“She’ll collapseoncheckpoint,” 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 hesmiled. 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.”
