Page 11

Chapter 11

Neon Valkyrie

T he lower deck of the Void Reaver thrums with a subdued rhythm, even while docked within the Obsidian Haven’s cavernous berth. The ship’s drive sits idle, but damaged power couplings emit a high-pitched whine that echoes off scarred metal walls. Emergency lights cast rippling patterns across makeshift repairs and exposed circuitry, their red glow a stark contrast to the Haven’s cold, obsidian surfaces visible through the hull breaches.

My neural implants automatically catalog the extent of damage from our desperate escape—hull breaches in sections three and five still waiting for proper repairs, shield generators limping along at 67 percent efficiency. The Brotherhood’s limited engineering team has done what they can, but some wounds take more than quick patches to heal. Not great, but we’re still here. For now.

I crouch behind a row of power conduits, fingers dancing across a hidden access panel while my enhanced vision maps the complex web of data streams flowing through the ship’s systems. Most of the crew is still at the Obsidian Haven, leaving the engineering deck eerily quiet except for the occasional hiss of venting steam or crackle of exposed wiring.

“You always hide in the darkest corners of the ship, or is today special?”

I flinch, instinctively reaching for the blade strapped to my thigh before recognizing Zara’s voice. She leans against a nearby bulkhead, russet fur catching the emergency lighting in ways my enhanced vision finds oddly beautiful. Her tail sways gently, betraying her casual posture with its alert movements.

“I’m not hiding,” I say, returning to my work. “I’m reconfiguring the shield harmonics to better withstand Eclipse energy weapons.”

“Of course.” Her ears twitch forward with interest. “And choosing the most isolated maintenance junction to do it is purely practical.”

I glance up, ready with a sharp retort, but pause when I catch her expression. There’s no mockery there—just understanding, and something that looks uncomfortably like concern.

“I work better alone,” I mutter, turning back to the panel.

“Most people do,” she agrees, sliding down to sit beside me. “Until they don’t.”

Her proximity makes my implants twitch with discomfort—not because of any threat assessment, but because I’ve spent so long keeping people at a careful distance. Having someone deliberately bridge that gap feels like an invasion, even if it’s well-intentioned.

“Did Cirdox send you to check on me?” I ask, my fingers continuing their work even as my attention splits.

“The Captain rarely needs to send me anywhere.” Her tail flicks with what I’m learning to recognize as amusement. “I go where I’m needed.”

“And you think I need you?” I can’t keep the defensive edge from my voice.

“I think you need someone.” She shrugs, the movement rippling through her fur. “And right now, I’m available.”

Her bluntness catches me off guard. I’ve grown accustomed to Cirdox’s intensity, his direct approach tempered by the mate-bond’s complexity. Zara offers something different—straightforward concern without the weight of destiny attached.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

“You’re not.” She says it matter-of-factly, without judgment. “And that’s okay. None of us are ‘fine’ right now.”

My hands pause over the control panel. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zara studies me for a moment, her vulpexian features giving little away. “It means I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground trying to save everyone else. Fortifying our systems, strengthening our defenses, keeping Kira at bay—all while pretending you don’t care about any of us.”

“I don’t—” I begin, but the lie sticks in my throat. When did that happen? When did these people stop being just a means of escape and start being something more?

“You do.” Her voice softens. “And it’s terrifying, isn’t it? Starting to care when you’ve spent so long convinced that caring is a death sentence.”

The accuracy of her observation hits like a physical blow. My enhanced vision catches the subtle changes in my own physiology—elevated heart rate, pupil dilation, microscopic muscle tensing. Fight or flight kicking in, not from external danger but from someone seeing too much.

“You don’t know me,” I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

“I know enough.” She leans back against the bulkhead, giving me space even as her words close the distance between us. “I know you’ve probably lost people. I know you blame yourself. And I know you’re terrified of it happening again.”

“Congratulations on your basic observational skills.” The sarcasm is a shield, thin but necessary.

“It’s more than observation.” Her tail wraps around her legs as she settles into a more comfortable position. “It’s recognition.”

That gets my attention. I look up from the panel, really seeing her for the first time since she arrived. “What do you mean?”

She meets my gaze steadily. “You think you’re the only one running from ghosts? The only one who’s watched someone they love die and couldn’t stop it?” A bitter smile twists her muzzle. “Welcome to the Brotherhood, Neon. We’re all damaged goods here.”

