Page 29 of Fated in A Time of War

ALICE

P ain wakes me before my eyes do.

It blooms sharp and deep in my shoulders, settling into the joints like knives have been lodged under the skin.

My wrists are bound overhead to cold metal—welded rings, probably Kru-standard restraint clamps.

The steel bites into my skin, skin already rubbed raw from however long I’ve been hanging like this.

Time’s a slippery thing in darkness, and this place is nothing but dark.

The air’s stale, not dead exactly, but sour with recycled breath and the cloying stench of machine oil.

There’s ozone in it too, the sharp, synthetic tang that burns the inside of your nose.

Kru tech—always the same smell. Everything they touch carries that trace of scorched circuitry and barely-contained violence.

A dim hum surrounds me. Not loud, not angry.

Just low, steady, and deep enough I can feel it in my ribs.

It’s the ship’s core—old transport class, maybe retrofitted for field use.

The kind of thing scavengers would tear down for parts if they weren’t too afraid to approach Kru property.

Judging by the vibration, we’re not in motion.

They’re docked. Hiding. Somewhere quiet.

I peel my eyes open, slowly. My head’s pounding like I took a wrench to the temple, and my mouth tastes like I swallowed soot. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, and even then, the room stays in grayscale shadows.

Gray plating. Rusted floor panels. Cracks in the overhead insulation.

There’s a busted display console on the wall opposite me, flickering like it’s dying for good.

The glow’s weak but enough to sketch the shapes around me: two guards stationed by the only door, half-shrouded in armor and boredom.

Their rifles hang loose at their sides, but not too loose. They're trained.

And they’re not the only ones here.

I hear someone exhale. Soft. Female.

I twist, biting down a groan as my shoulder grinds, and I see her.

Misha.

Leaning against a support beam, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s waiting for a dinner date to show.

Her armor’s stripped down to its core plates—sleek, black with red accents, no insignia.

That pale buzzcut glows faintly in the console light, and her eyes catch mine with the lazy focus of a cat eyeing a trapped bird.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches.

I turn back toward the ceiling, count my breaths, force the ache into a corner of my mind and start thinking .

There’s a vent near the ceiling, long and narrow, covered in mesh.

Too small to crawl through, but big enough for sound and airflow.

If I can get a tool, I might be able to pop it—send a signal, trip the inner workings, something.

Below it, the wall paneling is loose. A crack in the corner where a bolt’s rusted through.

Maybe pressure-sensitive. I file it away.

The guards don’t pace. Don’t twitch. But they shift—both of them—every twenty minutes or so. I count the rhythm of their weight as best I can. It's not perfect, but it’s something. One of them favors his left leg, limps slightly. That’s weakness. That’s a window.

There’s a faint ticking behind the bulkhead to my right. Not loud, not mechanical. More organic. Decay. Generator feed cycle maybe? Could be a fault in the coolant loop. If I can trigger an overload in the system…

My body screams, but I keep cataloging.

Every little thing.

Every moment.

Because that’s how you stay alive.

Because panic’s a luxury. And I can’t afford luxuries anymore.

I think about Krall. About the way he looked at me during the firefight—not like I was a burden or a risk. Like I was something that mattered. Like the world could burn around us, and it would all still be worth it as long as we made it out together.

That look keeps me grounded. Keeps me here.

He’s out there.

He saw me. Saw me near the infirmary before the blast. If he’s breathing, he’s coming.

That thought is my armor.

I roll my shoulders again, hissing through clenched teeth. One of the guards glances at me. I meet his gaze, eyes cold. Daring him to make it worse. He doesn’t. He looks away.

Good.

Misha steps forward finally, the clink of her boots sharp in the stillness. She stops just in front of me, tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle someone half-solved and gave up on. Her voice, when it comes, is quieter than I expect.

“You don’t scream.”

I say nothing.

“You will.”

Still nothing.

She leans in, breath tickling the skin of my cheek. “You think he’s coming for you. I can see it in your eyes. That Vakutan with the soldier’s posture and the predator’s stare.”

I grit my teeth, not to keep from screaming—but to keep from saying something that’ll get me shot before I have a chance to escape.

She smiles, small and patient. “I hope he does. I want him to watch.”

Then she turns on her heel and walks out, door hissing shut behind her like the last breath before drowning.

