Page 88 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Freedom.
The air in the Widowmaker’s hangar is thick with fuel and nervous energy. Engines idle in muted roars, repair crews drifting away from Reaper silhouettes that lean against hulls, teeth flashing in smoke-streaked grins. Pirates, all of them—some ex-military, others mercs, a few who’ve forgotten what normal feels like.
At the center of it all, Panaka beckons me to follow him to the boarding ramp of his flagship. I can already taste the iron tang of power in my mouth.
He stops just at the hull, fingers brushing over the matte-black plating. Steam coils from the engine vents, warm and oily against my skin.
He turns to me, that half-smile balancing chaos and promise.
“Here’s your offer—officially.”
I raise an eyebrow, senses humming.
“Not here to be a trophy. Not a figurehead. I want you as yeoman—my negotiator. On every raid, you talk them down. Save lives. Keep us profitable. That means no wholesale slaughter—just targeted surrenders, maximum gain, minimal bloodshed.”
It’s strange. Managing raids, whispered deals while swords are still wet with blood. But somehow it makes sense. My training as a Companion taught seduction. My life as a warrior taught survival. This is both—dark, dangerous, but ineffably right.
I breathe in. Leather and ozone and the faint glitter of oil lanterns.
“This is… not what I expected,” I say.
He shrugs, wolf’s ear in his voice. “Breathless excuses are part of the package.”
I laugh, low and tired and grateful.
I glance past him. At the crew—half-smiling, half-tensed—like they’d forgotten someone made sense of their chaos once.
Then my eyes catch Haktron.
He’s leaned back, helmet cradled in his arms. His grin stretches, slow and feral.
He mouths, “Told you… we’d make a hell of a team.”
My throat tightens—because love shouldn’t feel this wild, but it does. Because this is bigger than me.
I turn back to Panaka, looking at him steady now.
“If the station ever falls,” I say, voice even, sure, “this goes in my will. Because this is where I choose to be.”
He blinks. Then nods.
“Then welcome aboard. Let’s run the universe—or at least our own corner of it—with fire and finesse.”
I slide up the ramp, every footstep humming—powered metal, rotting hope, rising promise.
My strokes run along the walls, feeling the bite of grafted battle armor.
Inside the Widowmaker, the air shifts. Cooler, more controlled. The hum of machinery smooths out into something like heartbeat.
Panaka stands, letting me lead. I take his proffered hand, and ours is a quiet vow.
I whisper, though I know he's brave enough to hear: “We do this my way.”
He hums.
Our fingers lock.
Home, he says with nothing but his touch.
