6. Draevik #2
I turn toward the door without another word, the bond screaming at me to stay, to watch over the marker.
I ignore it. I step through the threshold and let the door seal her in.
I stand frozen in the corridor, my gauntlets clenching until the metal groans.
She amounts to a disruption I never asked for, a chaotic spark in a life built on cold logic.
But as I walk away, I find myself looking at my palm, still feeling the phantom heat of her skin. The victory feels incomplete. I have the prize. The war remains unwon.
I return to the bridge, the silence of the command center now feeling heavy with the constant, swelling awareness of the girl in the holding wing.
The bond settles into a recurring pulsation, less violent than before but no less demanding.
I stand before the primary nav-spire, my hands resting on the cool surface while I weave my thoughts into the ship’s consciousness.
"Virex," I speak, the Reaper syllables ricocheting in my chest. "Scan the biological data collected during the marker integration. Cross-reference human physiology. I require a breakdown of her survival requirements."
Processing, Commander, the ship responds, the console flickering with rapid streams of data.
The subject requires consistent hydration and a specific caloric intake composed of proteins and complex carbohydrates.
Atmospheric levels are currently optimal, but her thermal regulation is poor.
Her core temperature drops significantly during rest cycles.
"Prepare a nutrient solution," I command. "Synthesize a dense protein block and ensure the hydration source is purified of all ship-born particulates. She is fragile. I will not have her systems failing because of a chemical imbalance."
Directive accepted, the ship sends. Where shall I distribute the sustenance?
I pause, my gaze drifting toward the schematic of the upper decks. While the holding wing remains secure, the walls enclose like a sterile cage. If the marker is to stabilize, she must remain within a proximity that allows the ship to monitor the feedback loops between our heartbeats.
"She proves herself a relentless escape artist," I growl, thinking of her torn fingertips and the blood still drying on my shoulder plating.
"She has already attempted to compromise the environmental seals with her bare hands.
Ready the auxiliary quarters adjacent to my resting sanctums in the sector.
Reinforce the bulkheads with localized stasis fields and ensure the door responds only to my biometric signature. "
The Sector Seven suites are prepared, Virex confirms. Shall I relocate her belongings?
"Relocate the drone from the adjacent alcove, along with the suit and the helmet, once the sterilization cycle finishes," I instruct. "Place them inside the storage locker within her new quarters. She needs to understand that her tools are within reach, and their use is a privilege I control."
Giving her time, I remain on the bridge to stare out at the swirling nebula.
I watch the internal lights fluctuate as power reroutes to her new wing, waiting until the ship confirms the reclamation cycle in the alcove is complete.
The bond tells me she is still alert, her heart rate stabilizing into a calm, albeit wary, measure.
I retrieve the synthesized sustenance from the dispenser—a utilitarian tray bearing a dense protein block and water. Comfort plays no role in the action because she is a mechanical necessity. If the heart of my ship starves, Virex Prime stalls.
When the doors to the tactical ward slide open, floral antiseptic and warm steam spill out.
Nyra is standing by the sleeping dais, dressed in charcoal silk.
The fabric clings to her wiry frame, Reaper-tech fibers adjusting to her heat and contours until they fit her as perfectly as her boots.
She has scrubbed the grease from her skin, revealing the rich, deep brown of her complexion and the sharp, defiant lines of her face.
The Reaper glyph on her sternum illuminates faintly through the silk, a violet brand that makes my own blood burn.
She glares at me, her damp hair clinging to her neck in dark, tight coils. "I did it. I'm clean. Now let me go back to my ship."
I set the tray down on the small table near the door, my movements deliberate. "You will eat."
"I'm not hungry." She tilts her chin up.
"Your biology argues otherwise." My response echoes in the small space. "Your caloric reserves are depleted. You will consume the nutrients provided, or I will ensure they are administered through a more invasive method. Choice is a luxury you currently lack, scavenger."
She stalks toward the table, her eyes darting toward the tray as if she suspects it might be rigged to explode. She picks up the water canister, taking a cautious sip before glancing back at me. "Is this how it's going to be? You just show up, bark orders, and expect me to jump?"