The silence after is worse.

But I don't cry. I don't scream. I don't beg.

I just breathe.

Because she's wrong.

Krall won't just come.

He’ll burn this ship to the deck plates and drag me out with his own hands.

And I’ll be ready.

The door hisses open again, quiet but unmistakable in the stillness.

Misha steps through without a word. Same dark armor, same ghost-pale scalp gleaming in the low light. Her steps are measured, calm—not lazy, not rushed. Like she’s walking into a room she already owns. Like everything inside it already belongs to her.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The weight of her silence is louder than any threats.

She stands just outside the cage—if that’s even what this is. More like a converted holding cell, retrofitted with Kru field-grade bars and electrified seams. Her eyes, pale and hard, run over me like I’m an equation she’s still deciding how to solve. Head tilted. Mouth unreadable.

I don’t speak either. There’s nothing to say to someone who’s waiting for a reason to hurt you.

Then she lifts something from her belt.

A stun rod.

Long, black, capped in copper forks at the end. She holds it like it’s a ritual tool. Not lazily. Not like a club. But like it means something.

With no warning, she jabs it against the bars. Sparks jump, blue and vicious. The crackle’s high and sharp, like someone twisting metal in their teeth. It flares against my face and I flinch, more from instinct than fear.

The room smells like burned metal and old sweat.

She says nothing. Doesn’t move.

I meet her eyes and hold them.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, quiet, but not meek. Just… plainspoken. Honest.

She doesn’t react—not visibly. But there’s the barest flicker. A twitch at the edge of one brow. A half-second narrowing of her eyes. Could be uncertainty. Could be annoyance. Maybe both.

Without a word, she turns and walks out.

No threats. No smirks. No parting cruelty.

Just silence.

The door hisses shut again. The hum returns. And I’m alone. Again.

I count the seconds. Slow. Deliberate. It’s not about time. It’s about staying grounded.

Sixty-two.

Sixty-three.

Sixty-four?—

The door opens again.

This one’s different. Quicker. Sloppier.

Boots stomp instead of glide. Breath wheezes with every step. And then he’s there—Funzil. I remember the name from Krall’s muttered warnings. Remember the face from bounty boards. Short, squat, grinning like he thinks the joke’s already in progress and I’m just waiting to laugh.

“Well, well, Red,” he says, dragging the words out. “Still alive. And lookin’ like a damn poster child for bad decisions.”

His armor’s piecemeal, cobbled together from mismatched sets, dented and spattered with engine grease. The smell hits me before the rest of him does—cheap stimulant tabs, old alcohol, and the kind of body odor that clings even after a burn scrub.

He stops two feet from the cage and gives a low whistle.

“Misha got you in one piece, huh? Shame. I was rootin’ for a few broken ribs. Something to humble that spine of yours.”

“I’m flattered,” I say, dry as sandpaper.

He laughs like it’s the best thing he’s heard all day. “There’s that mouth. Knew you were smart. Heard stories, you know. You’re the doc that patched up that fireteam on Gedros IV. Real hero type. Pity, what’s gonna happen to you.”

I lean against the wall and let the ache in my shoulders pull my posture into something relaxed. “Is that what you came here for? To insult me with third-hand war stories?”

Funzil grins, too wide. “Nah. Just checkin’ the cargo. Misha’s good, but she gets… attached. Don’t want her forgettin’ what side she’s on.”

I file that away— attached .

Then I play along. “And you’re the enforcer?”

He puffs his chest, which looks ridiculous on a man built like a fuel drum. “Damn right. Logistics, comms, and personnel morale.” He winks. “I’m real good at morale.”

I let a flicker of interest spark in my eyes. It’s easy enough. Men like Funzil are predictable.

“You strike me as the kind of guy who knows everything happening around here,” I say, casual, lacing the words with just enough admiration to bait him. “I bet nothing slips past you.”

He leans in, smug rolling off him like heat. “Sweetheart, I am the eyes and ears. Everything those idiots think they’re hiding, I already logged, tagged, and filed.”

“And what exactly is it you’re all so eager to find under that refugee camp?” I ask, blinking slow. “Seems like a lot of effort just to grab one field medic.”

Funzil chuckles, but it’s guarded now. He taps the side of his nose with a grease-smudged finger. “Can’t spill all the secrets. But let’s just say there’s somethin’ buried under all that rubble the Kru higher-ups want real bad. Old tech. Forgotten by most. But not by us.”

