Chapter 25 Freya #2
The corridor smells of ozone and burning metal when I slip in — like the compound’s breath is shallow, desperate, ripping with static.
Every panel blinks red overhead. Alarms rain down in shrieks — but I move in the shadows, silent on scarred plating, even as my own ribs ache, a dull drum under broken armor.
Ahead, past smoking wires and sparking conduits, I see him. The monster I swore to make him pay for. And behind him — a glowing barrel aimed at Vokar’s chest. Cold light, charged energy. Death ready to fire with one pull.
Trebuchet doesn’t notice me at first. His barrel hums, spines of blue-white light sliding along its edge. A hiss escapes from the energy coil — mechanical threat. The air tastes like burnt wiring, the aftertaste of shock. I taste blood on my lip, dry.
He laughs — harsh, hollow, mocking. “You? You’re a smudge on the galaxy.”
His words hang in the air, taunting. The cannon’s hiss grows louder. I step forward, breathing shallow. Each breath tastes of smoke and steel.
I don’t speak. I don’t give warning. I move.
I drop low — crouch under his aim — and I go for the junction box behind him: the twisted web of wires, the neural uplink hub I memorized in days of cleaning halls and wiped-own consoles. My fingers tremble but not from fear. From purpose. From finality.
A slide of claws against metal. A breath held.
I jam the knife blade into the junction housing — ribs of metal bending, thin wires igniting under pressure. Sparks explode — white-hot flares licking the dark. The hum of the cannon snaps. The barrel shutters. Lights flicker. And Trebuchet jolts, body jerking as circuits die.
The weapon discharges — but it’s a tang of misfire, not energy. The beam sputters out, fizzing into uselessness. The recoil spins him — off-balance.
That’s when Vokar hits.
He comes like a war demon unchained, muscles coiled in bone and rage, eyes burning red as the dying strobes of the hall. He crashes into Trebuchet with the force of a falling star. Armor — half-broken — scrapes metal. The shockwave rattles the plating, nozzle sparking, circuits frying.
Trebuchet tries to twist free, servo-joints rasping under torque. But Vokar doesn’t stop. Claw-hand clamps around shoulder plating, teeth gleaming under flickering light. He drives his strength — bone, muscle, vengeance — into the cyborg’s chest.
The smell of scorched wiring, the hiss of overload, metal cracking — the world distorts in static and fury.
Trebuchet’s optic flares then dims. Metal limbs go slack. The barrel drops. The last hiss of venting energy tastes of ash and finality in the stale air.
I push forward, boots thudding on cracked plating — scorching heat still licking wires beneath. I reach the wrecked conduit box, the scorched floor, the half-collapsed bulkhead. My fingers drop to the panel again. I yank free the last control rod. Wires spark, coils unwind.
Silence presses in. The alarms stutter, then die. The glowpanels flicker — red to amber — and finally, black. The compound’s heart catches fire.
I barely hear him roar — Vokar’s roar — a sound like war unleashed, grief and rage and claimed blood drawn tight across bone. It lifts through the halls, trembling, powerful.
I see Trebuchet where he falls — a broken shape, twisted metal, dead optics, humming coils molten silent. I don’t watch the body collapse. I don’t give that monster my sight.
I touch Vokar’s arm. His armor is scorched; his chest heaves under torn plating. Blood and sweat drip from his face. His eyes — red, feral — meet mine. For a second, only shadows and smoke and finality.
I lean close. Voice raw and cracked: “It’s done.”
He doesn’t answer. His head drops, then lifts. Motion slow. Carefully. He holds me close. No words — need none.
Around us, the compound groans as systems die. The hum of engines fades. The hiss of venting gas subsides. Fires gutter in distant halls — small flares blazing quiet under rubble.
I taste metal in my mouth. Taste ash. Taste survival.
I wrap fingers tight around the handle of my knife — the one I used to cut the conduit. It is cold leather and blood-stained steel now. I pull it free. Let the blade glint pale under broken overhead light. A symbol. A promise.
Vokar shifts, voice ragged: “They call us monsters.”
I smile — small, bitter, cleansing.
“Then let’s give them a night they’ll never forget.”
He nods. Claws flex. Bone-plate creaks.
And we walk out. Side by side.
Into the fire.
The world is bathed in scarlet sky and burning metal. The edges of the compound collapse. The smell of gunfire, oil, and heat smothers everything. I taste it all.
I hold on to Vokar. His warmth under torn armor. The grip of his hand — solid steel and promise.
Behind us — traitors scramble, broken and afraid. Behind us — the hiss of burning conduits, the groan of collapsing walls, the distant roar of failing shield generators.
But I don’t run. I don’t follow. I lead.
Because now — I carry vengeance.
And for a long moment, the only sound is my breath, the clang of boots on broken metal, and the deep pulse of survival in my veins.