"I expect you to survive." The command drops like a guillotine blade, severing any possibility of an argument. "I have no desire to keep a corpse."
She scoffs, leaning against the wall with a hollow sort of bravado. "Well, you’ve got your living host. Now what? You just keep me in this box until I rot?"
I step closer, the violet-toned light in my armor intensifying as I invade her personal space. She holds her ground, though a sharp breath escapes her as she finally realizes the scale of her predicament.
"This box was temporary." The finality in my tone snaps like a lock. "You have proven yourself too industrious for standard containment. I am moving you to controlled quarters adjacent to my own. You will be monitored. You will be fed. And you will remain exactly where I can find you."
The water canister trembles in her hand as she shrieks, "Near you? No. Absolutely not. I'm staying here."
Gripping the doorframe, I pin her in place. "You are mistaken. The decision was made the moment you woke me. Finish your sustenance, Nyra. We are leaving."
I stand motionless as she turns back to the tray.
She eats with a frantic, feral energy, tearing into the block, chewing fast and swallowing hard.
She is treating the meal purely as a fuel resupply, calculating the caloric output required to bypass the locked doors and tear her way back to the Harrow.
While she resists looking at me, her eyes are unnecessary for me to feel her presence.
The bond broadcasts her every spike of resentment.
It changes to a sharp, acidic taste in my throat—a constant reminder that my stability now rests in the hands of a creature who would likely slit my throat if she found a sharp enough piece of wire.
Every time her teeth click against the canister, I feel the echo of the vibration in my own jaw.
"Finished," she snaps, shoving the empty tray away so hard it skids across the table and clatters to the deck.
She stands, the charcoal silk of her new tunic shifting over her frame.
The Reaper-tech fibers map her perfectly, highlighting the lean muscle of her shoulders and the rapid, shallow rise of her chest.
I gesture toward the door. "Move."
She stomps past me, her boots hitting the bio-mat with a series of sharp, timed thuds.
The Reaper-tech footwear molds to her feet as perfectly as the suit she once wore, giving her a grounded, heavy stride that broadcasts her indignation.
I fall in step behind her, my movement easily matching her hurried, angry pace.
I loom over her like a shadow she cannot shake, all obsidian-stone alloy and ancient intent.
As we navigate the primary transport spine, I keep a close eye on her.
Tactical awareness forms only part of it.
Compulsion drives the rest. I memorize the micro-movements of her body—the way her head pivots, her eyes scanning every recessed light, every ventilation grate, and every seam in the hull.
She is looking for a flaw. She is searching for the one loose plate or unguarded terminal that will lead her back to the vacuum of space.
I notice her fingers twitching at her sides, ghosting over her thighs as if reaching for a tool belt that is no longer there.
"Don't bother." The shout carries down the hall, rolling over itself in a series of hollow, metallic ghosts that haunt the shadows long after I fall silent.
"Virex Prime has already mapped your intent.
The internal sensors are keyed to your biometric signature.
You could spend a century wandering these halls, and you would never find an exit I did not authorize. "
Nyra lets out a sharp, frustrated huff, her shoulders hunching. "I'm going to find one. Even if I have to kick a hole through the side of this glorified tin can. You can't keep me synchronized to your ship’s clock forever."
"You would die in the vacuum before you cleared the first layer of shielding," I counter.
"At least I'd be a free corpse!" Her yell cracks with a raw, biting edge that makes the light in my gauntlets flicker.
I find myself focusing on that sound—the way her vocal cords strain, the way her anger creates a heat that my sensors read as a beautiful, chaotic disruption.
Every reaction she has, every stomp of her foot, and every glare she throws over her shoulder triggers a response in my own systems. My twin hearts beat in a synchronization that is unapproved.
She affects me. It develops into a realization that carries the weight of a planet, a variable that currently eludes my logic.
I feel the phantom pull of her hand in mine, a residue of the heat from the holding cell that refuses to dissipate.