The revelation shouldn’t surprise me—I’ve seen enough of the galaxy to know trauma isn’t exactly rare—but somehow, coming from Zara, it feels significant. She’s always seemed so composed, so certain of her place in the universe.

“Who did you lose?” I ask before I can think better of it.

Her ears flatten briefly before she consciously relaxes them. “My mate. During the Orion Wars. We were running supplies through the Ceres Blockade when the Eclipse intercepted us.” Her voice remains even, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her claws extend slightly into her palms. “They gave us a choice—surrender our cargo or die fighting. My mate chose option three.”

“Which was?”

“She sent me to an escape pod while she piloted our ship into their command vessel.” Zara’s eyes unfocus slightly, seeing something beyond the dimly lit maintenance corridor. “The explosion took out three Corsairian ships and bought enough time for the refugee transport we were protecting to reach safety.”

“She sounds brave,” I offer, unsure what else to say.

“She was stupid.” The words come sharp and sudden, surprising me. “Brave, yes. But also stupid and reckless and...” Zara’s voice catches. “And I would have done exactly the same thing in her position.”

The admission hangs between us, raw with a vulnerability I hadn’t expected from the composed first officer. My implants register the subtle changes in her breathing, the microscopic tremors in her hands that she’s trying to control.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.

“Don’t be.” She straightens, composure returning. “My point is, I understand running. I understand building walls. After Nexia died, I spent two years taking the most dangerous missions I could find, hoping each one would be my last.” Her gaze finds mine again, sharp with insight. “Sound familiar?”

Too familiar. I look away, uncomfortable with how easily she’s read me. “What changed?”

“Cirdox found me.” A genuine smile softens her features. “Or rather, I tried to rob him and nearly got myself killed in the process. He offered me a job instead of a funeral. Said if I was so determined to die, I might as well do it while accomplishing something worthwhile.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “That sounds like him.”

“He has a habit of collecting strays.” Her tail flicks with affection. “Broken people with useful skills and death wishes. He gives them purpose, a place to belong. A family.”

The word strikes a chord deep inside me, resonating with something I’ve denied myself for so long. Family. Not by blood, but by choice. By shared purpose and mutual protection.

“I never asked for a family,” I say quietly.

“None of us did.” Zara shrugs. “But here we are anyway.”

I return to the panel, needing the distraction of work while I process her words. The silence between us stretches, but it’s no longer uncomfortable. There’s an understanding now, a foundation laid that wasn’t there before.

“He’s getting worse, isn’t he?” I finally ask, the question that’s been weighing on me since I left Cirdox’s quarters. “The bond-sickness.”

Zara doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes. Faster than he’s letting on.”

“Is he going to die?” The words come out smaller than I intended, vulnerable in ways I haven’t allowed myself to be.

“That depends on you.” Her gaze is steady, non-judgmental. “The mate-bond isn’t something I fully understand—Kyvernian biology is complex—but I know it’s not just physical. It’s a choice. A commitment.”

“A trap,” I mutter, though the word lacks conviction.

“Is it?” She tilts her head. “Or is it just another word for connection? For letting someone matter enough that you’d risk pain for the chance at something real?”

I don’t answer, focusing instead on the final adjustments to the shield harmonics. My implants helpfully inform me that my cortisol levels are elevated, that my breathing has become slightly irregular—physical manifestations of the emotional turmoil I’m trying to ignore.

“He wouldn’t force this on you,” Zara continues when I remain silent. “Even if it kills him. That’s just who he is.”

“I know.” And I do know. That’s what makes this so complicated, so terrifying. Cirdox has given me every opportunity to walk away, even as the bond-sickness consumes him. He’s placed my freedom above his own survival, a concept so foreign to my experience that I still struggle to fully believe it.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Zara asks, the question gentle but direct.

I close the access panel, the shield modifications complete. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” Her certainty is unnerving. “You’re just afraid to admit it.”

Before I can respond, my neural interface pings with an incoming message from the medbay. Cirdox’s vital signs are fluctuating dangerously. The bond-sickness is accelerating.

“He needs you,” Zara says, reading the alert that’s flashing across my enhanced vision. “Now.”

