Page 4 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

Coordinates pulse in my skull like a war drum.

The black site isn’t on any star chart, not even the Reaper archives.

Doesn’t matter. The moment I breach sublight range, I feel it.

The moon glows a dull purple beneath the dead light of Grolgath’s sixth star.

Orbiting it—like a parasite—a hunk of composite steel and spite.

No call signs. No IFF. No emergency beacons. No exit logs.

No witnesses.

Perfect.

“Engaging cloak disengage,” I growl to the shuttle’s AI. It chirps, too cheerful for the carnage about to unfold. The cloak ripples away like torn skin sloughing off bone. External lights flicker red.

“Target lock on hangar turrets.”

The ship shudders as I slam both fists into the control gauntlets. Twin plasma bolts scream from the nose guns, searing through the automated defenses before the station’s security systems even register the threat.

They never see me coming.

I punch the descent thrusters and rip the yoke toward the hangar doors. Alarms flare through the station—late. Always late.

Steel peels away like wet bark as the shuttle rams into the landing zone. A gout of flame licks the air as secondary blasts ignite ammunition crates I may have aimed for. Whoops.

By the time the ramp slams down, I’m already moving.

Bloodfont spins in my grip, chain humming with hunger. The scythe head sings as it catches the edge of the nearest Grolgath trooper, slicing through powered armor like butter under a plasma torch.

He doesn’t scream. He gurgles.

That’s better.

I whip the scythe backward on its chain, embedding the hook into a second guard’s shoulder. I yank—hard—and he spins into my reach. My foot caves in his ribs with a meaty crunch.

Two more down.

Blaster fire rips past my shoulder. I turn, grinning, eyes glowing hot.

One unlucky bastard is trying to fire from behind a stacked loader crate.

I swing Bloodfont like a meteor on a leash—twenty feet of pure destruction—and the hook crashes through the crate, slicing the coward in half with a wet snap.

Chunks of meat and cloth splatter across the landing bay. Civilians—techs, clerks, medicals—scream and scatter.

I ignore them.

I’m not here for mercy. I’m not here to rescue.

This is punishment.

A cluster of guards form up near the far wall, shields glowing. “FIRE!” one yells.

I run.

Not away, toward.

Their first volley splashes across my chest, scorching flesh, singing bone spurs. My shoulder jerks back, but I don’t stop. I never stop.

By the time I’m within reach, their formation is already broken from sheer panic. The moment I’m inside their ranks, it’s a slaughter.

I catch one by the throat and slam him into another. Their heads crack together like overripe fruit. Blood sprays. Screams tangle with radio static.

A power blade slices across my ribs, deep and hissing. Pain lances white-hot through my side, but I laugh. I laugh. It’s been too long since I felt a worthy wound.

I grab the attacker—small, maybe barely an adult—and crush his elbow before headbutting him into the wall. His skull splits open like a melon.

More come. I pivot. The scythe whirls—whish, whish, thunk. Heads roll.

I’m a red god in the middle of their metal womb.

“Seal the deck!” someone yells over comms. “He’s Reaper! He’s not here for negotiation!”

No shit.

I stalk through the smoke, Bloodfont now wet and heavy in my hand. The scent of scorched plastic, burned flesh, and ozone chokes the air. My boots leave wet footprints.

A panicked soldier pulls a fire suppression trigger—foam sprays. I roar through it, grab him by the collar, and drag him backward into the dark, just to hear him scream.

Still not her.

I tear open a blast door with raw strength, metal shrieking under my claws. Inside: more guards. A medic tries to shield a civilian. I shove them both aside like broken toys.

Still not her.

Where is she?

“Facility lockdown in progress—detainment wing secured,” a calm AI voice states through the overhead speakers.

Detainment wing.

I snarl, low and guttural. “You’re close, little flame.”

My boot crashes into the next door’s biometric scanner. Useless. I grip the bulkhead, jam the hook of Bloodfont into the seams, and rip.

The metal howls.

I barge through a corridor of fire suppression fog. A final guard squad makes a stand—twenty strong, shields raised, weapons locked.

I grin.

“Wrong day.”

Then I’m in them.

The rest is blood and screams.

The corridors twist like intestines—sterile, flickering with the cold blue of emergency lights. Alarms wail overhead, a shrieking chorus of panic and steel. My breath clouds in the recycled air. Not from cold. From want. Every part of me screams for movement.

She’s close.

I can feel her.

The shuttle’s sensors never told me where to go, not really. No map. No signature. But my blood knows. My bones drum with it, a rhythm older than stars. The jalshagar call sings louder now, hammering in my skull, my chest, the crackle of my joints.

She’s hurting.

The scent floods the vents—burnt ozone, sterilization chemicals, blood. And beneath it, something more delicate. Feminine. Coppery sweetness and desperation. That scent... it shouldn’t be familiar. But I know it. Deep in the marrow of me.

I breathe her in.

“Come to me,” I snarl, swinging Bloodfont in a circle as I step over the corpses littering the floor. The chain hisses, glinting with red. The scythe-head drips in arcs behind me.

She’s behind these walls somewhere. This place is built like a cage, like a lie wrapped in alloy.

“Show me the way.”

A pressure door slams down in front of me. Seals hiss. Auto-locks engage with a clang.

Cute.

I plant one boot into the floor, slam the point of Bloodfont’s hook between the seams, and pull. Screeching metal peels like skin. Sparks fly. My muscles rip through the pain, bone spurs biting into my own armor as I strain—rip, tear, break.

