Page 93 of Ravaged By the Reaper
She doesn’t flinch at blood-smeared corridors. Doesn’t blink at the hum of blinking lights warning of system breaches. She drinks in the chaos, hinges open, absorbing it like a tide that reshapes everything it washes over.
I see it in her eyes: steel forged in fire, tempered by doubt, now wielded like a weapon.
In the arms yard, she leans over Bloodfont, running a whetstone along its edge, angle precise. Sparks flicker, scent of hot metal and ozone curling into the air. She hums softly—not nervous, but deliberate. In that hum, I hear progress.
“Checking my work, Reaper?” she asks without looking up.
I smile, low. “Or testing mine.”
She grins, slipping the blade home with a hiss. “We’ll be hungry tonight.”
Later, I catch her studying a briefing holo of targets and cargo manifests. Raider life—legal or not—is as much about ledger balance as it is gunpowder. Understanding that was never her domain before. Now, she pours over margins, cargo value, projected yield. Her eyes sharpen.
“She’s learning,” I murmur to Panaka at my side as we watch her.
He snorts, steepled fingers tapping the helm console. “That human’s dangerous. Not because she fights. Because she calculates.”
Danger is her resonance.
Then it happens.
Our next raid: a merchant convoy caught between crumbling alliances and desperate supply lines. Normally, we’d blast open the hull, ransack, and disappear. Tonight, we board.
Amara leads. Not me. Not Panaka. Her boots pound in the corridor, steady command. Her voice echoes: “Open that transport door. Single file. Keep hands visible.”
I stand behind her, blade sheathed but ready. The corridor smells of coolant and fear and hushed surprise.
She steps into the bridge of the transport ship. Civilians freeze—panicked, pleading, sweaty. She removes her helmet, letting the glow reveal her face in calm. Beautiful. Savage.
She speaks, voice steady: “You can live. You can go. But give me your cargo manifest—and a percentage of it. Or you die here.”
They freeze. No dialogue, just fear and calculation. Then the ship’s commander kneels, voice clipped. “Deal.”
I can taste the shift before she announces it. Calm. Persuasion. Hunger met not with blades, but with promise.
We leave with double the haul: luxury goods, medical supplies, precious metals. No blood spilled. Raiders dancing in corridors, disbelief lit behind their eyes.
I see the whispers now.
At the mess, one of the grizzled fighters—a Vul, scarred and silent—leans in, voice rough: “She doubled the haul...without firing a shot.”
Another nods. “I’ve never seen the Widowmaker work like that.”
I lean in. Voice low. “That’s becauseshe’smaking it work.”
They look at me. Not surprise—but acceptance. An acknowledgment that she’s not just the captain’s human. She’s useful. Dangerous. Valuable.
I don’t need to assert dominance. The blade at my side hums quietly, a background note. She’s earned everything now.
Later, we stand on the upper deck, the stars pressed close, the hangar lights fluttering red and gold across her face. She breathes deep, exhaling twitching with triumph and calm.
“You did that,” I say softly.
She shrugs, hands clasped behind her. “We did.”
“And you... you didn’t flinch.”
“Flinching is for those who aren’t clear on what they’re protecting.”