He leans closer, breath reeking. “They’ll dig till they find it. Or till the damn crust gives way. Don’t matter how many of you rats burn.”

So that’s it.

This isn’t about people. Or territory. It’s not even about leverage anymore.

It’s obsession. Treasure hunting at the edge of a dying world.

I keep my expression bored, but inside, my mind races. If they’re tearing the camp apart looking for something, it means they’ll stay put. It means Krall has time.

And time is all he needs.

Funzil stretches, scratches himself through his armor, and glances back toward the door.

“Anyway, I got rounds to make. Try not to bleed out or nothin’. Wouldn’t want to miss the fireworks.”

He blows a kiss, then waddles out.

The silence returns.

But now, I know more.

They’re still close to the camp. Digging. Searching.

And they think I’m just a package to shelve until they’re done.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

I pretend to sleep, even though the clamp on my wrist sends lightning up my arm every time I shift too far. My shoulders throb, the skin beneath the restraints raw and burning, but I stay still. Breathing slow. Controlled.

The lights overhead buzz in cycles—low hum to high whine, then back again. Not enough to be a timer, but enough to keep track of how long the silence lasts between footsteps. I’ve counted four shifts already, which means it’s well past midnight. Or what passes for midnight in this floating tomb.

The guards rotate every few hours, like clockwork.

One leaves. The other lingers for a beat longer than necessary, always checking the bolt-lock, like I’ve magically grown the strength to twist steel in my sleep.

I don’t waste time glaring at them anymore.

The anger's burned through and calcified into something harder. Something colder.

Now I listen.

Breath. Boots. A cough. A sigh.

Small things. Things that say more than words.

The second guard exits, boots thudding down the corridor outside the bulkhead, and I exhale slow, like I’m shifting deeper into sleep. But inside, my mind’s a knife.

I know what I’m going to do.

The ceiling-mounted camera stares down at me like a single glass eye. I don’t know if it’s transmitting live, or just recording. Maybe it’s dead. Maybe no one’s watching. But maybe...

Maybe he’s watching.

My mouth is dry, lips cracked, voice hoarse from silence, but I lift my head just enough to whisper.

“I’m still alive.”

My voice is soft, but steady.

“Come find me.”

It’s foolish. Desperate. Might be nothing but dust blowing into dead air.

But I say it again.

Because maybe he’s out there.

And somehow, Krall is hearing.

He’s tracked signals like this before. Picked up voices on war-torn planets from half a continent away. He once said Vakutans can feel the pulse of comms through their bones if the frequency is just right. If he’s listening, if he’s close… maybe this reaches him.

I rest my head back against the wall. Close my eyes again.

The tears threaten at the edges, but I don’t let them fall.

Not tonight.

Not for them.

I’m not giving these bastards the satisfaction.

And I won’t break.

They’ve taken too much already—my freedom, my patients, my hope.

But they can’t take him .

They can’t take the way his voice sounded when he called my name in the middle of the chaos. Low. Rough. Almost broken. Like saying it out loud was the only way to keep me tethered to the world.

They can’t take the memory of the way his fingers curled around mine behind the barricade, like a vow without words.

And they sure as hell can’t touch the way he looked at me that night after the fire—like I was more than just a medic, more than just a soldier, more than just a means to an end.

Like I was home.

I close my eyes tighter and pull those images forward—memories turned armor, thick and hot around my chest.

Red scales, worn smooth over thick muscle.

Clawed hands that moved like they were made to kill, but held me like I was something sacred.

The scent of his skin—smoke, iron, the faint tang of ozone from plasma residue that never quite washes out.

And his voice.

Vakutan, when he thought I was asleep. Words I didn’t understand but felt in my bones. Low and slow and rhythmic, like thunder being lulled into a song.

He doesn’t say much, not unless it matters. But when he does, it’s like fire and gravity all at once. You can't ignore it. You feel it.

And I do.

Even now, alone and aching, chained to a wall in the belly of a war machine, I feel him.

Somewhere out there, he’s moving.

His jaw set, eyes like burnished coal, fury in every line of his body.

He’s coming for me.

I don’t know how I know.

But I do.

And it’s the only reason I make it through the night.