Page 6 of Claimed By the War Brute
I lean back, wrap my hands, and tense.
The storm begins now—and I'll be the lightning.
CHAPTER 5
SYD
The transport cell is eerily familiar—high, blank walls of brushed alloy, the hush of recycled air. Nothing’s supposed to happen here, yet everything does. This time, there are no other women. No unconscious bodies. No pacing guards. Just me—and that circular ceiling camera that tracks my every move, whirring like an eager mechanical eye. It barely pauses, as if searching for something I’m not giving it.
My wrists ache—those neon cuffs are gone, but the memory burns. Aelphus removed them like he was sanitizing a lab sample. “You're not valuable if you're damaged,” he said, voice flat and cruel, like he was comparing me to a cracked glass. His words wedge themselves between my ribs, heavy enough to muffle any hope. I rub the faint bruises where sparks once bit me, but I don’t bleed. Not yet. Not here.
There’s a cot bolted to the wall, a hydration port that emits a faint hiss when I drink, and a toilet that flushes like a turbine—ten times more luxurious than the gutter-world you’d find in a pirate hold. Five-star prison, indeed. I lean my hip against the wall, humming a riff from my old setlist. My fingers twitch as though strumming phantom strings. I let the melody run—rock-solid, defiant—because beneath it, my mind is a scramblingcircuit board. She had a plan on stage, then nothing but empty space. Now I need a new plan. The question isn’t if I get out—it’s how and when.
Second day dawns, and nothing changes except the silence. Then I hear it—a voice, low and rumbling, behind the panel walls. Too distant to understand, but the tone tells me everything I need to know: authority, controlled rage, violence held on a razor’s edge. I press my ear to the cool alloy and hold still. The voice fades, but the aftermath echoes in my bloodstream—it means someone’s new in this wing. They’re not here to swap needles or whip out a loaner blaster. They’re here because they’re dangerous.
I watch the corridor beyond the reinforced glass, see guards shifting differently when they pass the adjoining cell. Their posture stiffens; their eyes dart left and right, as though the metal walls they lean against might grow eyes. During meal transfers, I catch a glimpse of him: brooding, colossal. Shoulders like steel bulkheads, armor dented and scarred, pauldrons that scream veteran status. I see a flash of crimson-scaled hands—vacant brutality etched into his form. Then golden eyes—unchallenged by mortal suns. I swallow, but it’s not fear. It’s… instinct. My gut clenches. He’s not mercenary-grade; he’s battlefield legend. He’s a damn war machine.
I start gathering intel, weaving it into conversation where I can. A slender guard with nervous eyes brings me food. I flirt—mildly, disarming smiles, offhand comments about the absurdity of the toilet’s flush. I name-drop innocuously: “They’re calling me Malmount, huh? Better get used to that label.” He shows his discomfort but answers. I learn this ship: Imperion Ascendant, Vortaxian flagship, cold command hub of Aelphus Rex. Another guard, hair-clean and posture disciplined, warns me in low Trade Standard: “Don’t ask too manyquestions. Yago doesn’t like that.” That’s code for: “They’ll hurt you if you slip.”
When I ask about the guy across the hall, the hair-clean guard rolls his eyes. “The Vakutan? Kill count rated higher than the Red Moon front. He’s not here for friendship bracelets—he’s here to burn.” He spits as though the words taste like ash. Yet I watch that hulking cell: no shouting matches, no brags, no sighing. Just silent dominance. He doesn’t speak to guards. Doesn’t ask for crumbs. He just is.
These days blur into boundary testing: doors, codes, breath cycles. I memorize guard shift swaps—two at a time, nine-minute intervals, one mechanical eyedude manning the green-lit console. I memorize the dull click before the tray window retracts. I memorize the surveillance camera timing: whirr… panning left for two seconds, right for three. I memorize it all because even the tiniest crack can be a chink.
On day four, as usual, a guard arrives with the tray. I lean forward, one hip against the wall, voice casual, low.
“Is that the breach bay over on 7-Section?” I ask, nodding casually at the corridor.
He glances over his shoulder, jaw clenched. “You care?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Just curious.”
He presses back the sliding panel with a grunt. “They bring people in there. Not all come back.”
I tilt my head slowly. “Permanent repairs?”
He snorts. “Maybe.”
As he leaves, his security card dangles—loose between belt and holster. Oops. I keep my face neutral, but sparks flicker behind my eyes.
When the tray window slides back in, I tuck a look at the card. I don’t smile. I don’t want his sympathy. But I want what it means: movement. Access. A chance.
Night roars in—whatever that means here. The bulkheads light in waves, die down, flicker, mimic the passage of time. I hum a low note, my voice echoing off the walls.
I wonder if he hears it next door. Maybe he senses the shift in the pattern, the secret melody of my escape plan uncoiling like a storm.
Day five, the guard rotation shifts. Hair-clean guard is back with water tray. He’s jumpy. Oversharps his words. I decide to up my gamble:
“How’s the prince feeling?” I ask, idly. He freezes. Heartbeats too loud. He swallows.
“Why’d you go asking?”
I smile real and spacious. “Curiosity kills—or saves.”
He huffs. “He’s fine. Busy. Not our concern.” He retracts the panel quickly. Card stays behind. Dangerous mistake. Lucky me.
That night, under the flicker of the corridor lights, I press my fingers against the wall. The card is flexible plastic, grants low-level access. Hopefully enough. I explore the grooves of the panel seam, testing edges with my fingernail. I feel resonance—metal gives, just enough. I press harder. A click echoes in the cavity.
I freeze, breath shallow. Did anyone hear it? No footsteps. No alarm. Still, I withdraw quietly.
