Page 13 of Fated in A Time of War
The first body I kneel beside has no helmet, no head. His chestplate’s split wide open, and the stink of roasted flesh rises in a wave that makes my eyes water. His pack’s half melted.
The second’s worse. I roll him over and find his torso hollow, like something scooped him out. No gear worth taking.
Half a block away, I find what’s left of a Coalition drone, its smooth shell split in three like a cracked egg. Wiring spills out in snarls, and the scent of burnt circuitry lingers, sharp and acrid. I strip the panel anyway, checking for a working comm relay. Nothing. Dead. Just like everything else here.
By the time I circle back, my claws ache from gripping my rifle too hard. My legs feel like lead. My chest… well, that’s heavier still.
The bar’s as I left it. My barricade’s untouched.
She’s shifted a little, turning so her back’s against the wall instead of the pipe, knees bent, ankles crossed. She didn’t even try the bindings.
That… bothers me.
“You not even gonna pretend to make a run for it?” I ask, stepping inside.
Nothing. She just looks at me.
Frustration boils under my skin, but it’s not all for her. It’s for the way my hands shake when I reload. For the way the ash in my lungs feels like it’s carved a hole in me. For the way my brother’s last breath sounded like the start of a word he never got to say.
I slump onto a stool, the metal groaning under my weight. My rifle rests across my knees.
“Lakka,” I say out loud. My voice sounds wrong in here—too loud, too rough. “Guess it’s just me now.”
I pick at the edge of my gauntlet, pretending it’s easier to talk if I don’t look at her.
“You were always the good one. Always said I’d get myself killed mouthing off. Well, joke’s on you. You’re the one in the dirt, and I’m still breathing.”
The words burn, and I keep going anyway.
“I should’ve been there. Closer to you. Should’ve seen it coming. Hell, maybe I did see it coming and just didn’t move fast enough.”
The silence from her corner presses in.
I turn my head toward her, narrowing my eyes. “Maybe it’s her fault. Maybe she’s the reason we walked into a godsdamned meat grinder. Maybe she was your lookout, huh? Maybe she’s the reason you’re?—”
“I didn’t do it.”
Three words. Quiet. Steady.
They hit harder than anything she could’ve screamed.
Her voice is softer than I expected, but it’s not weak. There’s no quiver, no plea. Just… truth. Or what she wants me to think is truth.
I don’t answer.
My grip on the rifle tightens, and for a long moment I consider standing, crossing the floor, ending this before it can tangle me up any worse.
But I don’t.
Instead, I sit there, in the ruined bar, with her breathing slow and even in the shadows.
And I watch her.
CHAPTER 4
ALICE
Ican feel every bruise, every scrape, like a map etched into my skin. My wrists burn where the cable rubs, the chafing already warm with the first warning of a blister. It’s crude, not military restraint—just scavenged cord, rough and unyielding—but it does the job. My shoulders ache from being pinned too long in the same position.
