Page 22 of Ravaged By the Reaper

AMARA

The shattered command bridge still smells like blood and smoke.

Not metaphorically—literally. Burnt wiring curls in my nose with each breath, tangling with ozone and a copper tang that refuses to fade.

One of the blown-out consoles still sizzles softly.

They told me they could hold the summit in the diplomatic wing, that it would be cleaner, more… presentable.

But I said no.

If we're going to talk about war, we’ll do it where the war already cracked the bones of this station.

The table is jury-rigged from debris—half of it scavenged from broken hull plates, the other half barely balanced on a stack of uninstalled fusion cores. Around it, the galaxy’s most dangerous egos shift in their chairs.

Alliance admirals in pressed uniforms, their expressions carved from disdain and suspicion.

Reaper delegates, silent and unmoved, claws folded neatly on the table like predators tolerating a ceasefire.

And at the end, as though this is all some kind of interstellar comedy, Panaka lounges with a drink in hand—one leg thrown over the armrest of his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He lifts his glass to me like we’re at a dinner party.

I don’t return the gesture.

Instead, I step into the dead center of the room—the most exposed place, the least safe. Every pair of eyes shifts to me. None friendly.

With the crackle of old-world tech struggling to function, Malem Karag flickers to life in a flickering red holo. The image is life-sized, detailed, cold as vacuum.

His eyes find mine immediately.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Every hair on the back of my neck prickles.

“Let’s begin,” I say, voice firm even as the tension tries to crawl its way up my spine.

“By all means,” one of the Alliance admirals mutters.

I start with protocol. With the official language.

The kind that makes this a summit and not a standoff.

I cite treaties. Enumerate clauses. Invoke interstellar law.

Remind them, one by one, what’s at stake.

Not just in blood, but in precedent. In the legacy they’ll leave behind if this ends in fire.

I don’t expect the words to work.

I speak to them because I must.

But then—I shift.

I look Malem dead in the eyes. “You came here expecting a show of strength. You brought ships. You made threats. You demanded submission.”

His holo twitches, barely perceptible.

“And yet here you are. A projection in a room of enemies. Listening. So tell me—what does that make you?”

He doesn’t respond. But his silence is answer enough.

I step closer to the center. “You all know what I am now. What I’ve become. And there’s not a soul in this room who doesn’t have an opinion about it. Human bonded to a Reaper? Heresy. Evolution. Abomination. Miracle. Choose your flavor.”

A few glances exchange across the table. Reapers don’t flinch. The admirals do.

“But that’s not why I asked you here,” I continue, voice steadier now. “I didn’t call this summit to justify myself. Or to beg for peace. I called it because, for the first time in living memory, all of you are in the same room, breathing the same air. And maybe that means we have a chance.”

Panaka laughs under his breath. Not mocking—amused.

I ignore him.

“Look around,” I say, sweeping my arm across the room.

“We’re bleeding. All of us. And none of us can afford to pretend the galaxy isn’t cracking open beneath our feet.

You can burn down this station, sure. But what then?

Another war. More orphans. Another generation taught to kill before they learn to read. ”

Silence.

Real silence.

Even Malem is listening now.

“I’m not na?ve,” I say. “I know this might fail. I know some of you already made up your minds before you stepped into this room. But I also know we’re at a crossroads. And whether we turn left or right depends on what we believe is possible.”

I glance toward the Reaper delegation.

Then the Alliance.

Then Panaka.

“Because the truth is, we already made the impossible happen. I’m proof. You’re here. You haven’t killed each other yet. That’s not just restraint. That’s a crack in the armor of hate.”

My voice lowers.

“This summit isn’t peace. It’s a seed. And if we don’t bury it in blood today… maybe one day it’ll grow.”

Malem’s hologram flickers again.

He speaks. “Inspiring.”

The word drips with contempt. But it’s the first time he’s addressed me directly. That matters more than tone.

I meet his gaze without blinking. “No, Commander Karag. Not inspiring. Necessary.”

