Page 9 of Claimed By the War Brute
I pace the cell, rubbing my lip under gauze they strapped on me. My mind loops through options: keycard, medbay timing, shield cycles, force-field voltage. When he saw me, he didn’t recoil. He didn’t flinch. He could’ve looked away—but he didn’t. He stayed. That’s inside strength. That tells me it’s not just me who wants this. He might want me to try.
I stop at the panel, glancing up at the camera. It pivots to stillness. As if confused. Ha. It’ll learn soon.
I hum that squad rhythm—fast, slow, fast. A challenge echoing through corridors. If he hears it, follows it, signals back—then we breach.
My body hurts—I know I caused this. But pain’s good. It’s fuel. I press my palm against the cold metal, feel the hum of life behind it. I whisper: “I’m coming.”
I lie back. My hand curls around the stray card still hidden in my sleeve. I feel its edges, smooth and significant. This isn’t a gamble. It’s a promise. And I want him to be there when it fulfills.
Around me, gravity shifts. Lights flick. The hum pulses. It’s starting. And so am I.
Showtime.
CHAPTER 8
GARRUS
Sydney is not like the others, and I know it before she even opens her eyes. From across the sterile panels of the med-bay corridor, I study the slight rise of her chest under crisp fabric, the way her lashes flutter when she tries to steady her head. The breakdown she pulled was pitch-perfect theater—hysterics, blood, tears. It fooled half the ship’s staff. But not me. I’ve drank the salty water of genuine fear too long, bled for it. Her performance wasn’t about panic; it was a calculation. When her eyes found mine—cool, defiant—they didn’t plead for rescue. They dared me to act.
That realization twists my gut with something other than rage or fatigue. I haven’t felt this… focused in years. She’s either completely insane—or dangerously brilliant. Probably both. Either way, I can’t keep pretending she’s just another prisoner. Not tonight.
Later that cycle, I’m marched into the armory where the Vortaxians are hosting their favored "training display." It's a shallow game—a blood show to keep the cannibals entertained. They place me among other mercs in full gear, a cage ringbetween mirrored walls. A jaded announcer voice echoes. Guards clap. Vaulted beams rattle.
I scan the room, eyes locking on the biggest loudmouth: a scar-lined human with tattoos coiling around his neck like vipers. He sneers at me, flexing like a prize bull. I don’t respond. In their world, that silence is fuel. They thrust pads in his hands, weapons he picked from a cart—too flimsy to withstand real force.
He charges without thought. I let him come. His fist arcs through the air, a show of bravado. I pivot, my elbow jarring into his ribs with a crack like a dropped bone. He doubles over, and I drive forward, shoving hard enough to fling him against the steel wall. Crimson arcs across the paint. He lands with a groan, wind knocked out, blood pooling, brick-red.
The crowd roars. A couple of guards laugh, slapping thighs. One mutters over the din, “We should put him in the auction fights.” And suddenly, everything crystallizes. The cages, the bleachers, the casual cruelty—they’re all inventory. I file it away.
As the cheering swells, I slide from the ring’s edge unnoticed and reach into the comms station nearby. Adrenaline hammers my veins in slow-motion. I nick a micro-echo chip from a broken transmitter and lodge it into the seam of my vambrace. No one sees. No one cares. The plan matures in the hollows of my mind: mimic guard frequencies, scan local comm lines, predict door cycles—I can’t pull her out alone. I’ll need backup. And somehow, I realize: I want her to be that backup.
When I return to the holding chamber, the other mercs are slumped in drunken laughter, comforting themselves with tales of conquest. I walk in and heat their faces with stares, but say nothing. Their bravado fizzles. I pace slowly, miming calm. My fingers tap the data-slate clipped to my hip—door cycles, shift timings, power fluctuations—all recorded. I’m memorizing their heartbeat.
Night falls again, though the lights barely change. I stand by the speaker port, the sterile enclosure humming against my back. My knuckles brush the mesh, and I tap three quick, two slow pulses—then pause. Three quick, two slow. It's the Vakutan rhythm for “ready.” Subtle. Insistent. A spark in code.
I wait. I taste iron on my tongue—blood from the last fight—and anticipation coils cold and precise through my bones. I don’t need echoes of prayer. I don’t need sisterhood. I offer war. That’s how we communicate.
The next day, I catch the twitches—tiny, near-imperceptible—through my cell’s reinforced glass. There will be a response if she heard. And I believe she did. Because you don’t miss… someone who dared you in a silent cathedral. You don’t let that lie.
My heart starts tapping its own rhythm. I don’t have to see her to know she’s preparing. The board is set. The guards fall into faster shift cycles. Security cards start swinging loose when they talk among themselves. She’s weakening the gravity of enough anomalies in the system to make room for action.
I might never call her “my jalshagar” out loud. I might never whisper it. But I feel it. Deep in the shafts of my bones, in the axes of tension I carry. We got one shot. Tonight.
And I’m sharpened for it. Strange. Why does that particular phrase jump so readily into my thoughts? It’s the woman. It must be. She’s already burning her way indelibly on my mind and soul. The time to claim her draws ever nearer.
My patience is wearing thin.
CHAPTER 9
SYD
Ifeel it before I hear it—the faint tremor under my palm, like a distant bass line vibrating through steel. It's the quiet cycle: lights dim and the ship simmers into a restful hush. The guards have finished their rotation checks ten standard cycles ago, and everything settles into a deceptive lull. My mouth still tastes of copper and antiseptic from yesterday’s performance, dried blood reminding me I’m alive. Then the tapping starts: three quick beats, two slow, a long pause, and then it repeats.
It isn’t mechanical. Not a vent or hum. It’s purposeful. Intentional. My musician’s ear perks up, reflexive. I’ve heard codes like this before—pulse-taps in asteroid mines, secret rhythms passed under prison dorm floors. This is the same language: call and response. A check for alliance. A search for intelligence. A beacon flaring in the dark.
My breath slows as I press my palm to the reinforced alloy wall. The vibration seeps down my arm, reverberating in my bones, as if the ship itself is humming. It’s him. It has to be. That golden-eyed predator across the corridor. He’s calling. And I’m listening.
When the next guard rotation comes through, I pull back my hand and adopt a faux slump in my cot—hurried and clumsy.I wait until the footsteps recede before responding: four short taps, one long, two short. “Ready.” Heartbeats stretch in that moment. Then, as if someone weighted the silence before letting it go, I feel it again—three quick, two slow, and now an added beat—deliberate, new.