I rise, suddenly decisive despite the fear still coiling in my gut. “Come with me?”

She seems surprised by the request, but nods. “Of course.”

As we make our way through the ship’s corridors, I find myself grateful for her presence. Not because I need protection or guidance, but because for the first time in years, I don’t want to face something alone.

The medbay’s clinical efficiency hits my enhanced senses like a wall—antiseptic compounds at 147 percent above standard environmental levels, atmospheric scrubbers working at maximum capacity to maintain sterility. Cirdox occupies the primary diagnostic bed, wings draped limply over the sides, markings pulsing with an intensity that makes my implants stutter in their analysis. My enhanced vision automatically begins cataloging his condition, but I shut it down. I don’t need data to tell me what I can see with my own eyes—he’s getting worse.

“You look terrible,” I say, aiming for lightness but hearing the strain in my voice.

His crimson eyes open, focusing on me with an intensity that makes my pulse jump. “Your bedside manner needs work, little hacker.”

“Good thing I’m not a doctor then.” I move closer, fighting the urge to run when his wings twitch at my approach. Every step feels like a choice between helping him and protecting him. From Kira. From me. From everything that’s coming. “Can you walk?”

He starts to sit up, his movements careful but determined. “I’m not an invalid. I'm just taking precautions for now.”

“No, you’re just burning up from the inside out because you’re too stubborn to admit you need real help.” The words come out sharper than intended, edged with the fear lodged in my chest.

His laugh is rough but genuine. “Says the female who’d rather face death than admit she needs anyone.”

The accuracy of that observation stings, especially now. While he sees it as simple stubbornness, I know it’s the only way to keep people safe. To keep him safe. But maybe pushing people away isn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.

“Come on, Captain. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable than this sterile hell.”

He doesn’t argue as I help him up, though I feel the slight tremor in his muscles. His wing brushes against my arm as we walk, the contact sending electricity through my nerves that has nothing to do with my implants and everything to do with the way my body responds to his proximity.

Zara follows at a discreet distance, her presence a silent support that I find myself unexpectedly grateful for. She catches my eye as we reach the corridor, giving me a small nod before turning to head toward the bridge. Leaving us alone. Trusting me with her captain. Her family.

The walk to his quarters feels endless, each step measured and careful. I’m acutely aware of his heat against my side, the way his breathing catches when the fever spikes. Part of me wants to tell him about Kira, about the threat looming over us both. But the words stick in my throat, tangled with the fear of making him a bigger target than he already is.

When we finally reach his quarters, he sinks onto the bed with barely concealed relief. I hover awkwardly by the door, caught between the instinct to run and the pull that keeps drawing me back to him.

“Stay,” he says softly, patting the space beside him. “Unless you have more urgent matters in engineering?”

I stiffen, wondering if he somehow senses my unease. But his expression is open, curious rather than accusatory.

“I should check the shield generators,” I hedge, though we both know it’s an excuse. “I’ve been modifying them to better withstand Eclipse weapons.”

“They can wait.” His voice roughens as another wave of fever hits, but his gaze remains steady on mine. “Tell me something about yourself, Neon. Something real.”

I should leave. Should focus on finding a way to stop Kira before she can follow through on her threats. Every survival instinct I’ve honed screams at me to run, to protect myself—to protect him—from this dangerous attachment forming between us. My enhanced vision automatically begins calculating escape routes, mapping the fastest path to the nearest airlock.

But as I watch him fight against the bond-sickness, something inside me fractures. The walls I’ve built so carefully begin to crack, letting in emotions my implants can’t quite categorize. Maybe I’ve been running so long I’ve forgotten how to stay.

“Don’t,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “Don’t make me feel this. Don’t make me want to stay when I know how dangerous that is.”

His wings shift, creating patterns of shadow that remind me too much of how safe I felt wrapped in their shelter. “Then run,” he says softly, his voice rough with fever. “If that’s what you truly want, I won’t stop you. There are other Brotherhood ships still at the dock.”

The choice he offers—real freedom, not just the illusion of it—makes something in my chest crack open. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t want to run. Not from him. But staying means putting him at risk. God, I’m tired of running. Tired of letting the past dictate my future. But I’m terrified of what staying might mean.

