Page 10 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

We emerge from the shuttle like two fledgling storms, carried into the cool shadow of Starbase Gamma’s hangar bay. The corridor air smells like ozone, hydraulics, and burnt resin. My arms tingle from where they held her tight. The heat of our bond still glows in my bones.

Her eyes are distant for a moment—exhausted, dazed, but still luminous. I steady her arm, but she doesn’t pull back. We’re a pair of ragged pieces that just fit together. I’d fight the universe to keep her stitched to me.

I find a locker nook by the hatch. The shuttle’s hull groans behind us—battle scars gape in its plating. Turrets and doors rumble; it’s alive, fighting to remind us of the violence we just left behind. But here: silent. Safe. For now.

Before docking, I have one more act to cement this connection.

I lean in, voice low, “Wait.”

I step aside, planting my boot arch flat on the cold deck.

Behind a panel, my hand finds a latch. A compartment slides open with the slick whisper of old tech.

Inside lies an object both intimate and ceremonial: a thick collar crafted from Reaper armor plating—black as void sheen, rigid and cold, lined inside with supple weave to prevent discomfort.

I slide it out. Metal chills my fingertips, teeth of stars caught in forge fire. I hold it up to the flickering lights; channels of crimson wiring pulse faintly within the plating, glowing like embers. It’s not for decoration. It’s claim. Crest. Declaration.

I don’t think how she’ll react—nor do I assume. I trust the current we share will carry her.

She stirs next to me. I drape the collar around her neck. It feels foreign at first. Hard. Ridged. But she softens into it. Her hair brushes welded metal. I adjust the clasp with care—two clicks, heavy and secure. It chimes like low tolling bells.

“So they know,” I rumble, voice gravel-coarse. “Ad Miram Destrier belongs to Haktron Bloodsinger.”

Her eyes go wide—silver flecked with fear, pride, awe. Sparks dance in them like distant suns. She doesn’t jerk, doesn’t throw it off. Instead, she lifts her chin—sharp, beautiful, defiant.

I press my hand against the collared armor—not caress, but reverence. Enough to steady her trembling.

“That’s un…crazy,” she breathes, lips trembling.

“Perfectly sane,” I growl. I step close. Armor and blood, bone and warmth. “You’re mine.”

She tries to speak—but her voice fails. Instead, she just exhales, the collared armor a secret promise and exultation for both of us.

I wrap an arm around her waist—armouring her from threats unspoken, from distances unspoken, from fear she never confesses.

The collar hums faintly—embedded with low-frequency sensors that sync with my vocal chord pulses. Every time I speak her name, it will light. Every time I think of her in combat, the collar will remind the world exactly who holds her.

She leans into me. Wet with sweat, trembling, eyes locked on mine. There’s fear there—but not regret.

“Don’t ever—” she whispers. Her voice breaks.

“I won’t,” I promise—soft, iron-strong. I let my fingers press into the backplate, brushing her spine through the plating. She shivers, but not from cold. From claim. Recognition.

Behind us, the shuttle lurches and docks. The bay doors halt. Alarms reset.

We stand that way—still, conjoined, while mechanics begin to churn. Sparks fall across the deck. Engineers run in low-voiced urgency. Combat crews wheel in plasma rigs to patch the shuttle’s burns.

None of it matters. Not right now.

Here, in the blood-scented echo of engines and the metallic taste of victory, she is exactly where I want and need her. And she knows it.

I should say goodbye, turn back into the wild—my orders, my bloodlust, my world. But I don’t.

I pull her in closer, jaw brushing her temple. The red sheen of the collar catches the floodlight cast through the docking bay window.

“Whatever we face,” I whisper against her ear. “We face it together.”

She closes her eyes.

The pulse of the collar thrums in time with my heartbeat.

We stay wrapped there—two storm-weary souls who just found what they didn’t know they were searching for.

And the next battle, and all the ones after, she’ll know exactly who she belongs to.

The air crackles once more—this time not with plasma blasts, but with scanners humming and guards flooding the docking bay. The shuttle’s hull groans as we settle into Gamma’s bones. I taste salt and ash and something dull like finality.

I keep my hands relaxed on Amara’s waist—not possessive, just grounding. Her collar glints in the bay light, soft red glowing faintly. I feel every pair of eyes brush past us, judging. But she stands tall.

The station's AI scans us, a hollow voice crawling through speakers recessed overhead: “IDENTITY SCAN: AUTHORIZED. DOCKING SEQUENCE COMPLETE. ENGAGE SECURITY INVESTIGATION.” Sleek panels click open, and half a dozen armed guards march in—rifles cradled, armor gleaming under cold white lights.

I don’t flinch.

At the head of the contingent strides Commander Yentil Goldman—neat, composed, his uniform crisp enough to star in a protocol manual. His grip on decorum is tighter than any weapon.

He fixes his gaze on Amara. The collar—so incongruous on human flesh—jolts his eyes. He shouldn’t see it as a threat, but as a symbol. A boundary. His jaw tightens.

Diplomacy still rules here, even for him.

He clears his throat—dry as battered paper—and steps closer. “Miss Destrier,” he says, voice clipped, practiced. “You appear... intact.”

I sense the question that follows: Are you coerced? Are you a captive?

