Page 7 of Claimed By the War Brute
It’s just after the fifth hum, when the guard rotation is back to the one who muttered about kill-count. He sweeps in with my dinner tray. I rattle a quiet question about the Vakutan again.
“Your friend next door—what do they feed him?”
He glances at the cell, unsettled. “Nothing but water and silence. He doesn’t beg.”
I nod, leaning in low. “Sounds familiar.”
He shrugs. “Aelphus keeps them alienated. No distractions.”
Aelphus. The prince. I taste bile. Not for the name… but for what he stands for.
He doesn’t notice my fingers creeping toward the panel crack. He doesn’t see me. I’m inside him. I’m inside this ship. Soon, I’ll be inside the vault—or maybe freeing the Vakutan. Maybe both.
Later, cloaked under dimmed lights, I stretch out both hands, pressing into the seam. Blood wells from my bruised wrist; I ignore it. Then—click. A panel slides quietly inward. Inside: a shallow cavity, wires and secure conduits. I slip the security card in, swipe it down a scanner. The red LED flicks to green. Behind me, a camera outside hisses slightly as it rotates away.
My chest tightens. Time slows. I pull out the card and push the panel closed. No alarms sound—yet.
I know where the breach bay is now. Maybe tonight I slip through. Maybe I get to the corridor. Maybe I find the Vakutan. Maybe I rescue myself. Maybe I light this place on fire.
I lean back, breath slow. Fingers tremble.
This is war. And I’m ready for a fight.
That night, I hum an old riff again. But this time it’s not defiance—it’s determination. Because the hold begins to crack when you play your own song.
CHAPTER 6
GARRUS
The Vortaxians think they’ve outsmarted themselves, stashing their “valuable assets” on a separate level, as if prisoners are currency to be hoarded and traded. The corridor outside the transport cells hums with undercurrents of command—metal veins pulsing beneath the plating, guards’ boots echoing like distant cannon fire, and the faint hiss of power converters working overtime. I walk slower than expected, letting them believe I’m merely Karrux cannon fodder. But I’m mapping every detail: patrol routes, timing of lights, thickness of bulkheads, location of weapon storage. They’ll never suspect that I repeat every loop in my head like a war dance.
When I hover just outside one security bulkhead, my shoulder nearly touches the panel. My reflection catches me, gold eyes flicked sideways—not because I’m lost in vanity, but because I imagine who might be behind the reinforced glass. I stay longer than protocol demands, listening to distant mechanical rhythms, recording guard weak spots. It’s all ritual now—plants of information to feed the coming strike.
I reroute a meal cart under the guise of hunger, catching a shadow through a narrow slot in one of those reinforced celldoors. Just a flash: dark hair with pink and blue streaks, a chin tilted in defiance, eyes that blaze like twin novas no matter how dim the light. My chest compresses, breath catches. That’s not normal. That’s not part of the plan.
I leave the cart behind, march away, jaw clenched tight enough to snap growled curses. Vakutan never feel weakness—our hearts are forged in war and blockaded emotions. But that look… It stirs something older than blood: the jalshagar.
We dismiss it as myth—sacred connection deeper than kin, older than conflict. I thought it comfort for dying soldiers. Now it tightens my gut. I feel like a compass pulled off axis, drawn toward her. That scares me more than any battlefield.
Back in the holding bay, I recline against the cold wall, blades sheathed, optics idling. Around me, mercs jostle like schoolyard bullies—loud, coarse, pissing in corners to claim space. They brag of jobs and kills and credits—shit they don’t deserve. But I don’t hear them. My chest keeps rhythm to distant drums: her heartbeat echoing across these walls. I pull up my forged credentials on a data slate—a memory check: Sydney Malmount. The daughter of a ruthless arms-dealer who bled whole planets dry. The man whose products carved my scars. I close it. I shouldn’t—makes me hate her. But I can’t look away.
Something grinds inside me. I should be mad. I am mad. She’s family to a man complicit in the slaughter of my own kind. But I saw that look—raw defiance behind bars. And I wonder: maybe this isn’t about blood or debt. Maybe it’s about something else entirely.
That night, I’m not asleep. The bay lighting dims. I feel dissonance in my ribs—like a honed blade turned against its own maker. I replay every scrap of data: patrol timings, meal cart window, that cell corridor. And the way she moved. I don’t talk. I don’t shift. The other mercs drop off into unconscious bellowing. I sit still, listening to nothing, feeling everything.
The following morning, chaos roars through the corridors. A scream—like a wrenched string—fills the air. The guards don’t hesitate—they stampede, their boots thundering. I step through the door before a tracker can flick open the breach lock. And there she is: contorting in agony, throwing herself against the wall like she’s trying to break beyond her own flesh. Lip split, blood smeared across her cheek—and then she starts bawling in three tongues, convulsing like a wounded beast.
The guards hesitate. Something violent lurks beyond her madness. Their gloved hands twitch for tranquilizers.
That’s the moment. I’m a second too late to intervene outright—but I don’t have to. I watch her lunge at herself, tear at her arms. She steals a key-card while they all panic, and I catch a flash of metal as it drops to the floor. She slips into sedation. They half-carry her toward the medical bay, not locking her restraints—too stunned to be thorough.
And I know where she's going.
I follow at a distance through sterile corridors, controller flickers overhead, white walls that smell of antiseptic and despair. Two guards wheel her onto a biobed. She lies groggy, her cheek bleeding, eyes glassy. And I nearly step into the field shielding the med-bay. I stop at the glass wall across from her room, golden eyes locked on hers. My armor scratches the glass panel. Her head lolls. Then, she meets my gaze.
There’s no fear. No gratitude. No plea. Just clarity: You’re here.
I feel the same. I’ve never felt less alone.
