Page 16 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

Amara's hair smells like defiance. Not flowers or perfume—none of that powdered luxury crap. It’s salt and sweat and ozone from the fire fight two nights ago, tangled with the smoke of cheap synth-whiskey we shared last night.

She’s curled against me now, face buried in my chest, breath warm over the scar that cuts across my ribs like a jagged grin. Her fingers twitch slightly. Dreaming.

I wish I could stay here. I really do.

But war never sleeps, and it sure as shit doesn’t knock.

Something’s off.

It starts in my gut—the cold coil of tension that slips down my spine and settles just behind my eyes. Every instinct I’ve ever honed on blood-soaked raids and hollow asteroid ambushes starts screaming. Not with panic. With certainty.

They’re coming.

I ease out from under her like a ghost, tucking the blanket over her shoulder so she doesn’t wake to the cold. My boots are silent against the deck plating. The Starbase is asleep, the kind of quiet that presses on your ears like pressure at the bottom of a gravity well. Too quiet.

I don’t need a report to know it. I can feel it.

The air tastes wrong—metallic, electric. It stings at the back of my throat.

I slip into the shuttle’s cockpit and slap the controls awake. They hum to life under my touch, throwing soft glows across the dark. I don’t tap the comms. Not the public ones. I punch a string of encrypted keys into a console only Panaka and I know how to read.

Secure Burst Channel: Widowmaker - Encrypted Relay Ping

The delay feels longer than it should. Seconds stretch. My jaw tightens.

When Panaka’s face finally appears, it’s a grim painting of everything I feared.

His one eye burns like a dying star. No bluster, no grin, not even sarcasm.

That’s bad.

“Thought you’d feel it,” he says without preamble. “We just intercepted Coalition chatter. Tightband. Burned quiet, but not quiet enough.”

I snarl low. “How many?”

“Fleet.” He doesn’t blink. “And not the bargain bin. Flagships. Interdictors. Transport carriers. The whole damn parade.”

My knuckles crack as I grip the console. “They’re coming for her.”

“They’re coming for us, Bloodsinger,” Panaka growls. “Malem Karag’s leading the hunt. This isn’t about Amara anymore. It’s what she means. A human. With a Reaper.”

He spits to the side. “To them, it’s heresy.”

I glance back toward the sleeping cabin, where she’s tangled in our blanket like a secret I haven’t earned. Her presence, her scent—her—is still in the air. She’s the gravity I orbit now. And the universe hates that.

“Let them come,” I mutter.

But even I hear the lie in my voice.

Panaka leans closer, lowering his tone. “Listen to me, Haktron. This ain’t just a disciplinary fleet or a warning flyby. This is extermination. They’re coming to erase you. To unmake her. The bond you’ve got? The idea of it threatens every protocol in their books.”

I grit my teeth. “So what? We hide? Run?”

“You ever known me to run?” he snaps, voice sharp. “No. We stall. You dig in. You protect her. I’m redirecting Widowmaker—she’ll cut through the Outer Verge and punch gravity holes the minute we’re in jump range. ETA twenty-one hours.”

I nod. “We won’t be here when you get here.”

“You better be.” His voice softens, barely. “You were born for war, Bloodsinger. But this… this ain’t just war. This is personal.”

The screen cuts off.

I stare at the silent comm.

For a second, I let myself breathe. Just one second.

Then I turn.

She’s standing in the threshold, blanket around her shoulders, hair a wild halo of silver in the emergency lights. Her eyes are half-shadowed, but there’s no mistaking the steel in them.

“You’re going to leave me behind,” she says quietly.

“No.”

“You were going to,” she insists, voice low. “You were going to fight alone.”

I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Then maybe it’s time you were,” I growl.

We stare each other down. She crosses the room, barefoot, unflinching.

Her hand rests on my chest. Not soft. Firm. Claiming.

“You don't get to protect me from this. We’re already in it. We burn together, or not at all.”

I grab her wrist, press her palm flat against my heart.

“We burn,” I say, “but I’ll be damned if I let them take you first.”

She looks up, fire in her eyes.

“Then we make them bleed.”

Commander Yentil blinks at me like I’ve just declared myself Emperor of the Stars.

“You’re saying Malem Karag is leading a Coalition fleet here—personally?” His voice is clipped, trying to stay civil, but the way his fingers twitch near the comm panel tells me all I need to know.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Commander.” I lean forward, resting my claws on the edge of his polished desk. “They’re coming. Soon. You’ve got hours, maybe less.”

Yentil looks me over—slow, like he’s scanning a predator in a cage that hasn’t been locked properly.

His gaze lingers on the bone spurs protruding from my forearms, the crimson-black armor patched with a dozen battles’ worth of scars.

Then to Amara, standing behind me like the ghost of defiance made flesh. She doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny.

“I assumed you were exaggerating,” he mutters. “Or posturing. But you’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

He exhales, straightens his coat. “Alright. I didn’t get this post by being a coward.”

He turns to his aide without hesitation. “Put the station at DEFCON 2. Lock down all nonessential sectors. Prepare interceptor squadrons and double-check our atmospheric seals. I want diplomatic shields extended around the human sector and our guest. Immediately.”

The aide nods and vanishes like smoke.

I grunt approval. “Didn’t peg you for one with a spine.”

Yentil smirks faintly. “You wouldn’t be the first. But I’ve seen war, Reaper. I just prefer my battles with structure and warning, not screaming and blood in the corridors.”

“You might get both.”

“I figured.”

He taps a command panel, and a holographic field shimmers into existence over Amara, marking her in Alliance gold and violet: Diplomatic Protection Initiated. It won’t stop a plasma round, but it’ll complicate things if anyone tries to make her vanish quietly.

