Page 4 of Fated in A Time of War
I don’t break.
Iburn.
Somewhere past the static in my HUD, the last of the squad vitals flatline into silence. Comms dead. Channel empty. The only thing left on the net is the pulsing red emergency beacon from my suit. Useless.
No one’s coming.
Good.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
The Alliance is still out there. The cause is still alive. And now, so is my hate.
I stare down at Lakka’s ruined body, chest tight. His blood has begun to dry where it splashed my visor. I flick it off. Carefully, reverently, I pull his tags from the mess of shattered armor and melted metal across his collarbone. One side is blackened from heat exposure, the other still polished clean.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’ll make it count.”
I take his extra mags, pop a sealed medkit off his belt—not that it helped him—and slide his sidearm into my thigh holster. Not for use. For memory. Forhonor. Vakutan blood demands a reckoning, and I plan to deliver one bullet at a time. Lakka’s sword is still intact, somehow, slung across his back where the explosion missed it. I pull it free, the grip still warm. It hums faintly with energy as I thumb the activator. The blade whines to life, violet energy crackling like bottled lightning.
I snap it off and sling it across my own back.
I rise slow, boots squelching in blood. The mech is long gone, smoke still drifting in its wake. The silence is different now—less shock, more waiting. The ruins of Tanuki hold their breath, like even the dead are watching what I’ll do next.
I start walking.
Each step crunches broken glass, ash, bone. My path is crooked—dodging slagged vehicles, collapsed rebar. Lakka’sdeath sits in my chest like a lead spike, but it’s not weighing me down.
It’s sharpening me.
I flick through scans as I move—infrared, thermal, sonar. The atmosphere’s too thick, the interference too strong. Nothing solid pings, but a flicker of motion catches my eye—top left, over a collapsed storefront. Something small. Moving fast.
I stop dead.
There it is again. Faint. Barely a shadow. No armor signature. No IFF tag. No way in hell it’s one of mine. Civilian?
Doubtful.
I lift my rifle, center the reticle. HUD zooms in—sputters once, then clears.
A figure steps from the smoke, silhouetted by dying firelight.
Small. Slight frame. No armor. Tattered cloak hanging from delicate shoulders. Face obscured by ash and sweat and grime, but I catch the gleam of something around her neck—a pendant, metal, familiar.
No.
Not just familiar.
Ataxian.
The moment that medallion catches the light, time slows. My body moves on instinct.
“ON THE GROUND!” I bellow, voice raw enough to shred my throat.
She freezes. Eyes wide. Blue. Bright. Too bright. Her mouth opens—maybe to speak, maybe to beg.
I don’t let her.
In three strides I’m on her, shoulder slamming into her chest like a freight engine. She goes down hard, breath knocked out of her lungs. She struggles—kicks, claws. Doesn’t matter. I’m heavier, faster, trained for exactly this.