I’ve stood on a dozen stages, worn silk that cost more than starships, spoken lines meant to beguile the most guarded of men. But none of that prepared me for this.

The eyes in this room aren’t just curious or calculating.

They’re heavy. Judging. Daring me to slip.

Malem’s hologram remains still, a cold sentinel.

The Alliance admirals are stone-faced. The Reapers…

inscrutable. Panaka swirls his drink again, ice clinking against crystal, and leans back with that signature grin of his.

And yet, I don’t back down.

I take a breath—deep, slow. Let the tension ride my lungs on the way out. And I begin.

“You all know what I am. Or you think you do. You know what I was made to be. A Companion. Trained to manipulate, to pleasure, to blend into any society and soothe it into silence. Some of you probably still see that when you look at me.”

One of the admirals shifts in his seat. Panaka quirks a brow. Malem? Still unreadable.

“I was taught to be everything to everyone. But never myself.”

My voice doesn’t waver, even when my fingers twitch by my sides. I press on, pushing past the staleness in the back of my throat.

“I lived in golden cages and velvet prisons. I smiled for men who thought I didn’t understand the words they whispered behind my back. I learned ten dialects in ten months, and never once did anyone ask what my favorite color was.”

A Reaper tilts his head slightly. I catch it in my periphery. Good. Let them listen.

“But then the universe cracked,” I say. “War. Chaos. Collapse. The roles shattered. And I was left staring at the pieces, wondering who I’d be if I wasn’t playing someone else.”

I take a step forward, planting my boots firmly in the cracked floor of the bridge.

“That’s when I met Haktron.”

Some of the admirals visibly stiffen. The name still carries weight—and fear.

“A Reaper known for brutality. For carnage. For ending disputes with teeth, not words. He should’ve killed me. Hell, part of him probably wanted to.”

I let that sit for a beat. Let them stew in it.

“But he didn’t.”

Another breath. This one tastes like ash and old metal. The command bridge is stifling, like the very walls are waiting to see how this plays out.

“He didn’t kill me. He listened. And I saw him for what he truly was—not a monster. Not a machine. But a man shaped by war, just like I was shaped by obedience. We were both forged in someone else’s fire.”

A flicker in Panaka’s eyes. Interest? Maybe. Maybe more.

“I fought him at first. Not just physically—but emotionally, ideologically. I couldn’t reconcile what I’d been taught with what I was feeling. But over time… the pieces started to shift.”

I speak slower now, choosing each word like a blade.

“Because this isn’t just about species. It’s about power. About who holds it, and what they do with it.”

I look directly at Malem’s projection.

“I chose restraint. I chose diplomacy. I chose to believe there could be another way. And so did he.”

The room tightens around me like a vice. You could hear a hairline crack in the hull echo right now.

“He could’ve claimed me. Controlled me. But instead, he stood beside me.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t let the emotion choke me. Not here. Not now.

“We became something none of you expected. A bond not based on dominance or utility—but choice. I don’t need him. And he doesn’t need me. We want each other. That distinction? That’s the foundation for what peace could look like.”

The admiral across from me narrows his eyes. “You’re asking us to base an interstellar ceasefire on your relationship?”

“No,” I say, tone clipped. “I’m asking you to recognize that change is possible. That centuries of hatred can evolve. That enemies can become more.”

I let my gaze sweep the table again.

“I’m not standing here as a Companion. Or a soldier. Or a political pawn. I’m standing here as a bridge.”

A pause.

“A human bonded to a Reaper. A woman who has nothing left to lose but everything to offer. And if you still can’t see the value in that, then maybe none of you should be leading anything.”

The silence after that lands like a blow. No rustle. No cough. Even Panaka’s glass is still.

And then Malem speaks.

“Interesting.”

One word. But it cuts like a blade.

I meet his gaze and wait.

The silence after Malem’s “Interesting” clings to me like frost. Then it breaks.

