Page 12 of Fated in A Time of War
“You think I don’t know what you are?” I snarl, jabbing a clawed finger toward the medallion at her throat. “That little scrap of metal says everything. Ataxian acolyte. Fanatic. Spy. Probably the one who lit the beacon that called in the barrage on my squad.”
Her eyes—cold, infuriating blue—don’t waver. Not once.
“You set the trap. Don’t bother denying it. You and your robed freak friends probably toasted yourselves when the mech’s targeting was off by a click. Won’t be the first time zealots killed their own for the cause.”
Nothing. No flinch. No blink. Just that calm, like she’s looking through me instead of at me.
“Go on,” I say, leaning in, my breath hot in the stale air between us. “Say it. Admit it. Give me one excuse—just one—and I’ll make it quick.”
Still nothing.
I slam her against the cracked plaster hard enough to rattle the beam I wedged in the doorway. The dust comes down in gray clouds, settling in my throat like ash from the blast site.
“Do you get it? Do you understand who I am? My brother died out there. Bled out in the dirt while you were skulking around like a carrion rat.”
Her gaze never changes. Calm. Steady. That calm is worse than any insult, worse than any spit in the face. I need her to fight me, to prove she’s the monster the insignia says she is. If she’s not… then I’ve got nothing to aim at. Nothing to burn this rage on.
“Say your name!” I bark, fangs bared.
Her lips stay sealed.
I yank my sidearm free, shoving the muzzle up under her chin. My claw tightens on the trigger until I can feel the weapon’s systems hum under my palm.
One pull, and she’s gone.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
And something in my gut twists. Not mercy. Not doubt. Instinct. The same bone-deep instinct that’s kept me alive in more firefights than I can count. The same instinct that told me to move a half second before the mech’s first volley.
I growl, low and dangerous, and step back.
“Fine,” I spit. “You want to play mute? You want to test me? Let’s see how you do tied up tight enough to cut off circulation.”
I shove her down to the floor, drag fresh bindings from my pack, and cinch them until her wrists turn pale under the grime. Then I haul her into the shadowed corner, wedging her between the wall and an overturned table so she’s not in line of sight from the doorway.
The room’s too open. I need warning if anyone comes sniffing.
I step over a blackened corpse—armor scorched, face half gone—and strip two fusion blocks from the ruined harness. They’re still good. A miracle, or maybe just Alliance engineering.
On my knees, I rig the entry point. Two meters in, I wedge the first block under the splintered frame, wires running to the trigger strip I lay across the floor. Anyone trips it, the blast will tear them—and half the doorway—into fine red mist.
The second I set further back, angled to catch anyone trying to duck the first. Overkill’s better than dead.
I stand, flexing my claws, and glance back at her. Still watching. Still silent.
That calm is going to be the death of me.
I leaveher where she is—gagged, wrists bound, tethered to a rusting pipe thick enough she couldn’t wrap her arms around it even if she tried. One solid knot in the cable, double-looped. Not going anywhere.
The look she gives me as I stand is the same as before. Calm. Still. Like she’s nailed to the floor with invisible spikes.
“Stay put,” I mutter, knowing damn well she couldn’t do anything else even if she wanted to.
The air outside is hotter, heavier. Smoke and dust mix into a burnt-metal taste that sticks to the back of my throat. I step over bodies—their armor still faintly warm—and pick my way through the wreckage of the street. The mech’s path is clear in the gouged ground and twisted steel, a straight line of slaughter.
I need comms. Intel. A scrap of something that tells me where friendlies are, where the next strike’s coming, or just… anything worth carrying.
I get nothing.
