Page 82 of Phoenix's Last Heist
And more than anything, I’ll get to see Orion again.
Maybe for the last time, my mind whispers insidiously.
“No,” I hiss, just in time with the shrieking hydraulic whir of another ship landing in the compound.
A minute passes, maybe two. I count each heartbeat like a detonator tick. Somewhere below me, someone yells about a glitch in the docking assistant controls, and I smile grimly. That’s not a glitch, buddy. That’s my girl Ada, whispering through the compound’s digital bones.
Then it happens.
The first flicker is almost a tease—a flirt of darkness, a saucy little wink from the void. The overhead lights blink once, twice, like they’re not sure whether to commit to this sudden existential crisis. I feel the shift ripple through the garage like a nervous breath. Someone drops a tool. A guard’s voice snaps sharp in the gloom.
Then a full blackout slams down, abrupt as a guillotine, and stars, the effect is delicious.
For a beat, the world below me seems to hold its breath. It’s total darkness—not even the always-on emergency running lights flicker on. I hear the echo of boots, the rustle of ships settling in place, and a low, collective murmur of “what the hell” from the assembled audience of buyers, thugs, guards, and general wealthy elite space trash.
Finally, the backup lights stutter to life—red strips bleeding across the garage floor like veins. An alarm pings somewhere, half-hearted and confused, as if the compound’s own systems aren’t sure what the hell just happened. Exactly as planned.
I can’t see Vega’s ship from this angle, but I know it’s there. I saw it land earlier—sleek, matte, unmarked, the kind of cruiser a man pretending to have a soul would use to buy a person in style. Ada’s hitching a ride in its nav systems, connected tenuously to her consciousness tucked into Orion’s borrowed cruiser. Orion’s tucked inside Vega’s ship somewhere, hopefully safe. I imagine him crouched in the shadows, tense and focused, smelling like sweat and mossy forest soil and everything I miss. My infuriating, beautiful, righteous pain-in-my-ass. Of all the things I've ruined, he’s the one I regret most.
And then, like an infection spreading through the nerves of a dying animal, the compound begins to unravel.
A powered lift locks up mid-load, grinding to a halt with an ear-piercing shriek that makes half the room jump. A pair of drones flicker and fall out of the sky like drunk mosquitoes.Someone’s shouting about their comms being down. Perfect. Ada’s burning through everything like a massive star going supernova.
Below, Kraxis barrels in like he knows I’m to blame, and my heart beats halfway between fear and malicious satisfaction. I can’t hear everything he’s yelling, but his tone is sharp, which makes the guttural Void Stalker words sound almost painful. He’s real pissed, which is bad. He’s suspicious, which is worse. His tail whips around behind him like he’s trying to cosplay vengeance itself. One of the other guards mutters something, and Kraxis grabs him by the collar and throws him—just throws him—into a cargo crate. No one else makes a sound after that.
I keep my breath shallow, pressed as close to the duct’s interior as I can manage. He’s barking orders now—something about motion sensors, floor sweeps, sealing the doors, followed by something incredibly offensive about “the hybrid.” Charming.
Then my stomach lurches, because I see a shadow peel off from the far side of the garage—just a flicker, a suggestion of movement between two parked shuttles. For a second I think I’m hallucinating, heat-dazed and dream-hungry. But then the light pulses again and I see him.
Orion.
Stars, he haunts every fevered dream I’ve had since we parted, but I’d bet my left tit he’s actually gotten sexier in the intervening days. Rather than his absurd khaki ranger uniform, he’s clad head-to-toe in skintight black body armor. It hugs his broad chest and thick thighs exactly like I want to, and I have to shake myself back into focus because dammit, now is not the time to rub one out in an air duct.
He’s making his way toward the maintenance stairs—he’s almost there—and stars, he might actually be good at this? Who would’ve thought my own little backwater boy scout could move like a ghost, fluid and fast and all delicious, coiled tension.
Unfortunately, at that moment Kraxis turns. His head snaps toward the stairs, nostrils flaring like a lupitian catching scent.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
He doesn’t see Orion directly—not yet—but I know he saw the movement. A shadow. Enough to set his dim-witted paranoia fully on fire. He starts moving, and two Void Stalker guards move with him, weapons up, scanning every inch of the dark.
Orion’s a second from being caught, and because I think I’m in love with the broad-shouldered, thick-thighed tree hugger, I move without thinking.
I unscrew the duct panel, fingers slick with grime, and drop into the narrow service corridor like a meteorite in freefall. I hit the floor hard, knees jarring, but adrenaline makes the pain irrelevant. I run for the nearest wall console, praying it hasn’t been frizzed out and gutted in one of the power surges.
It hasn’t, thank the stars.
I slam my hand on the proximity alarm trigger and duck behind a tool rack as a new klaxon blares, harsh and grating.
“Something tripped the proximity alarm in the southeastern corner of the launch bay,” one of the Void Stalkers shouts, and I recognize my good buddy Thall. Piece of shit lizard dick, I grumble to myself.
Kraxis wheels around, hatred written on his reptilian face.
“There!” he snarls. “Sweep it now!”
His guards scatter toward the false signal.
And Orion—stars bless his insubordinate soul—moves.