Zara’s words echo in my mind: “Is it just another word for connection? For letting someone matter enough that you’d risk pain for the chance at something real?”

So I stay, perching carefully on the edge of his bed. “What do you want to know?”

His smile is gentle despite the pain evident in his eyes. “Everything. But let’s start with something simple. What made you choose the name Neon?”

I almost laugh at that. Of all the things he could ask about—my past, my skills, the danger hunting us—he asks about my name. But maybe that’s safer than the other truths burning in my throat.

“It’s... complicated,” I hedge, feeling oddly vulnerable. “And honestly kind of silly.”

“We have time.” He shifts, making room for me to sit more comfortably. “Unless you’re planning to run again?”

I roll my eyes, but can’t quite hide my smile. “I chose it because neon is a noble gas—it doesn’t react easily with other elements. Stays separate. Safe.” I pause, suddenly self-conscious. “Plus, it glows bright enough to cut through darkness. Like my implants.”

“That doesn’t sound silly at all,” he says, his expression thoughtful. “It sounds rather brilliant, actually.”

“Oh, just wait.” I can feel my cheeks warming. “The full name is Neon Valkyrie—after these ancient warrior women who chose who lived and died in battle. I thought I was being so deep and mysterious, choosing who lives or dies in the networks.” I cover my face with my hands. “I spent three days practicing my ‘mysterious hacker’ voice in front of a mirror.”

His laugh is warm and genuine, not mocking at all. “Please tell me you still have that voice.”

“Absolutely not.” But I’m grinning now too, the tension easing from my shoulders despite everything. “Though sometimes I wonder if I chose the name or if it chose me. Especially now.”

“Fitting,” he murmurs, his wing brushing against my back in a touch that feels more comforting than possessive. “Though I think you react more than you’d like to admit, mysterious hacker voice and all.”

I should bristle at that, should maintain the walls I’ve built so carefully. Instead, I find myself relaxing slightly, letting his warmth seep into my tired muscles. “Maybe. Sometimes.” A beat passes before I add, softer, “Like now.”

His breath catches, and I feel the bond between us pulse with something that makes my implants stutter. “Tell me more,” he says softly. “Please.”

And maybe it’s the fever making him vulnerable, or maybe it’s Zara’s words still echoing in my mind—about family, about connection, about letting someone matter—but I find myself wanting to share. Wanting to trust. Wanting to believe that maybe, just maybe, we can face what’s coming together.

“I learned to hack because it was the only way to survive in the lower levels,” I say, the words coming easier than I expected. “But Kai and Kira—they showed me it could be more than that. We were going to change things, expose corruption, make a difference.” I swallow hard. “Until everything went wrong.”

His hand finds mine, his touch gentle despite the heat burning beneath his skin. “And now? What do you want to change?”

The question hits harder than he probably intends. Because what I want to change most is the past—want to save Kai, want to stop Kira from joining the Eclipse, want to prevent all of this from happening. But I can’t. All I can do is try to stop her now, before she destroys everything I’ve grown to care about.

“I want...” My voice catches. How do I tell him I want to stay, want to trust this thing growing between us, but I’m terrified that doing so will get him killed? “I want to stop running. But I don’t know how when the thing I’m running from keeps finding new ways to hurt the people I care about.”

His wings curl around us, creating a private sanctuary against the stars. “I’m stronger than you think, little hacker. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“The bond-sickness might have other ideas about that.” And Kira might have even worse ones, I don’t add.

He tugs me closer, until I’m practically in his lap, surrounded by his heat and the protective shelter of his wings. “Then give me a reason to fight it. Give us both a reason to stop running.”

I should pull away. Should tell him about Kira, about her threats, about how being close to me might be a death sentence. But when his lips find mine, soft and questioning, I find myself answering with a hunger that surprises us both. Because maybe this—this connection, this trust, this growing love—is worth fighting for. Worth dying for, even.

I let myself drown in the sensation of his touch, the gentle yet firm pressure of his hands as they explore my body. His fingers trace the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, each touch sending shivers of pleasure coursing through me. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the fever of the bond-sickness making his touch almost unbearably intense. But there’s something more beneath the heat—a tenderness, a reverence that makes my heart ache.

