17. Dayn
DAYN
T he Alliance fleet arrives with all the predictable pomp and ceremony: landing shuttles slicing through Snowblossom’s smoky dawn, soldiers in immaculate gear filing onto the reclaimed soil, and a procession of bureaucrats in crisp uniforms marching behind them.
I follow Vice Admiral Charn from a respectful distance, keeping my image inducer on—though every step I take feels like walking in a gilded cage.
The colonists circle the newcomers with curiosity, children peering up at polished boots, while adults offer nods of solemn welcome.
I taste tension in the air—like overbrewed coffee, sharp and bracing.
Admiral Charn stands on the makeshift dais assembled from the remnants of prefabs and catwalks. His posture is regal, imperious. Polished insignia gleam on his chest, a silent litany of authority. When he speaks, his voice is cool and clipped, resonant with propaganda-trained finesse.
“Citizens of the IHC—Colonies of the Alliance—your steadfast resistance has been remarkable. Under the guidance of Alliance forces and local leadership, free from foreign occupation, you have reclaimed what was rightfully yours.” He pauses deliberately, eyes sweeping the gathered crowd until they land on me.
My spine tightens. “Your heroes are many. But chief among them is this service member”—he motions toward me—“whom we look forward to formally welcoming into the Alliance ranks.”
My chest stutters as the lies spatter the grey dawn. I wasn't an Alliance soldier. I was Josie’s storm—scavenger, assassin, Shorcu. But here, I’m draped in their narrative, forced into a role I never auditioned for.
Josie stands at the front row, arms crossed, face a tempest. Her jaw tight. A delicate flicker of rage blooms behind her eyes. She snorts when the admiral uses words like our guided liberation . I’ve heard that tone before: patronizing, passive—haunting.
During the debriefings later, they're relentless: data logs, sabotage summaries, interrogations.
Josie is pressed into a line behind the colonists—standing beside me, shoulder so close I can sense her every breath.
She fights back her anger at every casual dismissal of her engineering genius, every bureaucratic footnote that reduces this battle to protocol.
I can feel her bristles, her pulse accelerated.
I stay silent—arms folded across my chest, claws retracted, image inducer humming over my shoulders like a silent scream. They treat me like an asset. A classified achievement. Ultimately, they talk of awards. Ranks. Integration.
And then—when they begin to parade the colonists for thank-you statements, Vice Admiral Charn, with a clipped sigh and a toast-lifted hand, turns to me and says softly: "I assume your cooperation will continue, Corporal Vash?
" He tips his head—guarded politeness. My image mask flickers as I swallow sharp bile.
"Of course, sir," I say, voice flat. They nod. Two armored Alliance MPs step forward. One of them presents a pair of handcuffs on gloved hands.
The colonists recoil. I see Josie’s face blur, rage and agony colliding. She opens her mouth—half scream, half protest. I raise a hand, silent.
I turn toward her. Her eyes shine with tears she won't let fall. Her lips tremble. But she stands strong—like she'll leap forward with a welding torch if needed.
I don’t resist. Not here. Not today. I let the guards snap the cuffs. Metal closes around my wrist with finality.
A hollow drum rolls through me—this isn't imprisonment, it's positioning. One false move and they bury us deeper.
I lock eyes with Josie. She moves forward but is held back by a colonist block. Her voice breaks through the murmurs: "Let him go!"
The admiral blinks. "Ma'am?—"
She cuts him off. "Don’t ma'am me. You’re taking him—kidnapping him—maybe worse. We earned this colony. He bled for it."
Silence rocks the debrief hall. Leaders shift in place, unsure what comes next.
Admiral Charn straightens, regal calm returning. "Colonel McClintock, you misunderstand our purpose. The Alliance provides stability. Corporal Vash—formerly Dayn—is critical. His record must be reviewed."
My chest blooms with cold realization: reviewed . In translation, it means trial , detainment , interrogation , removal from the field—one way or another. I breathe slow, grinding. I won’t plead with them. I won’t kneel. I won’t give them cause to harm the colony—or Josie.
She slams a fist on the seat rail. "He is our protector, not your pawn. Don't you, or anyone else, take him from me."
The room breaks. A handful cheer—miners, engineers. Others stare with shock or fear.
Charn’s face tightens, but he nods, authority unwavering. "Guards, escort him. We will… proceed accordingly."
He doesn't wait. They march me past a silent crowd, lines parting. My gaze always returns to Josie—her fury, her promise. I offer a single nod—an anchor, a vow.
