Chapter 2
DARUN
She smells like city soap and synthetic perfume—too clean for war. Too soft for this place. She’s a brittle little thing wrapped in arrogance and press credentials, standing in the dust like she owns the godsdamned ground.
Amy Matthews. Ataxian Amy.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye while I check the crawler’s undercarriage.
She’s not talking. That’s the only thing she has going for her right now.
The wind tugs at her jacket, blonde hair catching in the straps of her recorder rig.
She looks like a half-lost comm intern on her first day. She’s going to get someone killed.
“New meat,” Varr mutters beside me, his breath wet with morning rations. He jerks his chin at her. “Think she’ll cry during the drills?”
“Think she’ll slow us down,” I grunt, tightening the coupler with a sharp twist. “That’s worse.”
The thing is, she doesn’t look scared. She looks curious. I hate that. This isn’t some tech expo or a peace summit—it’s a warzone. The minute you start asking questions out here, someone starts bleeding.
Kanapa’s voice slices through the static of the camp intercom. “Bravo Squad. Formation drill. Now.”
We fall in. I lace my fingers behind my back, stance straight, boots heavy on the tarmac. Amy follows, of course. Her boots crunch unevenly on the gravel.
“You’re not squad,” I snap without looking at her.
“I’m embedded,” she snaps back. “Get used to it.”
Her voice is low, tight. She’s trying not to sound winded. She keeps up surprisingly well for someone who’s clearly never worn armor heavier than a fashion vest.
Kanapa marches toward us with that brutal stride—left leg clicking slightly, the servo in his cybernetic hip whining just under hearing range. It always puts my teeth on edge. He stops in front of us, scans the line, and his gaze lands on Amy like a dagger.
“This,” he says, gesturing at her with his metal hand, “is a liability. And liabilities get soldiers killed. But command wants a damn documentary, so treat her like a piece of equipment. Not like one of us.”
I nod, jaw clenched. Amy doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink.
After the briefing, we start the run. The desert’s a merciless bastard this time of day—sun high, heat rising off the ground like the whole planet’s trying to breathe through cracked lips.
Amy insists on running with us.
I watch her stumble over a rock the size of a ration tin and nearly eat dirt before righting herself with a mumbled curse.
“She’s gonna collapse before checkpoint,” Varr says behind me.
“She’ll collapse on checkpoint,” Sira adds.
She doesn’t.
Halfway in, she’s still there—face red, gasping like a broken ventilator, sweat plastering her shirt to her back. But she’s still running.
When she almost drops her pack trying to tighten a strap, I snap.
“Give me that before you start rolling downhill.”
She straightens like I slapped her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re slowing the unit.”
“Then run faster,” she spits, yanking the strap tight again.
For a moment, I see it—not just the stubborn fire in her eyes, but the flicker of pain she’s trying to bury. Her knees are trembling. Her boots weren’t made for this terrain. But she refuses to stop.
Foolish.
Something stirs in my chest. Not pity. Something meaner and curious.
“Suit yourself,” I grunt, and move ahead.
Flashback. Eight years ago.
The sky was burning over Marn Sector. I was twenty-seven cycles into my first command—green as the blood still wet on my hands. The shelling hadn’t stopped for four days. We were down to half ammo and quarter morale.
Then Kanapa arrived.
He looked like death, metal arm missing its outer sheath, scales torn up from an airstrike. But he smiled. Walked into the trench line and said, “Anyone still breathing, follow me.”
We followed.
He got us out with two dead instead of twenty. Saved my life personally—dragged me from a collapsing structure, one hand firing blind behind us, the other clutching my armor plate like it was his child.
After that, I never questioned him. Didn’t matter if he snarled at command, didn’t matter if he shot first and asked never. Kanapa was a weapon. A necessary one.
Lately though…
He’s been different. Shorter temper. Harsher orders. Civilians caught in crossfire and no apologies. When Sira mentioned pulling an old woman out of the wreckage last week, he barely grunted. Just said, “Collateral.”
The ghosts behind his eyes are getting louder.
But to question him? That’s betrayal.
And I don’t betray my own.
Checkpoint comes into view, the base perimeter beacon blinking weakly in the sand. Amy stumbles again—foot catching in a ridge—but she recovers. Barely.
Kanapa’s already there, arms crossed, cybernetic fingers twitching in that unconscious way that makes everyone around him uneasy.
“Nice of you to finish,” he growls at her.
“Would’ve been faster without the commentary,” she says through a ragged breath.
I suppress a laugh. Barely.
Kanapa doesn’t. He steps forward until he’s towering over her. “You think this is funny, reporter? This is not a studio. This is not a story. This is war.”
Amy straightens, wiping dust from her lip. “Then maybe you should act like it.”
Dead. Godsdamn. Silence.
The entire squad goes rigid. Kanapa’s nostrils flare. I take a step forward without realizing it. Not to protect her. Just… to stop the explosion I can feel building.
But he just sneers. “Try not to die before I get my next medal,” he says, and stalks off.
Amy sags, just a fraction, and I see her wipe her eyes with her shoulder. Not crying. Sweat. Sand. Something in between.
She catches me watching. “What?”
“Nothing,” I grunt.
She doesn’t press. Just lifts her recorder. “You want to say something for the piece?”
I snort and turn away. “I’ve already said too much.”
But her eyes follow me.
Like she wants to understand.
I hate that.
Because a part of me wants her to.