Page 39 of Star Claimed Omega
Santi sampled blood on his tongue as a red-headed brute with a fist like a sledgehammer, snapping his head sideways.
A secondkinaidrove a knee into his ribs, the crack loud and piercing, stealing his breath.
He staggered, just managing to duck as the third man, meaner, broader, his hair shaved in jagged tufts, lunged forward, his right hand twisting into a grotesque claw.
The talons came for his gut, fast and deadly, and Santi twisted hard, as they ripped through the fabric of his tunic but missed his flesh by inches.
He planted a foot into the man’s hip and shoved him back, staggering into the sunlight of the cracked prison yard.
The fight wasn’t clean, nor fair.
Three-to-one never was.
However, Santi did not yearn for a win.
He only needed to bleed sufficiently to sell the lie.
Guards thundered into the yard, bludgeons crackling with electric charge.
Shouts rang out, loud and chaotic.
‘Enough! Stand down!’
The shock batons hit the redhead first.
Sparks exploded against flesh, dropping the men mid-snarl.
They hit the ground hard, twitching, their mafia pirate tattoos flexing and spasming across their chests and shoulders.
Around them, other inmates pressed close to the fences, their laughter and jeers caustic with feral glee.
‘Skullsgot their asses handed to ‘em by onekinai!’ one of them hollered. ‘Fokkhim up good next time, boys!’
Santi let himself sag in the guards’ grip, playing the part of a broken man.
He slumped forward, body loose, ribs screaming, but his mind acute, calculating.
The wardens, trusted Signet operatives and prison staff, put on a show, shoving and cursing at him as they dragged him across the yard.
Santi played up to the hype. ‘Fokkoff! You’re hurting me.’
‘Keep your mouth shut,kinai!’ one barked for the crowd’s benefit.
They hauled him through the checkpoint, past a series of grimy bulkheads, and into a private guard office.
The door hissed as it sealed behind them, locking out the noise.
As soon as the locks engaged, the act dropped.
The sentinels loosened their grip and helped him onto a bench.
One handed him a damp towel for the blood on his face.
‘Sante,hermanos,’ Santi muttered, wiping his split lip.
The air beside him shimmered, and Miral materialized, glyphs flickering across her synth-skin, her expression tight but curious.
‘Got what we needed?’ she asked, her hands extending a med wand over his ribs.