She returns it: not just faith, but rebellion. One day soon, we’ll dismantle this narrative—the one that says he's Alliance property . But for now, I walk into a cage I can't break—just to protect her freedom.
My hands clink under restraint. The cost of freedom is never over. And under this brutal bureaucracy, I realize the next battle begins not with firepower, but with words, trust, and the fierce defiance of a human engineer who refuses to let me go.
Dowron walks through the metal-framed doorway like a storm in human form—quiet, controlled, but absolutely lethal.
His coat is long, dark, custom-tailored military-grade, and the click of his boots across the transport deck echoes like a drum.
The guards jump—he doesn’t even nod at them.
That’s how trusted he is. I’m cuffed to the bench, but I sit straighter anyway; instinct resurfaces.
He glances at me with that inscrutable face—those pale eyes unreadable. He’s operating off the grid. I know it. My skin tightens.
“You’ve caused quite the headache for a few people,” Dowron murmurs, voice low like gravel sliding over steel.
I lift my chin. “Badge or no badge, I did what had to be done.”
Dowron lets a small smile crack—cold and appreciative. “Maybe,” he says, pausing to tap a finger on my wrist cuffs. “But some of us still value results over rules.”
Heat flickers behind my ribs. I study him. Dowron—the man Garrus once trusted, the one who freed him to be a Hellfighter. What does he want with a Shorcu assassin turned rebel hero?
He steps closer, low enough that I can smell his cologne—woodsy, bitter. “You didn’t just save a colony,” he says. “You sparked a movement. That’s dangerous. For others. Not you. You’re valuable—still.”
I don’t answer. Nothing’s straightforward here.
He glances at the escort guard. “Take him to a secure holding cell. Not their cells. Mine.” He signals. The guard nods, keys ready.
Suddenly, cuffs open, and the guard pushes me to my feet. I crack my neck, folding my arms across my chest.
Dowron walks around me, voice a low rumble. “When Garrus stepped forward, he earned his position. But he also made enemies who’d rather tear him apart than let a ghost lead. You—well, you did more than earn. You changed everything.”
He stops close. I breathe him in—dry, faintly peppered. “Then what do you want?”
He taps his temple. “You. Knight’s proof—or whatever your rank is in Futarian—looks good on them. But what you did? That needs telling on your terms.”
So it’s a narrative battle. “You want me to speak for them.”
He nods, dark smile. “I want you to say this won’t be your only fight. You go public, you’re an Alliance asset. They can’t lock you away. Too much positive attention. Too high a stake. Think on that.”
Lightning behind my ribs flickers. This is bigger than Snowblossom. Bigger than me.
“Why?” I ask. “Why help now?”
He shrugs. “Garrus is off training an entire fireteam. Hellfighters needed. I keep one eye on Snowblossom. Someone needed control. You’ve got the respect, the fear, the face of a revolution—and the look of someone they can’t ignore.” His gaze hardens. “Unless they break you.”
I feel the line between hope and contempt blur. “You’re not giving me a choice.”
He quirk-lifts an eyebrow. “Nope. I’m giving you a lifeline.”
We walk out the door. Guards fall in behind. Dowron stops mid-hall. “One more thing.” He leans in. “Think right. Speak right. And you'll walk out respected. If not… well…” His eyes promise consequences beyond bars.
Then he turns and leaves. Guards follow. The cell door clangs shut behind me with a cold certainty.
I exhale slow. The door hums against metal. I’m free in thought but still bound. Dowron’s offer glimmers like fire in darkness—but there’s risk. Political risk. Exposure. They might accept me as hero, or spin me into propaganda—or burn me for example.
I glide to the steel-framed window in the cell and stare out across the landing pad. Ally ships gleam. Bureaucratic voices echo. Photos awaited. Headlines forming. They want me to be perfect.
I let jaw loosen. I imagine Josie’s face across the colony brimmed with hope and fear. She’ll push this offer maybe—make me walk into it. And the promise of future, of freedom—but what price?
My hand drifts to where cuffs once bit my skin. I clench into a fist. "For now, I survive. And I’ll fight for her—whatever they want me to become."
I let that promise anchor me to this cell and beyond. Whatever the cost, I will not grieve—I'll choose.
Tomorrow, I decide how I’ll walk out of this cage. Not as a prisoner. Not hiding. But as Dayn—assassin, savior, Shorcu who fought for what mattered.