He leans forward in his holographic chair, face sharper than a blade. "I'll withdraw the fleet," he says, voice measured, clinical. "Release me the human-reaper bonded one. Surrender her."

My chest caves in tight, and for a moment, simple biochemical panic flashes behind my eyes. But I keep it hidden.

Surrender me. Remove the “infection,” and peace returns. His logic's savage, brilliant, efficient. A surgical strike on the source.

It’s a sentence delivered by someone who’s never known what love is.

Gasps ripple around the room. Yentil's second-in-command glances at me, pale and horrified, mouth opening and closing like a wounded animal. Alliance admirals recoil as though he’s offered to dine on my bones. The Reaper delegates stiffen, claws tightening on tables.

Panaka's lips twitch. If amusement is cowardice, then he’s guilty—at least partly.

I breathe in, the stale command bridge air thick with ozone and tension. The floor rattles under the faint thrum of station systems. My throat runs dry, but I refuse to blink.

Haktron rises from the shadows. The faint scrape of armor echoes. Every eye follows him. I see the question in their eyes—Is he going to fight?

Instead, he steps aside, gaze fixed low, letting me stand solid and sovereign.

I raise my hand. One slow move. The room hushes deeper. Even Punaka’s amusement dims.

“Let me speak to him. Alone.”

The words fall like a stone, dangerous and plummeting. They’re an invitation—or perhaps a surrender. A hand raised in peace, or in defiance?

Yentil clamps his jaw, paralysis pinned on his face. The Alliance envoy blinks. Panaka folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. The Reapers shift like threatened beasts.

No one moves.

Except me.

My boots are steady. My head’s clear. Blood pounding fierce, but clear.

Malem watches, calculating.

I can read the chill in his stare. Knowing that if I walk forward, I’m walking alone. Into his lair. Into his logic.

He opens his mouth.

“Bold.”

“I didn’t come here to negotiate from safety.”

His lips curl. “You didn’t come alone.”

“Not anymore.”

A heartbeat.

“Very well.”

A promise? A threat? Both?

“Guards,” he says, directing the room at once. “Sequester the others. Bring only her. No bodyguards, no weapons.”

Gasps rise again—then choke as they realize: I’m stepping into the vulture circle by choice.

Yentil looks ready to bolt. I meet his eyes, just for a second, before turning away.

“I’ll be fine.”

He opens his mouth to argue. I wait. Then walk toward the door.

Haktron steps forward and catches my wrist for a split second. His eyes flick to mine—warning, grief, pride tangled inside.

I nod once, tight with gratitude.

Then I let go.

The guards flank me, escorting me through corridors that feel narrower than when I walked in. Every step echoes through my head. Every breath tastes like aftermath.

I reach the holo-door.

It opens with a hiss. Malem stands beyond it—half in shadow, half in his crimson uniform, arms folded, waiting.

No theatrics. No weapons. Just cold steel affection, if such a thing exists.

I step inside.

The door closes behind me with a finality that shakes the bones.

The room is smaller inside. Warmer. Smells like power and old leather. The hum of life support is louder here.

He doesn’t move.

I hold his gaze.

“This is me,” I say. Voice calm, but fierce. “My body is my choice. Not your bargaining chip.”

His jaw goes rigid. His voice steel.

“You’re not a thing to surrender.”

My heart tenses—but I don’t blink.

“This is the only way you’ll have peace without genocide. Or I’ll remain unyielding. And then there’s no peace at all.”

He doesn’t laugh.

He reaches out, and his hand trembles—not in weakness, but anticipation.

“I grant you this,” he whispers. Close enough I can feel the heat of his breath. “Because I’d rather see how far you can push humanity than be the one to crush it.”

I close the space between us with a breath.

“So let’s hope I’m not wrong.”

No more words. Just the shutter of breath and the click of his decision. Then, the door behind me opens again.

We stand, two human-made weapons, rendered alive by choice.

And the station doesn’t feel like it's bleeding anymore. Instead, it holds its breath with me.