Page 18 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

The first shot screams past the viewport like a comet with a deathwish.

It misses the hull by a hair, ion trails carving the vacuum into blue-white ribbons—and that’s the last warning we get.

Starbase Gamma roars to life.

Turrets rotate, cannons extend like the fingers of some waking god, and shields flare against the first volley of plasma bursts. The whole structure groans, metal spine flexing under impact as if it’s alive and pissed off.

“INCOMING HOSTILES, MULTIPLE VECTORS,” the computer howls. “SHIELD STABILITY AT 89%.”

I’m already moving. Already bolting toward command with gravity shifting under me like a drunk’s breath. My boots slam steel and echo through chaos. Sirens wail. Holo-screens flicker with enemy fleet telemetry, the red of Coalition markers spreading like a disease.

I slap the tactical overlay into place. The screen zooms, and there they are.

Hornets.

Swarms of them—fast movers, Coalition class X-91s and scythe-wing interceptors, spiraling in formation like dancers in a ritual slaughter. Each one is a blade on fire. We hit a few on approach, but there’s too many. Way too many.

Gamma's returning fire, sure, but it’s like punching waves.

We’re outmatched.

I grit my teeth. My hands curl tight around the guardrail as impacts shudder through the deck plating. Sparks rain from a blown conduit nearby. Crew members shout. The command staff's trying to hold formation, to track targets, to stay calm.

But we’re bleeding seconds.

And seconds mean lives.

Then I hear the tone—long-range scanners picking up something new.

One blip.

Then four.

“Unidentified ships emerging from FTL corridor,” calls the nav officer. Her voice is tight. “Range—thirty AU. Speed—dropping from warp now.”

The holomap updates. Blue blips this time.

I lean in, my heart punching my ribcage.

There she is.

The Widowmaker.

Panaka’s ship, black and sharp as a blade dragged across space. She's flanked by three more Reaper vessels—ghostlike and nimble. No signatures. No warnings. Just pure, tactical malice cloaked in silent arrival.

The nav officer sucks in a breath. “Sir… they’re broadcasting no codes. But I think it’s them.”

I grin, slow and feral.

“They’re not here to talk.”

Yentil swivels toward me, eyes narrowed. “Those yours?”

“Damn right they are.”

The display shifts—Reaper ships break formation, peeling into a delta pattern. Widowmaker moves to intercept the largest Coalition dreadnought like it wants to swallow it whole.

“They brought reinforcements,” someone breathes.

I smirk. “No. They brought Panaka.”

And if that bastard came himself, that means he’s done playing nice.

I flick the comm. “This is Haktron to Widowmaker. Status?”

The reply crackles like gravel in a warzone.

“Status is pissed, Haktron,” Panaka growls through the static. “And armed.”

I bark a laugh, heart hammering as adrenaline lights up my blood. “Thought you’d never show.”

“Had to round up some friends. Hope you left a few to kill.”

The line cuts.

Outside, Widowmaker lights up like a thunderstorm. Twin railcannons slam through a Coalition cruiser’s flank, venting atmosphere and bodies in one breath. Reaper ships dart like shadows, weaving between firestreams, trailing ion disruption behind them.

Gamma’s defense net tightens, emboldened by the sudden muscle.

The tide’s not turning.

But for the first time, we’ve got a chance to shove back.

“Open flank coordination with the Reaper ships,” I bark at the tactical chief. “Get them telemetry overlays. Sync targeting data.”

She nods, fingers flying.

The station shakes again, but this time, it feels less like a death knell and more like a heartbeat.

War’s here.

The counteroffensive is art.

Not the clean, pretty kind that hangs in galleries. This is the kind carved into bone with blood and heat. The kind you feel before you understand.

Panaka hits the Coalition rear flank like a scythe swung by a vengeful god.

Widowmaker cuts hard starboard, side guns opening up in overlapping arcs. Ion pulses slice clean through two interceptors before their pilots even get a scream out. Reaper ships dive and weave, flanking, baiting, detonating cluster drones in synchronized bursts.

It’s like watching a bar fight choreographed by death itself.

Yentil lets out a sharp breath beside me. “He’s… unhinged.”

“No,” I correct, eyes glued to the tactical feed. “He’s angry.”

It’s controlled chaos. And gods, does it work.

Gamma’s turrets gain a foothold. A Coalition battleship veers off-course to deal with Widowmaker’s tailgunners and ends up exposing its underbelly. We gut it with coordinated fire. The station shakes with the echo of success, if only for a moment.

“Enemy formations breaking at point Charlie!” a tech shouts.

“Redirect fire grid twelve!” Yentil barks. “Push ‘em back!”

We surge. It’s messy. Glorious.

But not enough.

The Coalition's numbers close fast—relentless as rust, as time, as everything that grinds good things down. They adapt. The flanking line stiffens. Reinforcements pour in from above the Z-axis, diving like hawks.

We’re winning battles.

