Page 48 of Hunted By the Wraiths
“You’re making a mess,” I called out, breaking a soldier’s arm in three places when he tried to grab me.
“I’m not the one using a club!” She shot the soldier I’d just broken, ending the threat, then pistol-whipped another who got too close.
More soldiers poured in. Where were they all coming from? Had Vashil brought an entire platoon?
My side wound tore open. I felt it go—a sharp, tearing sensation followed by warmth spreading across my ribs. Fresh blood soaked through the bandage, through my shirt. Pain spiked from six to eight. Still manageable, but I was leaving bloody handprints on everything I touched.
Two soldiers rushed me simultaneously. Coordinated attack—one high, one low. I caught the high one’s rifle thrust, redirected it into the low one’s helmet. The crack was satisfying.But the high one recovered fast, slammed the rifle butt into my wounded shoulder.
Pain went from eight to eleven.
Not the ‘twenty’ of the bond-war. That was soul-pain. This was just raw damage.
White spots danced in my vision.
I still broke his leg.
“Thoryn!” Maris’s warning came a second too late.
The shock baton caught me in the ribs. Not a glancing blow—full contact, maximum charge. Electricity coursed through me, every muscle seizing. I went down hard, knees cracking against the metal floor. The familiar sensation of neural disruption brought back memories. Very specific memories.
Day 847 of captivity: “Subject shows unusual resistance to electrical torture. Increase voltage.”
Day 1,263: “Neural pathways adapting to electrical stimulus. Fascinating.”
Day 2,466: “Subject barely responds to maximum charge. Recommend alternative approaches.”
Which meant I’d built up a tolerance.
I rolled, caught the soldier’s ankle, and pulled. He went down face-first. I got his baton and returned the favor, holding it against his neck until he stopped moving. Not dead. Probably. I wasn’t checking.
When I stood, the room spun. Blood loss was becoming a factor.
“Behind you!” Maris shouted.
I turned, swinging the baton in a wide arc. Connected with something soft. Someone screamed. I swung again, hit armor this time. My scales were trying to shift, the damaged ones locking and releasing in waves of pain that made thinking difficult.
A rifle butt caught me in the stomach. I doubled over, couldn’t breathe. Another hit across my back dropped me to one knee.
Through the chaos, I saw Maris backed into the corner by the refresher. Three soldiers had her pinned, rifles aimed at her head. She still had her blaster, but the math was clear. She might get one before the other two killed her.
Vashil stood in the doorway, looking satisfied. Not a hair out of place. She’d let her hired help do all the work.
“Enough,” Vashil said. “You’re done.”
I still had the shock baton. One throw might take out the soldier with the best angle on Maris. But the other two would shoot her before I could reach them. And I could barely stand. The room kept tilting.
“Thoryn,” Maris said. Her voice was steady, but I felt her fear. Not for herself. For me. I was swaying on my feet, blood pooling under me. “Don’t.”
I felt her processing. Angles, distances, reaction times. Every scenario ended with at least one of us dead.
I dropped the baton. It clattered on the floor, the sound somehow louder than all the preceding violence.
“Good boy,” Vashil said. I wanted to tear her throat out for that. “Now, here’s what happens next. You’re both coming with us. The Consortium has big plans for you. Especially you, Thoryn. They’re very curious about how you broke your conditioning. They want to study it. In detail.”
Study in detail.
My scales tried to shift again, damaged ones sending spikes of agony through my nervous system. Old trauma response. My body remembering what those words meant. The careful notation. The clinical observations. The “let’s see what happens if we try this.”
