Chapter 2
KYLDAK
The light in this room is too clean. Too cold. It flickers in a rhythm that doesn’t match my pulse, which just pisses me off more. Every breath tastes like sterilizer and defeat.
I stare at the ceiling and count the grooves in the paneling just to keep from screaming. My own skin crawls. Or what’s left of it.
There’s a whine in the back of my skull.
The neural port. Interface syncing to the room’s medical system, probably.
I let it connect. I don’t like relying on tech—I’ve lost too much flesh to it—but it’s that or keep feeling helpless.
I pick helpless like I’d pick death: reluctantly, with blood under my nails.
The HUD opens in the corner of my vision. Clinical. Blue. Too neat.
Patient: KYLDAK, Commander
Species: Vakutan
Status: Phase 3 Recovery (Limbs Lost: L Arm, L Leg; Ocular Implant Pending)
Notes: High Aggression Flag. High Pain Tolerance.
I grunt. They always slap that “high aggression” tag on us like it explains everything. Maybe they’re right.
I flick to the personnel roster and scroll down to her name.
Jaela Stonmer
Lead Cyber-Physical Therapist
Certifications: Kinesiology, Psych Engineering, Biomech Mechanics, Interfacing Systems
Patient Retention: 98.7%
Discipline Notes: 3 (Sarcasm in Reports, Unauthorized Modifications, Called Rear Admiral “An Inflatable Meat Sack”)
A low laugh shakes out of me. “Inflatable meat sack,” I mutter.
I thumb open her intake notes. No fluff. Her handwriting’s neat, efficient, like she slices through bullshit for fun. One line jumps at me: “Vakutan subject presents with resistance. Disarm with challenge, not comfort.”
“She studies war machines like they’re puzzles,” I growl.
Another voice answers. “She studies you.”
I flinch. The voice is mine, but not mine. That part of me that’s been watching her since she waltzed into my rage like it was just another chore.
I dismiss the file. My fingers twitch—metal-tipped, humming from the interface. I hate the tingle. Hate the absence of heat from flesh. The quiet static it makes in my brain.
Ping.
A message lights red in the corner of my vision.
Marnik, 2nd Legion Commander (Ret.)
Encryption Verified.
[URGENT]
Kyldak—keep your mouth shut. You want to protest? Do it with a shovel. The Alliance is rounding up anyone who speaks out. Last week? Ghedak disappeared. No trial. Just gone. Delete this after reading.
I don’t delete it. I burn it into memory.
My fists clench. Heat erupts in my chest. Ghedak was vocal. Peace was his obsession. And now he’s dust.
A sound builds in my throat—deep, guttural, volcanic. I shove off the cot. The synthetic leg skids slightly on the smooth tile, whining in complaint. My whole balance shifts and I slam a hand into the wall to stay upright.
“Cowards,” I snarl. “Silence us while we bleed for them.”
The tray by the wall gleams like a challenge. Nutrient gels, interface calipers, a sleek diagnostic tool that smells faintly of ethanol and plastic. Too clean. Too smug.
I seize the tray and hurl it with everything I have.
It smashes against the wall with a crash that rings in my bones. Steel and synth crack apart. Bits scatter, skitter across the floor like fleeing bugs.
My chest heaves. I bare my teeth.
The door hisses open.
Of course it’s her.
She steps in, unfazed by the mess. Her eyes flick across the room, taking in the broken tools, the shaking table leg, the tremor in my posture.
She doesn’t yell.
She crouches.
“What are you doing?” I bark.
“Cleaning,” she says calmly.
“You’re not gonna report me?” My voice is a threat wrapped in acid.
“Nope.”
I narrow my eye. “Why not?”
She lifts a shard of the tray, holds it to the light. “Because then I’d have to do paperwork. And I hate paperwork almost as much as I hate patient drama.”
I bark a bitter laugh. “Drama?”
She glances up. “You think you’re the first pissed-off warrior I’ve seen chuck a food tray like a toddler? Come on.”
I bristle. “You have no idea what I’ve seen.”
She straightens, her stance casual. “Try me.”
“I’ve killed men bigger than you for breathing wrong.”
“Neat,” she deadpans. “You want a cookie? Or maybe another tray to throw?”
My mouth opens. Closes. I don’t know what to do with this woman.
She walks closer. I stiffen. She stops a foot from me, not flinching at my height or heat or fury. Her eyes search my face—not for weakness. For truth.
“Why are you really angry, Kyldak?” she asks, quiet but sharp. “Is it the limbs? The war? Or that someone saw you broken and lived to tell about it?”
I flinch before I can stop it.
She nods, like she expected it.
“You’re not broken,” she adds. “You’re just paused. And tomorrow, we start pressing play.”
I scoff. “You think I’m gonna march into your sterile torture room like a good little soldier?”
“No,” she says. “I think you’ll show up because you still want to be something more than a legend who burned out.”
I snarl. “Don’t you dare talk about my legend.”
“I’m not,” she snaps back. “I’m talking about the man still standing here, right now, pissed off and proud and—whether you like it or not—alive.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. I hate how steady they are. Like she knows something about me I don’t.
“I won’t coddle you,” she says. “I won’t lie to you. But I will challenge you.”
I say nothing.
“Session’s at 0600,” she adds, stepping past me toward the door. “Try being on time. And sober. I’m not dragging your sorry golden ass off the floor again.”
She reaches the threshold, pauses. “You want to be a warrior again? Prove it.”
The door closes behind her.
I stand there, chest still rising and falling like a war drum. The tray pieces glint at my feet. Her scent lingers in the air—like industrial soap and something sharper. Steel, maybe. Or spice.
I don’t sit. I don’t move.
I just stare at the door.
And for the first time since the blast that ripped me apart, I feel something warm and dangerous blooming in my chest.
Hope.