But we’re losing the war.

And Panaka knows it.

I see it in the way Widowmaker’s path shifts—subtle at first. Then bold. Then suicidal.

“What’s he doing?” I mutter. “That’s Alliance territory.”

The holomap redraws. Widowmaker streaks across the designated no-fly buffer like a knife slicing treaties in half. The Reaper ships follow, bait trailing behind them—a clump of Coalition scouts, hungry and dumb.

Alarms chirp. A red barrier flashes on the map—Alliance jurisdiction.

“Panaka’s breached diplomatic boundaries,” the nav officer says, voice shaking.

“On purpose,” I growl.

Yentil spins to me. “Tell me he’s not about to light up an Alliance ship.”

“He won’t have to.”

I watch, riveted, as Widowmaker dips low into the patrol grid, passing just close enough to trip a full-spectrum sensor relay.

Three Alliance vessels uncloak instantly, weapons powered, tracking.

Their communications array explodes with chatter.

Even without hearing the words, I can feel the ‘what the hell’ vibrating through the holonet.

Panaka doesn’t fire.

He just runs.

Straight back toward the fight.

And the Alliance follows.

“Oh you clever, insane bastard…” I whisper.

They chase him to the edge of the grid—where the Coalition ships wait. Alliance sensors, now lit, pick up the rest. The blockade. The prisoner exchange demand. The open threats.

The neutrality curtain is ripped wide open.

And with it, the third force enters the fray—confused, pissed, and fully armed.

Yentil turns, stunned. “He dragged the Alliance in without a shot.”

“Yep.”

“On purpose?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Holy hell.”

“Right?”

The deck trembles again. I grip the rail. Outside, a Coalition frigate hesitates.

And in war, hesitation kills.

Widowmaker swings back around. And this time, she’s not alone.

The hangar bay is chaos—metal screeches, warning klaxons scream, and engineering teams scramble like ants on a kicked hive.

I charge across the grating, vision narrowed to the only thing that matters: my bird. My shuttle. Fresh out of repair, gleaming with patches of weld-scars and vengeance.

“Systems green!” a tech yells as I vault the ramp.

Amara’s right behind me, no hesitation. “You’re not flying into that alone.”

I don’t argue. Just toss her a sidearm and punch the canopy release. “You shoot. I fly.”

Her smirk is feral. “Deal.”

The cockpit seals around us with a hiss and a whine. She slides into the gunner’s seat like she was born to kill at my side. I don’t look at her—not because I don’t want to—but because I can’t afford to. Not now.

I slam the ignition sequence. The shuttle hums beneath us like a beast waking up. My hands dance over the console, tuning grav boosters, charging shields, toggling weapon ports hot.

"Power to forward shields," I bark.

“Done,” she replies without missing a beat. "Rear thrusters charging."

“Good. Time to make some art.”

We blast out of the hangar like a punch through glass.

The void hits hard—black and raw and full of teeth. Coalition fighters whirl in clouds of metal and fire, and the Widowmaker’s silhouette flashes through plasma bursts like a predator in blood-tinted fog.

I dive low, skimming the underbelly of a disabled cruiser.

Amara’s already firing.

She doesn’t wait for lock-ons. She knows. Her hands move like fire and instinct, sending volleys into engines, cracking canopies, turning sleek Coalition craft into tumbling wreckage.

Bloodfont.

It’s what they call that first mist—the red smear that bursts inside a sealed cockpit when the pilot catches shrapnel mid-scream. I see it twice in the first minute. Then again. Then again.

“Six o'clock!” she snaps.

I twist. Barrel roll. A scythe-wing screams past, too slow. Amara paints its targeting array with EMP and fries it before it can loop.

It spirals off, sparking.

“Nice,” I grunt.

“Don’t compliment me. Kill something.”

My grin’s all teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”

We carve a path through chaos—me threading needles at breakneck speed, her painting the stars red. There’s no need for orders. No wasted motion. Just pulse and breath and ruin.

She sees what I can’t. I react to what she fires at.

I cover. She finishes.

We’re a rhythm.

We’re one.

The ship rocks from an impact, but we ride the spin like a dance step. She adjusts mid-gimbal, re-aims, blasts a missile clean out of space with a scream that’s half rage, half laughter.

“Did you just laugh?” I shout.

“Try not to die, and maybe you’ll hear it again.”

Another squad of X-91s closes in. I punch the afterburners, dive toward the magnetic slipstream above the station's thermal exhaust vent.

“Firing arc’s narrow!” she warns.

“Don’t miss.”

“I never do.”

She doesn't.

The tunnel lights up with enemy wreckage.

There’s a moment, just one, where it’s just us and stars and wreckage spinning like confetti.

And in that quiet between firestorms, she glances at me.

And smiles.

Not like a lover.

Like a weapon.

One that chose me.

The Companion and the Reaper.

Not monsters. Not relics. Not tools.

Just us.

Alive.

And dangerous.