Page 54 of Claimed By the War Brute
“In position,” she hisses. Her voice is a scalpel—calculated, precise. Her target scope flares on monitors—three sentry bots. She glances to me. “Take point. I’ll back you up.”
I nod and dive in, rifle slung, claws tightening. The first merc goes down with a single punch—shoulder out of socket, back snapping against the wall. The second tries to flank me; I hook his leg, toss him into a support column. The third charges witha plasma axe—sweet. I catch the weapon, twist, and smash his forearm. The axe disintegrates in a hiss of plasma. He collapses, screaming.
Syd steps in, rifle humming. “Room is clear.” The word carries more relief than a lullaby after a riot.
“Next.” I rake the corridor ahead, lights dimming, dust shimmering. I taste gun oil and sweat. It’s familiar—war, but cleaned up, dignified.
We press in, clearing rooms, disabling turrets with grenades set to melt circuitry. Every corridor leads us upward, closer to the control nexus. The air here tastes metallic, sharp like broken teeth.
On the top floor, Morsk waits. I know him by sight—tall, ramrod posture, face mapped with scars, eyes wild with self-righteous lust. He’s on camera loop now, pacing in front of hacked monitors, flanked by four enhanced mercs and a cluster of bristling drone sentries.
He hears us before we speak. “Vakutan war hero,” Morsk purrs, voice calibrated to contempt. “Come to preach repentance?”
I draw and level my rifle. Blue plasma light paints his features. My claws flex in the sleeve.
“No speeches,” I growl. “You want order? Here’s your final report.”
The shot is clean. A single bolt. He drops to his knees, then face-first. Silence follows—new and foreign.
One of the enhanced mercs sputters, raising a weapon. I move—fast. One elbow. One punch. Bone cracks under reinforced armor. He crumples.
Syd finishes the rest—plasma darts, disabling bots. She stands by Morsk’s motionless form, breathing heavy, eyes bright with victory. “Clear,” she says quietly.
I step to the control core, remove the power node, plant the disruptor. It hums under my gloves.
“You ready?” I ask her.
“With pleasure,” she says.
We retreat on impact timer, footsteps pounding as corridors seethe with ruptured circuits and smoke. The station wails—alarms, metal warping, lights fracturing.
We hit the hanger, throw ourselves into the ship. I lift off seconds before the charge ignites.
Behind us, Yterra-6’s night blossoms with destruction—a wave of silent violence. We jump just as walls cave in.
Back in the Vigil’s End, the cockpit clicks over. Syd slumps, exhausted, gunmetal eyes watering with adrenaline.
“Is it over?” she asks, voice strangling.
I place my hand on her shoulder, firm and sure. “Yeah. This part is.”
She leans into me, forehead against my arm. “So…what now?”
I close my eyes. For the first time in years, peace doesn’t feel like surrender—it feels earned. “Now,” I say, voice low and steady, “we live.”
She lifts her head, nose still damp from pain or sweat, I don’t care which. She nods once, firm.
I wrap an arm around her, the Vigil’s End humming around us—a cradle forged in vengeance and hope.
“This is our life,” I whisper.
She smiles, tired but fierce. “My life,” she corrects.
And in the silence that follows, it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like something generous, something promised.
We just…exist. Two ghosts in the void, not running—not hiding. Walking toward what’s next, together.
I let that moment expand, tasting the salt of her skin, the hum of the ship.