The door crashes inward. Alarms redouble, now flashing evacuation tones.

The floor vibrates beneath me—drones.

A squad of skittering defense units drops from ceiling rails. Gleaming black shells, jointed legs, barrel-like plasma mouths. They hiss in tandem, targeting arrays glowing.

“Pathetic toys.”

I rush them.

Two fire. Blue bolts slash across my shoulder and thigh, searing flesh. I don’t care. I need her. I spin Bloodfont in an arc—metal whines against metal—CLANG. One drone splits in half, sparking viscera of cables.

I leap onto the second, slamming the scythe down through its top plating, yanking free a mess of wires. Its legs twitch. I stomp once, crush the chassis.

The third gets a shot off—point-blank into my side. Pain flares like a sunburst. I snarl, grabbing its leg mid-lunge, then swing it like a club into the wall. It shatters. Bits scatter like broken teeth.

I pant—clawed hands smoking, armor cracked. My body screams to stop.

But I don’t stop.

She’s screaming too.

Her pain—it’s laced into the very air now, thick and wet and shaking the walls around me.

Another bulkhead looms. This one is thicker, reinforced. “Secure Containment,” the text reads, in Coalition dialect. Final level.

I slam both fists into the panel. Nothing.

I roar, voice raw, primal. My claws gouge into the steel. I stab Bloodfont into the edge and wrench it downward. Sparks rain like fireflies. I drag the hook across the seam, sawing metal from the wall itself.

My breath is fire now. My pulse deafens me. My vision swims, not from pain, but rage.

Somewhere on the other side of this wall—she screams.

It’s not just pain. It’s terror.

And that sound—that scream—is mine now. Branded into the deepest part of me.

“I’m coming!” I bellow, punching the wall.

“I swear on the Void, they’ll all die for this!”

Her name—whatever it is—rises in my throat like thunder, shapeless, wild. I shout it anyway.

“YOU!”

The hallway floods with emergency locks. Red lights. The floor panels lift, trying to trap me.

Too slow.

I leap the trap, slamming my fist into the wall-mounted override console. Sparks spray across my cheek. The machine hisses, and the bulkhead stutters.

Through the crack, I hear it again—her cry. Softer now. Strained. But there.

I rip the scythe free and prepare to kill whoever touches her.

Because now they’ve made it personal.

Every step I take toward her is carved into the bones of the dead. My boots crunch through bloodied visors, shattered rifles, bits of armor still twitching with residual nerves. My chest burns like I swallowed a black star. My fingers twitch like I could pull reality apart with my bare hands.

This feeling—this call—it isn’t love.

Love is a soft thing. A word whispered in pillowlight. A promise over wine and sweet air.

This? This is need. Obsession. Raw. Ugly. Consuming. Like her pain is mine and I will unmake the cosmos until she is whole again.

I don’t know her name, but I know her scent. I know the shape of her scream. The flavor of her pain.

She is mine.

I round the final corridor, where the walls bulge inward from the chaos I’ve unleashed. At the end waits a door unlike any I’ve seen in this pit—ten inches thick, silver-steel alloy, lined with high-voltage guards, encrypted twice over. No windows. No air vents. Dead silent.

I know she’s inside.

The scent of her has pooled here. The air tastes like copper and lavender—blood and silk. My throat clenches around it. My stomach flips. I breathe her.

“Mine,” I whisper, then louder, “MINE!”

I slam my fist into the bulkhead. The entire wall shakes. I rear back, then throw my shoulder into it—full force. Bone spurs rip through my armor with the impact.

The metal groans. But it doesn’t yield.

“MOVE!” I snarl, pounding again. “Open, you coward’s coffin!”

No response. No voice. Just silence.

Something stirs on the other side. I don’t hear it—I feel it.

A breath. A flutter. Her.

I press my forehead to the door, panting. My claws leave streaks in the steel as I drag them down.

“I’m coming,” I rasp. “I swear, I’m—”

The pain in my chest pulses. Not wound. Not burn.

Yearning.

It claws at me like hunger, but deeper. Old as Reaper myth. My jalshagar is on the other side of this prison and she’s waiting for me.

I step back. Roll my shoulders.

I grip Bloodfont in both hands and roar as I slam it into the center seam. Sparks burst outward, the chain snapping taut with fury.

Again. And again.

The scythe bites deep, wedges in, tears out cables like veins. I hear the hiss of power fail-safes triggering, the groan of locks giving.

But not enough.

I drop the scythe, plant my claws into the ruptured seam, and pull.

My biceps scream. My ribs flare with the wound from earlier. Blood trickles down my side. But I won’t stop.

Not when she’s right there.

Not when the universe itself is trying to hold her from me.

Rip. Tear. Roar.

“DO YOU HEAR ME?” I howl at the sealed chamber. “I’M NOT LEAVING WITHOUT YOU! I’LL RAZE THIS PLACE TO ASH!”

The metal bends.

I lean into it, teeth clenched, mouth flecked with blood from biting my own tongue. I taste iron and ozone. My eyes blur with fury, with need.

Through the crack… her scream. Faint. Muffled. But hers.

It hits me like a slug round to the heart.

My legs buckle. I drop to one knee, fist pounding the ground.

“I hear you,” I whisper, throat raw. “I hear you…”

Everything else—soldiers, alarms, consequences—disappears.

I rise, dripping sweat and blood, claws out, eyes blazing.

This isn’t about fate anymore.

This is war.

And nothing—not orders, not gods, not even the stars—will keep me from what’s mine.