Amara inclines her head, cool. “Intact,” she agrees. Her voice is steady, implored by no one’s command.

Yentil tilts his gaze from her to me. I shift slightly, claws sheathed under sleeves—but a posture that says, I hold her. She is safe. His eyes flick back to the collar.

He steps closer, whisper-quiet. “May I ask—are you here of your own accord?”

All eyes hang on her.

Her throat moves twice before she answers—a practiced inhale settling a heartbeat. “Of course,” she says—calm, measured. Every syllable carries layers of subtext: I belong. I choose this. This is not coercion. She lets the implication hang.

Yentil considers her with the weight of years in his stare. The corridor hums faintly, the air antiseptic and cold. The hum from the station’s hull underpowering staging lights like a heartbeat gone numb.

He nods slowly. His posture eases—not much. His shoulders relax a fraction.

“Very well.” He clears his throat again. “You are recognized as a voluntary Companion of a Reaper. Harassment or misconduct against you will be considered assault on a station-affiliated citizen.” His words are clinical, but beneath them runs a river of warning to would-be aggressors.

I watch Amara’s expression—a smooth facade. But inside, something claws: pride. Relief. Connection, maybe.

Yentil turns to me. “And you, Reaper—”

“Bloodsinger,” I supply, voice calm.

He nods. Eyes neutral, but respectful. “You have diplomatic clearance, Captain. But understand—any infractions, and the Reaper Protocol will be invoked. For now, let’s walk.”

He gestures down the corridor to processing bays and barracks. The guards part, rifles lowering, but alert.

I slip my arm around Amara, palm flat across her hip. She doesn’t stiffen. That makes me… proud. In silent acknowledgment, I touch the collar again.

As we walk, I feel the weight of her trust settling into me. Not tied by chains, but by intent.

Amara whispers low: “That could have gone sideways.”

I give a short chuckle, no humor, just fierce warmth. “You wore the collar,” I say. “Not everyone has the courage.”

She rolls her eyes, but the curve of her lips betrays a smirk. “I did. For us.”

We walk in tandem—spurs tapping on steel floors, duty behind us, an entire station now the backdrop.

Diplomacy won, for now.

And I feel… something close to reverence.

We slip into the bar by the repair bay, the door hissing shut behind us.

The air changes immediately—wood, smoke, polished stone, a hint of spilt liquor.

Conversation flutters like fireflies in the dim, amber glow.

The hum of ship systems recedes. Right now, there’s just us, and something fragile simmering between our breaths.

Amara eases onto a stool, her shoulders still trembling ever so slightly. I slide in beside her—quiet, solid, a black spire of presence. Bodies brush between us, but I’m not looking; I’m focused only on the faint rise and fall of her collar and the soft rise and fall of her chest.

She holds her glass of Earth whiskey like a trophy, cool strength wrapped in flame. She sips it without crumbling. I inhale its heady scent—vanilla, oak, and fire—like something warm in a cold world.

A station assistant drifts over, eyes flicking between us. She doesn’t say anything, but I can sense the unspoken thought: “Watch these two.”

Commander Yentil returns—quiet stepping, observant pulse. He approaches, hands folded behind his back. I sense a challenge in his posture—forged not in threat, but in authority carried by protocol.

Yentil leans closer. His voice is dry as sand in his throat. “Captain Bloodsinger.”

I nod once.

He glances at her, amber glass cradled in her palm, and then to the collar still faintly glowing. He says, “Station regulations ask me to remind you—this is a civilian environment. Any disturbances, and security will act accordingly.”

I bare my teeth—lightly, not a snarl, but clarity. “We won’t. Interference earns consequences, for all parties.”

Yentil’s gaze lingers on our linked forms, then he nods. “Let’s hope that’s fair.”

He retreats. The murmurs restart, as if a tide pulled back then rushed in.

Amara sets down her glass with soft precision. “That was… unnecessary.”

I shrug. “Necessary.”

She rolls her eyes at me, fierce and amused. “Your brand of hospitality fills quotas.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Your brand of diplomacy saves worlds.”

She cracks a smile—tight and beautiful, shaped by grit and grace. I let my hand brush hers against the countertop. The contact crackles like live wire.

We sit in silence that hums. The whiskey glows between us. The station’s life pulse—voices, distant steps, recycled air—buzzes in the background. But here, with her finger brushing mine, time bends.

I clear my throat. Lean closer. “Your whiskey choice?”

“Earth reserve,” she says, voice low, rimed with warmth. “As heavy—smooth—as this moment.”

I trace a fingertip over her hand. “Good choice.”

She laughs—soft, genuine, and it shapes the air into something fragile and strong all at once.

I taste smoke and her scent on my lips. The butterflies I used to scorn dance through my chest. This is peace, and wind, and surrender—alliances forged in bones instead of treaties.

No more threats.

No more claims.

Just this moment of proximity and quiet, where two souls that found each other in chaos cling to the quiet like armor.

I tilt my glass to her. “To balance and to claim.”

She mirrors me. Glass meets glass. The echo rings soft.

She whispers, not looking away, “To all we’ve earned together.”

We lean back into the murmur of the bar, partaking in the imperfect world around us. A Reaper at peace is rare as stars dying quietly.

But right now... I’m staying.