Chapter 21 Freya #2
A memory sneaks in: the orphanage bunk bed, thin blanket, the smell of antiseptic, the dull drip of rusted pipes, quiet footsteps in hallway lights.
The long nights after nightmares, soft murmur of stuffed animals I whispered to so I wouldn’t wake crying.
Those memories don’t make me fragile. They made me silent. They taught me endurance.
I tilt my head, pull the sleeve of my uniform away to inspect the bruise forming beneath my ribs. It pulses with pain — a dull, steady ache. I grit my teeth. Pain can be a weapon if you learn to control it. I’ve done it before. I will again.
I shift. The chains that bind me to the slab clink softly.
I can’t see the lock mechanism from this angle, but there’s rust flecked at the seams — little patches of neglect.
I run my fingers over the metal links, tracing the cold ridges.
I breathe slow, shallow, listening to the cell’s hum: drip of water somewhere behind the wall, a distant sigh of ventilation, the hollow echo of my own heartbeat.
I close my eyes. I picture a familiar face — soft, golden hair, green eyes bright even in star-light, the weight of him holding me steady. I whisper to the darkness.
“Bunny… Trixie… you hear that? It’s time.”
I rock on the slab, the chains rasping. I whisper again, low:
“Stay quiet. Stay still. Wait.”
Because I don’t have volts to cut. I don’t have keys. I only have time — and patience. And I know both better than these traitors ever will.
The world comes back to me in pieces—sound first, then weight, then the faint metallic taste of my own blood drying on my tongue. My eyelids drag open. The cell swims around me, blurred shapes sharpening into something cold and ugly.
I stay still.
I don’t let my breath change. I don’t jolt.
I don’t sit up too fast. I’ve learned that reacting gives your captor the satisfaction of control.
I learned that at six years old in an overcrowded state-run IHC dorm, where one bully never missed a chance to twist fear into a leash.
There, the trick was always the same: don’t let them see what hurts.
Now, here, in this stone-box with a half-metal monster watching—
I use the same trick.
Trebuchet stands across the room, not moving, not breathing—at least not in any human way. Tubes run from his spine into the wall behind him. His single red optic glows faintly, a steady slow pulse like a heartbeat…if a heartbeat could be mechanical and utterly inhuman.
His voice crackles from somewhere deep in his chest. “You regain consciousness quickly. Impressive.”
I don’t reply. I let my eyes stay half-lidded, dazed. It’s an old survival tactic—one nobody ever expects from adults, only from children. Lucky for me, I never fully lost it.
He tilts his head to the side, curious, like he’s examining a lab specimen. “Still alive. Still breathing. Still unnecessary.”
My pulse spikes at that word—unnecessary—but my face doesn’t move.
He doesn’t know me. Not really. He thinks I’m a fragile thing Vokar picked up out of sentiment. He thinks I break easily.
And that’s exactly why I’m going to win.
Trebuchet turns toward the wall console. It lights under his touch—thin cables snaking out of his wrist and plugging into the interface like parasitic veins. The screen displays strings of code I can’t fully parse, but one part stands out: a pulsing blue module shaped like a heart.
Life Support Nexus.
I watch. Still silent. Still “weak.”
The console beeps once, softly, as he adjusts something. I hear a hiss behind him—some internal valve opening. His motion stutters. A soft exhale escapes him, mechanical but unmistakably…necessary.
Oh.
OH.
Trebuchet needs that console.
My ribs ache as I shift an inch against the wall. He doesn’t notice—too engrossed in whatever diagnostics he’s running. The console flickers through several windows: oxygen mix ratios, coolant flow, neural link stability, servo lag. He adjusts all of them.
It’s a life support tether.
His leash.
And I’ve found it.
A single spark of fierce, startled hope punches through my exhaustion. Not enough to cheer, but enough to breathe again.
I almost smile. Almost.
He unhooks from the console, straightens, and turns back toward me. I let my eyes close halfway again, forcing my face slack.
“Your warlord died screaming,” Trebuchet says.
My fingers twitch involuntarily. Anger. Pain. Something deeper.
He notices, but misreads it.