“Should buy us time. Maybe force a conversation instead of a massacre.”

I snort. “You ever met Malem Karag?”

“I’ve read his files. He’s... clinical.”

“He’s a fucking vulture in a silk scarf.”

Yentil doesn’t argue.

Amara brushes her fingers across mine, just enough to anchor me. I’m still vibrating under the skin, every nerve on a knife’s edge. The base feels wrong. Tense. Like it’s holding its breath.

I follow her out of the command deck, refusing to let her walk alone. I’m her shadow now, hulking just behind her—too close for comfort, too far to catch a sniper round.

The station knows. Every crewman, every tech, every translator—we pass, they know. The word spreads fast: Reaper alert, DEFCON 2, diplomatic girl with silver hair and a predator on her leash.

Except no one leashes me.

I can smell the change in the air—like plasma coils warming before a firefight. Ozone and adrenaline. Metallic fear. The base bristles, crackles with readiness. Weapons are checked twice. Boots echo louder.

She glances at me. “You’re twitching.”

“Everything’s too quiet.”

“It’s a military station.”

“Yeah. And soldiers get real quiet before they’re told to die.”

We reach the quarters they’ve assigned us—if you can call a reinforced room with biometric locks and a wall-safe for weapons “quarters.” I sweep it before she enters, not trusting anyone or anything.

When I finally sit, it’s on the edge of the bed, armor still on. I don’t relax. Can’t. My claws drum against my knees. I can’t shake the scent of tension that’s woven into the air like invisible barbed wire.

She watches me from across the room, her expression unreadable. “You think they’ll hit tonight?”

“I know they will.”

Her throat works around a swallow. “Then don’t wait. We hit first.”

I meet her eyes.

That fire in her hasn’t dimmed—not after the extractor, not after the escape, not even now. She’s scared. I can see it in the angle of her shoulders. But she’s not backing down.

“No,” I say finally. “This time… we hold the line.”

She nods, once.

But I still smell blood in the corridors.

What rattles me isn’t the threat of death. It’s not the fleet bearing down, the interdictors screaming through space on our trail, or the certainty of Malem Karag’s slimy voice barking orders across the void.

No. It’s her.

Amara.

She moves through the storm like it was made for her. Like war is an old lover she’s learned how to seduce, manipulate, and outlast.

I’m standing in the background like a fucking statue, muscles coiled, instincts lit like fuses, but she—she’s slicing through encrypted code like it’s silk.

The lights from the terminal paint her face in soft golds and blues, her fingers flying across the display, patching into backchannels only ghosts should know exist.

She’s negotiating with three ambassadors simultaneously, juggling languages like juggling knives. Her voice—calm, precise, velvet-wrapped steel.

“No, you’re misreading that clause,” she tells one with a faint smile. “The Alliance jurisdiction ends at Gamma’s orbital plane, not its biosphere. Meaning your threat to pull diplomatic staff is posturing. And sloppy.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t lose her edge.

I would’ve barked. Roared. Broken something.

She’s better than that.

She switches seamlessly to Grolgathian, her tongue wrapping around the harsh gutturals like it’s her native breath. Then again, she was trained for this. Bred for this. But I’m seeing the why now. Not as a distraction or ornament or tool.

She’s a fucking strategist.

My heart—the big one, the primal one, not the auxiliary backup most Reapers have—slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break out. Pride claws its way up my chest, not hot like rage but slow-burning. Heavy. I’ve never felt this particular kind of awe before.

She’s not mine to guard. Not some fragile prize to bleed for.

She’s my equal.

And gods, that should bother me. Should stick in my throat like a bone. But instead, it tastes like purpose.

Yentil watches her too, arms crossed, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. He nods like he’s learning something. Like we’re learning something.

“She’s… coordinated,” he murmurs to me.

“She’s a damn storm in human skin.”

His eyes cut sideways. “You going to let her lead?”

I don’t answer. I just stare at her, the way she stands firm even when the Coalition ambassador tries to bait her with legal jargon. She meets it with a smirk and a counter-stroke that leaves him stammering.

“You’re wrong about jurisdiction. And if you test that theory,” she says smoothly, “I’ll make sure the entire Holonet knows the Coalition is now targeting human diplomatic entities. I don’t think your bosses want that headline.”

Silence.

She turns away before he can answer. She already knows she’s won.

She walks past me and doesn’t stop. Just lifts a brow like, You coming, or what?

I follow her through the corridor, my boots thunderous next to her whisper-soft steps. Every inch of this station buzzes like it’s waiting for a throat to rip open. But she moves like she belongs here. Like she’s orchestrating the chaos.

I grab her elbow gently when we turn a corner, pulling her to a stop.

“You’re… scary good at this.”

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “I was built for this.”

“Doesn’t make it any less impressive.”

She studies me for a beat. “You thought I was just a Companion.”

“I thought you were soft.”

She laughs, not cruel but sharp. “And now?”

“Now I think you might be sharper than I am.”

That pulls her up short. “You’re admitting that?”

“I’m not proud. Or rather, I am—just not about always being the best.”

She leans in, resting a palm on my chest. Her skin’s cool. Calming.

“You were made for war,” she murmurs. “I was made for peace.”

“Then what the hell are we doing?”

She smirks. “Surviving both.”

I grin, slow and crooked. “Not bad for a squishy.”

“Not bad for a walking weapon.”

We move again. She’s already dialing into another call by the time we hit the command deck. She doesn’t stop to breathe. Doesn’t slow down.

And I realize—she’s not just fighting beside me. She’s carving her own front.

I’m not the sharpest blade in this room anymore.

And I don’t hate it.