Page 24 of Ravaged By the Reaper

AMARA

Silence falls across Gamma like a soft blanket—impossibly fragile for what we’ve just made. Peace. Real, breath-saving, dangerous peace. The kind you earn with fire in your veins and scars in your bones.

The station hums under new orders—Alliance repair fleets decelerating into docks, tools clattering with purpose, human voices hopeful. I can smell fresh solvent, hot metal, and the sweet sting of things being fixed instead of broken.

This place—once a beacon of war—now pulses with reluctant calm.

I stand on a balcony overlooking the docking bays, the view framed by steel girders and glowing repair drones like moths at a torch. Below me, Alliance engineers work shoulder-to-shoulder with Gamma’s crew. No uniforms. Just people rebuilding, repairing life.

A lieutenant steps up beside me, voice soft. “Captain Sorell—diplomatic council wants to offer you a post. Prestige, resources… stability.”

So many words inside me twitch to escape. I don’t want prestige. I don’t want stability disguised as chains.

I shake my head. “Tell them thanks, but no thanks.”

She blinks, stunned. “May I ask why?”

I exhale, leaning against the railing. The air tastes like hope, and I’m not ready to spackle it with politics.

“I’m not a pawn anymore,” I say, voice clear. “I’m not a symbol. Not anywhere they can stage-manage me in a hallway with polished lies dripping from every corner.”

The lieutenant’s eyes flick with confusion and something like respect. “Then… what do you want?”

I look out beyond the station—out at the stars pinned to the void like promises.

“My place isn’t in orchestrated peace,” I say. “It’s among the wild, the chaotic, the free.”

“And that means…” she prompts.

“Among pirates,” I whisper. Dangerous confession. The word tastes like salt and excitement. Like I’m naming myself.

A gasp escapes her lips. “Pirates?”

I nod. “Yes.”

No. Because.

“Panaka contacted me,” I say, quiet. “He offered alliance. Not just with Gamma, but with his crew. A chance to build something outside the letter of laws. A council of free people, not politicians.”

The lieutenant’s jaw drops. She glances at the repair crews, the Alliance fleet officers by the docks—some shocked, some considering it. Then she meets my gaze, unblinking.

“That’s… irreverent.”

“Maybe.” I smile, sharp and wild. “But it's honest.”

Another breath. The station hums around us—cautious, fragile. I taste possibility. Not promises, but choices. Real ones.

“You’ll make a fine diplomat someday,” she says, voice steadier now.

I laugh, low and genuine. “Diplomacy is easy when you’re framed by expectations. But out there? I want chaos. I want freedom.”

She nods slowly. “Then I’ll tell them.”

I watch her go, feeling the weight of her words settle in my bones. She’s not the first to offer me high halls, cushioned seats, Diplomatic Pretender titles. But I refuse them.

I’m not that kind of myth.

The future is messy, dangerous, raw. Perfect.

From the balcony, I descend and walk through corridors still smelling of burnt ozone and new paint. Engineers wave. A technician hands me a fresh coffee—black, sharp, hot.

I take it. The steam curls like a promise.

“Thank you,” I murmur at her.

She smiles. “Thanks for not leaving us to die.”

The coffee tastes like purpose.

I head toward the hangar where the pirates—mostly Reaper-affiliated, but not all—have gathered. They’re brushing dust from weapons, laughing at stories only half-remembered. Their eyes lock on me.

Not with fear. With expectation.

I approach just as Panaka steps forward, the Lieutenant of the Widowmaker behind him, trimmed beard sharp as a blade. His smile is wry.

“You’ve done the unimaginable,” he says. “You turned war into a choice.”

I lean into him, pressing the warmth of my shoulder to his chest.

“Now let’s decide the next stage.”

He nods. “The bar’s where we begin.”

I laugh, light and wild. “Finally something civilized.”

And then—we walk into the hangar together, the hum of engines and pirate laughter folding around us.

The galaxy beyond still bleeds. But here—on this ragged station, rebuilt by defiance and promises—we build something else.

Freedom.

The air in the Widowmaker’s hangar is thick with fuel and nervous energy.

Engines idle in muted roars, repair crews drifting away from Reaper silhouettes that lean against hulls, teeth flashing in smoke-streaked grins.

Pirates, all of them—some ex-military, others mercs, a few who’ve forgotten what normal feels like.

At the center of it all, Panaka beckons me to follow him to the boarding ramp of his flagship. I can already taste the iron tang of power in my mouth.

He stops just at the hull, fingers brushing over the matte-black plating. Steam coils from the engine vents, warm and oily against my skin.

He turns to me, that half-smile balancing chaos and promise.

“Here’s your offer—officially.”

I raise an eyebrow, senses humming.

“Not here to be a trophy. Not a figurehead. I want you as yeoman—my negotiator. On every raid, you talk them down. Save lives. Keep us profitable. That means no wholesale slaughter—just targeted surrenders, maximum gain, minimal bloodshed.”

It’s strange. Managing raids, whispered deals while swords are still wet with blood. But somehow it makes sense. My training as a Companion taught seduction. My life as a warrior taught survival. This is both—dark, dangerous, but ineffably right.

I breathe in. Leather and ozone and the faint glitter of oil lanterns.