“Ah. There it is. Emotional response.” His red optic brightens fractionally. “That’s why biologicals are inferior. Predictable.”
Predictable?
He doesn’t know me at all.
He drifts closer, servos humming faintly, and crouches beside me. A cold hand, all metal plates and sharp edges, grips my chin—not gently, but not brutally either. Just clinically.
“You are small,” he states. “Soft. Weak boned. You were a liability the moment Vokar looked at you.”
I almost laugh. He has no idea how many times I’ve heard that. How many times I survived because people thought I was breakable.
But I don’t laugh. I let him think he’s right.
“You were his downfall,” Trebuchet continues. “And thus an obstruction. I am removing obstructions.”
“Then… why am I alive?” I whisper, making my voice tremble just enough.
Trebuchet releases me and stands. The optic flickers like annoyance.
“Because Arnab requested it. He believes you are leverage.”
“Am I?” I breathe.
He doesn’t hear the steel under it.
“You were,” Trebuchet says calmly. “But no longer.” He turns back to his console. “Soon he will realize that.”
My stomach clenches, but I keep my expression blank.
My heart pounds like it’s trying to break ribs.
The dim lamp buzzes overhead; the cell reeks of cold stone, metal oil, and the faint copper scent of my own dried blood.
I pull in a breath and smell dampness from somewhere behind the wall.
My palms sting from cuts I don’t fully remember getting.
Trebuchet’s voice drones on about logic, efficiency, fate. I tune him out.
Instead, I look at the console.
I memorize the pattern of lights.
The timing of the pulses.
The sound of the coolant hiss every time the blue heart beats.
The order in which he touches the panels.
And I file it away—like I used to memorize safety codes for the Stan Hansen, like I memorized the safe hiding spots in the orphanage, like I memorized the way Vokar’s voice shifted when he was trying not to worry me.
I’m good at remembering what hurts.
And this thing will hurt.
Soon.
Because of me.
Trebuchet disengages from the console again and returns to the far side of the cell, loops a cable from his forearm into the wall, and goes into some kind of low-power recharge state. His optic dims, not off but cycling slower.
I sit up slowly, as if dizzy. My vision throbs for effect.
The guards don’t come.
No one else moves.
I’m alone.
Good.
I shift my body, inching toward the darkest corner of the cell—where the shadows hide me from the angle of Trebuchet’s optic. My bones ache. My temples pulse. Every muscle feels like it’s been scraped raw.
I sink onto the floor, my back against cool stone. The lights flicker overhead—one long, two short, a pause. I watch it. Everything has rhythm when you’re scared enough to notice.
My hand slips into the pocket of my torn uniform. My fingers brush soft fabric—matted fur, tiny cotton stuffing, a stitch I fixed myself.
One of my stuffed animals.
Vokar must’ve tucked it into my pocket at some point. I don’t know when. I don’t know how I didn’t notice. My throat tightens dangerously, my vision blurring again—but not from fear.
I lift the little creature to my chest and cradle it.
The way I used to.
The way I always do when I need strategy, not hope.
I whisper, barely a breath:
“You see that console?”
A pause.
“Yeah. I see it too.”
My fingers trace the soft little head. I inhale slowly, grounding myself.
“I’m not trapped,” I whisper. “Not forever.”
My pulse steadies.
Trebuchet thinks I’m predictable.
Trebuchet thinks I’m fragile.
Trebuchet thinks he can break me with news of Vokar.
He hasn’t even begun to imagine the things I’ll do to him.
I tuck the stuffed animal beneath my arm, hidden from his optic.
I watch the console.
I count the pulses.
I listen to the coolant hiss.
I learn his pattern.
And while the cell stays silent around me, while Trebuchet hums softly in rest-mode, while the shadows curl around my shoulders like old friends—
I plan.
I plan quietly.
I plan with all the fire in my blood.
And I do not tremble.
Because yes, I’m small.
Yes, I’m human.
Yes, I’m alone.
But I’ve beaten worse odds.
I whisper again, soft as breath, soft as memory:
“We’re going to get out of here. And then?”
My eyes slip toward the console—toward the glowing blue heart that keeps Trebuchet alive.
“We burn this place down.”