Chapter 25 Vrok
VROK
The Rovin’ Hooves compound doesn’t have real walls. Just corrugated steel, motion sensors, and the kind of arrogance that comes from ruling by fear for too long. I don’t knock.
The first sentry post goes up in fire.
The shoulder cannon hums as it cools, smoke licking around the edges of my armor like a greeting. I step over the ruin—twisted bodies, mangled gear, blackened earth—and keep moving. Fast. Direct. Loud.
I want them to hear me coming.
The first few guards react too slow—groggy from night watch or just plain stupid. I take them apart with the blade. No mercy. No hesitation. One tries to run. I hook his leg with my boot and crush his throat before he can scream.
It’s not war. It’s message.
I make for the main comms relay next. Pulse grenades tossed high—one, two, three—burst like thunderheads above the structure, frying systems before they can send anything off-world.
Sparks rain down. I slam through the panel with my fist, cables snapping like tendons, alarms blaring out their useless panic.
That’s when they start swarming.
Hooves foot soldiers pour from the bunkhouses like ants, some armored, some still pulling boots on. I don’t give them the time. I charge.
Red haze. Blood mist. Screams.
I stop counting kills.
A turret swivels into position above me and I dodge just before it unloads—its scatter rounds chewing up a crate behind me. I leap onto the housing, rip the weapon clean off, and throw it through the windshield of a retreating jeep.
This is how you burn out a nest.
But I know this kind of fury has a shelf life.
And that’s when the air changes.
Too organized. Too clean.
I spin just in time to catch Skip’s tackle.
The impact drives me into the mud, his bulk turning my world sideways. He’s bigger now—growth hormones, maybe cybernetics—arms like steel cables, jaw clenched tight under that dumb-ass hat. He laughs as he pins me.
“Still breathin’? Damn. You’re harder to kill than roaches in an irradiated latrine.”
I snarl and shove, dislodging him with effort, but he’s back on me before I get to my feet. His fists are clubs. I block one, catch the second to my ribs. Pain detonates behind my eyes, but I stay upright.
“Didn’t say nothin’ about this bein’ fair,” he adds.
“Wasn’t expectin’ it to be,” I grunt.
I swing wide—blade aimed for his knee—but my optics fuzz and flicker. A shimmer of static.
Shit.
Rence.
The quiet one.
Tech-witch and trickster.
I twist, trying to locate him through the chaos, but everything’s ghosting—enemies phasing in and out of sight, terrain glitches making crates look like walls and vice versa. He’s running signal interference, making sure I can’t get a clean read.
The world is warped around me.
And I realize I’m alone.
Skip smirks and falls back. Not retreating—just giving Kaella, their half-vakutan scout, room to move.
She’s a flicker at the edge of vision, blond braid whipping behind her like a war banner. I follow her on instinct, chasing the one part of the battle that isn’t shrouded in illusion. She leads me toward a service tunnel, low and tight—easy bottleneck. But she doesn’t slow.
I barrel after her.
Too late, I smell it.
The air’s too still. Too staged.
I’m already inside the kill zone.
The walls blast inward.
Net guns. Shock rounds. Explosives.
I hit the ground hard, every nerve screaming. Metal lashes my limbs, pins my arms. I twist and rip but the voltage surging through the mesh sends fire up my spine. My vision goes white, then black, then white again. Blood in my mouth. Mud in my ears.
The world tilts.
I hear boots crunching close.
Kaella crouches beside me, smug and smooth.
“Good boy. You played right into it.”
I spit blood at her boot. “This the part where you gut me?”
She leans in. “Not yet. Momma’s got plans for you.”
I try to lunge. The net constricts, another surge frying my muscles to jelly.
“Easy now,” she purrs. “Wouldn’t want to break our shiny prize before the party.”
More boots. More hands. I’m dragged—half-conscious—through mud and fire and ruins of bodies I left behind. My blade’s gone. My cannon’s fried. My head swims with static and failure.
They toss me into a reinforced cell. Chains, not energy fields. They know I’d short those in seconds. I slump, wrists bound, chest heaving, every bone aching.
Then I hear her.
Large Marj.
Outside the bars. Voice like spoiled honey.
“Look what the dogs dragged in.”
I lift my head. Barely.
“Was hopin’ you’d come callin’, Butcher,” she drawls. “But I gotta say—stormin’ my gates solo? Suicidal even for you.”
I say nothing.
She steps closer, eyes alight with victory. “You’re gonna be famous again. Public execution, just like the good ol’ days. Little payback for the mess on Hadrith. And guess what? Your lil’ bitch gets front row.”
My jaw clenches.
She grins wider. “Bring him to the square. Bind him good. And send the signal. We’re invitin’ the whole damn sector to watch the Butcher bleed.”
I don’t move.
Not when they drag me.
Not when they beat me.
Because all I can think about is her face when she wakes up and finds me gone.
I’m sorry, Roxy.
But they were always gonna use me to get to you.
And I’d rather burn than let them.