His lips find mine again, the kiss deepening into something urgent and hungry. I can taste the faint metallic tang of his blood, the sweetness of his breath, and something else—a hint of desperation, a need that mirrors my own. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers tracing patterns on my skin that make me gasp and arch into his touch. Each caress is a question, a plea for permission, and I answer with a silent yes, my body pressing against his, seeking more.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my neck, tasting the salt of my skin, feeling the pulse that races beneath his touch. His breath is hot against my throat, each exhale sending shivers down my spine. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and something deeper—a vulnerability that makes my heart clench. I nod, helping him remove my shirt, baring myself to him in more ways than one. “God, yes,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.

His hands explore my body with a reverence that makes me shiver, tracing the curves and contours as if memorizing every inch. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the barely contained fever of the bond-sickness that makes his touch both a pleasure and a torment. His wings curl around us, creating a cocoon of warmth and privacy, blocking out the rest of the universe until there’s only us, only this moment.

His lips find mine again, the kiss deepening with an intensity that leaves me breathless. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, the rhythm matching my own as we lose ourselves in the sensation. His hands slide lower, tracing the line of my hips, making my breath hitch in anticipation. Every touch, every kiss, feels like a promise—a promise of something more than just physical connection, something deeper and more profound. And for the first time in years, I find myself wanting to believe in that promise, wanting to trust in the possibility of more.

When we finally break apart, reality crashes back like a wave of ice water. My implants helpfully catalog the physiological responses—elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, increased oxytocin levels—but they can’t quantify the war raging inside me. The part that wants to run, to protect both of us from the inevitable pain of attachment, battles against the part that’s tired of being alone. Tired of letting fear dictate my choices.

I rest my forehead against his chest, listening to his thundering heartbeat while my enhanced senses register the fever still burning beneath his skin. The bond-sickness hasn’t improved—if anything, this intimacy has made it worse. Another thing to feel guilty about. Another way I’m hurting someone I care about.

“Stop thinking so hard,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing through my hair. “I can practically hear your processors overheating.”

I want to laugh, but the sound sticks in my throat like shattered code. He sees right through me—through all my calculations and risk assessments and desperate attempts to quantify something that can’t be measured. “I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper, my enhanced vision cataloging the way his tribal markings pulse with fever. “Everyone I let close either leaves or dies. I can’t... I don’t know how to trust that you’ll be different.”

His wings curl tighter, creating a sanctuary of shadow and warmth that makes my usual tactical awareness feel irrelevant. The gesture is protective but not confining—offering shelter while leaving the choice to stay mine. “Then we learn together,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion that bypasses all my defensive protocols. “No guarantees. No certainties. Just us, figuring it out as we go.”

As I trace the glowing patterns on his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath bronze skin, my neural interface flashes with an alert—an incoming transmission, encrypted but unmistakable in its origin. Kira. Always watching. Always waiting.

“We need to move,” I say, my voice stronger now. “The Obsidian Haven isn’t safe. They know where we are.”

“Who knows?” he asks, instantly alert despite his condition.

“The Black Eclipse. They’re coming for us.” Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. I can’t bring myself to tell him about Kira yet, about the personal vendetta that’s put him and his entire crew in danger.

He pushes himself up, wings mantling with determination despite the obvious effort it costs him. “We need to warn the crew. Get the ship ready.”

I help him stand, noting how the bond-sickness seems to have eased slightly. Not gone—nowhere near gone—but maybe changed by what we’ve shared. “I’ll need access to the ship’s core systems. If they try to hack us during departure—”

“Whatever you need,” he says without hesitation. “I trust you, Neon.”

The words hit me harder than I expect, making my throat tight. Trust. Such a simple thing, but so terrifyingly powerful. I’ve spent so long running from it, hiding from it, believing it would get me killed. But maybe it’s what will save us instead.

“We’re probably going to die,” I warn him, only half joking. “The Eclipse won’t stop.”

“Then we fight,” he says simply, his wings mantling with determination despite his weakness. “Together.”

As we head for the bridge, my neural interface catalogs our chances of survival, running probability scenarios and threat assessments. The numbers aren’t good. But for the first time since Kai died, I don’t care about the odds.

Because some things are worth fighting for, no matter the cost. And this fierce, impossible love growing between us? It’s worth living for.

Even if we have to burn the whole galaxy down to protect it.