Page 20 of Alien Soldier's Heir

The simulator yard is humming by the time we join. Yoris is there, leaning against a console, watching me with those calculating eyes. He smirks.

“Selective hearing, Kaz?” he calls. “You ignoring the pain or just avoiding your messages?”

I ignore him. I’d rather stare down a flak volley than trade banter now.

Swan falls in behind me, favoring the bad leg. No one else notices yet. He’s that good at masking.

We strap in for the range run. The scenario is brutal: moving targets, reactive drones, shifting gravity fields, limited fuel windows. One glitch, one misfire, and the simulation ends you.

My weapons latch hums. I lock the primary cannons. Scanning. Swan is there, close in my six, his tail locked.

Suddenly, Yoris and Gorran bolt ahead, cutting odds and lines. I twist, weave, unleashing photon bursts. Swan tags a drone on my flank, but as he does, his leg flickers—he overcompensates. The drone electrospikes, hits his hull.

My throat closes.

I bank hard, shoulder-checking a missile that’s about to graze Swan’s rear. “Swan, fall back!” I bark.

He counters, fights to stabilize. I break off, intercept a flaring drone instead. The explosion rocks me, knocks off my course. The HUD flashes red. I curse, clawing the thrusters back, pulling strain beyond limits.

I land—barely. Systems flicker. The scoreboard loads:

Kaz: success

Swan: nearly fatal hit

Yoris: top kill count

I rip off my helmet, lungs screaming. I spin for Swan, but he’s already exiting his pod, walking stiffly, face pale.

I storm to him.

“What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, hand grabbing his arm.

He pulls away. “I didn’t want you sidetracked.”

“Bullshit. You’re my wingman. Youarethe mission.”

He steadies himself against a console. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice my leg. I sent you warnings.” He swallows. “I’ve been fucked up since Sim Three.”

I stare at him, chest heaving.

“You want me to carry you? Because I will.”

He straightens. “No. I’ll walk it off.”

I want to scream that’s stupid. That you don’t fight half-broken. But the words die in my throat when I see the stubbornness in his face.

Not my fight, maybe. But I bleed for him.

Later: the locker room is steam and sweat and echoes. I shower hot, letting water pound my back, hoping it washes off shame or fear, or whatever the hell this is.

My skin tingles, raw.

Swan comes in, shoulders scarred with training bruises too. He holds his head under support. There’s tension.

“You okay?” I ask.

He nods. “Better.” His eyes flick to mine. “Thanks for stepping in.”