Page 2 of Fated in A Time of War

I slam another spray into his throat. Nothing. I rip open a compression pack, slap it onto what’s left of his side. The auto-seal hisses, tries to glue a dying man back together. Doesn’t work.

“Krall…” he croaks.

“No! No. Shut up. You don’t get to say anything. Not yet.”

He tries to laugh—it comes out a bubbling rasp. Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth.

I press on his chest, start CPR even though I know it’s too early. Too soon to give up. Too soon to accept the finality in that look he just gave me.

“I swear to all twelve gods, if you die on me I’m gonna drag your carcass back to Barrakus and prop you up at the parade grounds! You hear me?! Breathe! ”

I slam my palms into his chest. Over and over. I feel ribs crack. Feel the useless flutter of a heart that doesn’t want to beat. I scream his name so loud my throat tears, then slap his cheek hard enough to leave a red mark through his scales.

He jerks.

Then stills.

Completely.

Just… stillness.

“No,” I whisper.

I sit there, pressing both hands on his chest, trying again, again, again.

“Come back, dammit. You were the good one. The smart one. You always did the right thing. You—you kept your gear squared, you actually read the protocols. You were the one Mom cried over when you left. Not me! She said I’d die in a gutter. I told her you’d watch my six! And now I—” My voice breaks.

I lean over him, forehead touching his. Blood smears between us. I don’t care.

“Lakk,” I say quietly. “I was just joking about the rations. About the liquor store. I didn’t mean it. You were right. This wasn’t a nothing op. You were right, and I was wrong, and now you’re?—”

My voice fails. My hands fall to his sides. I stay like that for what feels like hours. Long enough for the mech to stomp away. Long enough for the ash to stop falling. Long enough for the fire to die.

The street goes quiet. Just the distant hum of the mech’s engines as it moves to some other sector. Looking for more to kill.

I finally sit up. My whole body is shaking, like I’ve been electrocuted. My hands are sticky with blood and medfoam. My armor’s cracked across one thigh. I can’t feel my left foot. Doesn’t matter.

I close Lakka’s eyes.

That’s all I can do now.

The world doesn’t end with a scream. Not really. It ends with silence. With an empty street and one broken promise after another.

And me, sitting in the ruin, trying to remember how to breathe.

I stay kneeling long after Lakka’s gone cold.

Blood pools beneath my knees, sticky and warm, soaking through the cracked seal of my armor.

The copper stink of it is thick in my mouth, my nostrils.

I can taste my brother on my tongue. Feel him caked into the grooves of my gauntlets.

Every breath hurts, every heartbeat feels like it ought to carry a scream with it—but none comes.

I don’t cry.

I don’t break.

I burn .

Somewhere past the static in my HUD, the last of the squad vitals flatline into silence. Comms dead. Channel empty. The only thing left on the net is the pulsing red emergency beacon from my suit. Useless.

No one’s coming.

Good.

Because I’m not going anywhere.

The Alliance is still out there. The cause is still alive. And now, so is my hate.

I stare down at Lakka’s ruined body, chest tight.

His blood has begun to dry where it splashed my visor.

I flick it off. Carefully, reverently, I pull his tags from the mess of shattered armor and melted metal across his collarbone.

One side is blackened from heat exposure, the other still polished clean.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’ll make it count.”

I take his extra mags, pop a sealed medkit off his belt—not that it helped him—and slide his sidearm into my thigh holster.

Not for use. For memory. For honor . Vakutan blood demands a reckoning, and I plan to deliver one bullet at a time.

Lakka’s sword is still intact, somehow, slung across his back where the explosion missed it.

I pull it free, the grip still warm. It hums faintly with energy as I thumb the activator.

The blade whines to life, violet energy crackling like bottled lightning.

I snap it off and sling it across my own back.

I rise slow, boots squelching in blood. The mech is long gone, smoke still drifting in its wake. The silence is different now—less shock, more waiting. The ruins of Tanuki hold their breath, like even the dead are watching what I’ll do next.

I start walking.

Each step crunches broken glass, ash, bone. My path is crooked—dodging slagged vehicles, collapsed rebar. Lakka’s death sits in my chest like a lead spike, but it’s not weighing me down.

It’s sharpening me.

I flick through scans as I move—infrared, thermal, sonar. The atmosphere’s too thick, the interference too strong. Nothing solid pings, but a flicker of motion catches my eye—top left, over a collapsed storefront. Something small. Moving fast.

I stop dead.

There it is again. Faint. Barely a shadow. No armor signature. No IFF tag. No way in hell it’s one of mine. Civilian?

Doubtful.

I lift my rifle, center the reticle. HUD zooms in—sputters once, then clears.

A figure steps from the smoke, silhouetted by dying firelight.

Small. Slight frame. No armor. Tattered cloak hanging from delicate shoulders. Face obscured by ash and sweat and grime, but I catch the gleam of something around her neck—a pendant, metal, familiar.

No.

Not just familiar.

Ataxian.

The moment that medallion catches the light, time slows. My body moves on instinct.

“ON THE GROUND!” I bellow, voice raw enough to shred my throat.

She freezes. Eyes wide. Blue. Bright. Too bright. Her mouth opens—maybe to speak, maybe to beg.

I don’t let her.

In three strides I’m on her, shoulder slamming into her chest like a freight engine. She goes down hard, breath knocked out of her lungs. She struggles—kicks, claws. Doesn’t matter. I’m heavier, faster, trained for exactly this.

She swings a fist. I catch it midair, twist. She gasps as I wrench her arm behind her back, drop my knee to the base of her spine, pinning her flat against the rubble.

“Don’t move,” I growl.

She tries anyway. Brave. Or stupid. I don’t care which.

I fish a polymer strap from my belt and lash her wrists behind her with practiced, brutal precision. She spits something—words in Ataxian, maybe. Doesn’t matter. I press her cheek harder into the rubble.

“Shut up.”

Another strap—across her ankles. Then a third for the gag. She bites down when I try to insert it, almost catches my glove with her teeth.

“Feisty.”

I backhand her—not hard, just enough to daze. She gasps. I shove the cloth between her lips and cinch it tight. Her eyes—so goddamn blue—glare at me like they’re trying to burn holes in my skull.

“Save the attitude,” I mutter. “You’re lucky I didn’t just shoot.”

I haul her up, slinging her over one shoulder like a sack of angry laundry. She thrashes weakly, but she’s light. Fragile. She might be a scout, might be a medic. Might be a plant. Doesn’t matter.

She’s Ataxian.

And the war’s not over.

I don’t know what the hell she was doing wandering this deep into contested space, but I’ll find out. There’s intel to be gathered. Base locations. Patrol movements. Names.

Besides… I’m not done yet.

The mission’s not over.