Page 61 of Ravaged By the Reaper
I smirk. “No. They broughtPanaka.”
And if that bastard came himself, that means he’s done playing nice.
I flick the comm. “This is Haktron to Widowmaker. Status?”
The reply crackles like gravel in a warzone.
“Status is pissed, Haktron,” Panaka growls through the static. “And armed.”
I bark a laugh, heart hammering as adrenaline lights up my blood. “Thought you’d never show.”
“Had to round up some friends. Hope you left a few to kill.”
The line cuts.
Outside, Widowmaker lights up like a thunderstorm. Twin railcannons slam through a Coalition cruiser’s flank, venting atmosphere and bodies in one breath. Reaper ships dart like shadows, weaving between firestreams, trailing ion disruption behind them.
Gamma’s defense net tightens, emboldened by the sudden muscle.
The tide’s not turning.
But for the first time, we’ve got a chance to shove back.
“Open flank coordination with the Reaper ships,” I bark at the tactical chief. “Get them telemetry overlays. Sync targeting data.”
She nods, fingers flying.
The station shakes again, but this time, it feels less like a death knell and more like a heartbeat.
War’s here.
The counteroffensive is art.
Not the clean, pretty kind that hangs in galleries. This is the kind carved into bone with blood and heat. The kind youfeelbefore you understand.
Panaka hits the Coalition rear flank like a scythe swung by a vengeful god.
Widowmaker cuts hard starboard, side guns opening up in overlapping arcs. Ion pulses slice clean through two interceptors before their pilots even get a scream out. Reaper ships dive and weave, flanking, baiting, detonating cluster drones in synchronized bursts.
It’s like watching a bar fight choreographed by death itself.
Yentil lets out a sharp breath beside me. “He’s… unhinged.”
“No,” I correct, eyes glued to the tactical feed. “He’sangry.”
It’s controlled chaos. And gods, does it work.
Gamma’s turrets gain a foothold. A Coalition battleship veers off-course to deal with Widowmaker’s tailgunners and ends up exposing its underbelly. We gut it with coordinated fire. The station shakes with the echo of success, if only for a moment.
“Enemy formations breaking at point Charlie!” a tech shouts.
“Redirect fire grid twelve!” Yentil barks. “Push ‘em back!”
We surge. It’s messy. Glorious.
But not enough.
The Coalition's numbers close fast—relentless as rust, as time, as everything that grinds good things down. They adapt. The flanking line stiffens. Reinforcements pour in from above the Z-axis, diving like hawks.