“This is… not what I expected,” I say.

He shrugs, wolf’s ear in his voice. “Breathless excuses are part of the package.”

I laugh, low and tired and grateful.

I glance past him. At the crew—half-smiling, half-tensed—like they’d forgotten someone made sense of their chaos once.

Then my eyes catch Haktron.

He’s leaned back, helmet cradled in his arms. His grin stretches, slow and feral.

He mouths, “Told you… we’d make a hell of a team.”

My throat tightens—because love shouldn’t feel this wild, but it does. Because this is bigger than me.

I turn back to Panaka, looking at him steady now.

“If the station ever falls,” I say, voice even, sure, “this goes in my will. Because this is where I choose to be.”

He blinks. Then nods.

“Then welcome aboard. Let’s run the universe—or at least our own corner of it—with fire and finesse.”

I slide up the ramp, every footstep humming—powered metal, rotting hope, rising promise.

My strokes run along the walls, feeling the bite of grafted battle armor.

Inside the Widowmaker, the air shifts. Cooler, more controlled. The hum of machinery smooths out into something like heartbeat.

Panaka stands, letting me lead. I take his proffered hand, and ours is a quiet vow.

I whisper, though I know he's brave enough to hear: “We do this my way.”

He hums.

Our fingers lock.

Home, he says with nothing but his touch.

I breathe, chest pulsing with words unsaid.

We step into the corridor together.

The ship lights bloom—red flares and gold streaks slicing across alien hieroglyphs etched into bulkhead panels.

Pirate crew members salute, laugh, nod. They see the deal. They see me. And I see them—finally, not for their notoriety, but for their humanity.

I smell oil, sweat, and something like hope.

“First task?” I ask Panaka.

He smirks, voice low.

“We have a ravaged trade convoy rebelling three decks up. Let’s go charm them into surrendering credits instead of lungs.”

I grin.

“You know how to tempt a storm, Reaper.”

He growls, lights flashing.

“We’ll do better. We’ll tame one.”

The boarding ramp hisses behind us, and for a moment, all I can hear is the low thrum of the Widowmaker's engines—steady, primal, alive. Like a pulse beneath the deck plating, like the ship itself is breathing. I’m standing in the belly of a legend, surrounded by chaos and old ghosts and the scent of singed steel. I glance back once. Just once.

Starbase Gamma glows behind me through the hangar’s pressure shield, jagged and wounded but still standing.

Somewhere in those halls, my past breathes—clean uniforms, whispering senators, soft smiles that never reached their eyes.

They’ll write reports about this. Debriefings.

Analyses. Footnotes in a history no one wants to remember.

But that’s not my story anymore.

I turn forward.

The Widowmaker looms like a cathedral of war, carved from black metal and lined with red light that pulses against the walls like blood. Everything about it screams warning, danger, death. But I feel calm. Grounded. Like it’s waiting for me—not to conquer, not to save—but to belong.

Haktron’s fingers brush mine.

I don’t need to look at him. I feel him—like a second gravity well, like a second spine. The heat of him radiates like reactor fire, and when I slide my hand into his, it feels less like a gesture and more like sealing a pact.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His presence hums across my nerves, a silent vow etched into skin and bone.

My collar gleams in the low light. It’s not tight. It’s not cruel. It’s forged of alloy and oath, not ownership. It reflects the glow of the ship’s lighting, catching glimmers of crimson across the etching at its base—the Jalshagar mark.

I am not merely his captive, nor am I just his assignment. I am more than just his jalshagar. I am something new, something greater now.

“I was born in silk,” I murmur, watching the light scatter across the floor as we step deeper into the ship, “trained to pour wine, recite poetry, and die beautifully if needed.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just walks beside me, silent.

“But I learned war in the dark. And I bled for the stars.”

Still, no words. Just the rhythm of his steps matching mine, our shadows tangled.

I glance sideways.

“I used to think I had to be someone for someone else. A role. A costume. A story with a beginning and an end.”

His voice rumbles low and sharp. “You are none of those things.”

“No,” I say, my fingers tightening on his. “I’m all of them. And I’m done apologizing for it.”

He stops. Just outside the bridge threshold. The doors hiss open on a world of command—rows of consoles, red-lit dashboards, Panaka’s laughter echoing somewhere past the tactical rail.

Haktron turns to face me.

His eyes burn—not with heat, but with clarity.

“I knew you’d take this path,” he says.

I arch a brow. “You did?”

He nods, slow. “From the moment you refused to break. From the moment you challenged me instead of pleading.”

I lean close. Close enough to feel the electricity dance across my collar. “I didn’t want to be saved.”

“I never wanted to save you,” he growls, low and reverent. “I wanted to stand beside you.”

The words brand themselves across my chest, hotter than plasma.

And I know—this isn’t love the way soft stories tell it. This is deeper. Older. Brutal and burning and sacred. This is war and devotion and forever etched into blood.

I step into the bridge with him at my side.

Panaka glances over from the command chair, raising his drink in mock salute. “Well, look at that. The pirate queen ascends.”

I flash him a smirk, calm and razor-sharp. “Let’s get to work.”

Because there are planets to raze, lives to spare, deals to strike. And now I don’t have to choose between who I was and who I am.

I get to be all of it.