overhead. I note: every sixty seconds, power cycles flicker; every fourth panel bleeds power for deeper systems. I note where the comm-shaft runs—thin, hard to break in without making noise. They’re meticulous. Nothing sloppy here.
We pause outside another door. Two guards input a code. 4412-H. Echos of her name—Mal-mount—still in my system. I step up behind them.
Door hisses opens, and they shove me inside a smaller cell. Furniture? None. Just walls and lights.
Another atmosphere shift. This one smells faintly organic—cold silicone and recycled breath. My senses tangle. I long for pain, but this is standstill. Stasis.
They lock me in, leaving only a panel and a bench alloy. I sit. They don’t take away my weapons—not yet.
I look up. Weapon lights circle high overhead. They’re ready for me to break. Defender’s curse.
I test each joint in my armor. Nothing squeaks or gives. But they put a locator nanobot inside. I feel the tickle of surveillance. If I want to break these chains, I’ll need to devise it. Soon.
One of the other mercs in here busts into chatter—frantic, all bravado. “Hey, Ruk—err, commander guy—how many times you get pulled into royal hitlists? You some kind of legend or just dumb?”
I stare at him. Gold eyes flat. “I don’t answer to legends. I answer to pain and necessity.” He blinks, shrinks back. That’s enough.
Minutes pass. The corridor lights flicker. Then the hatch clicks again. It’s not the squad. It’s a single attendant—carting nutrient-gel and water ration. He slams it in and retreats without catching my gaze.
This silence, this pause—it’s the space before a storm. And I rehearse everything dopamine-like in my brain: breach the code. Use their scanner blind-spot. Hijack the circuit board to unlock four cells over. Extract her. Then burn this warship from the inside. Maybe slaughter the lot. Maybe not. But I’ll make them wish they’d left her.
I close my eyes and breathe slow. The hum overhead pulses like a wounded animal. My senses keep silent vigil.
They didn’t bring me in to kill her. They brought me in to control her. Use her. Trade her like cattle. That fury boils in me. I can't let it become regret.
I rise. I pace the length of the chamber. Twice. Three times. The pause ends only when the ambient light dims again, signaling transfer. My time is ticking. I feel it.
Standing at the far end, I press my palm to the wall. It hums beneath. I concentrate. Let it pulse. My eyes flick to edges of the panel—not where it opens easily, but where the cracks start. If I can bend one of those cracks, I might pop a panel. A crack for an opening. A path for the spark.
