Around me, the squad shifts. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But I feel it. The edge in their posture. The way one of the newer soldiers, Vekh, keeps adjusting the grip on his rifle even though it’s mag-locked. Another paces in place like he can’t stand still. It isn’t fear. No. It's an expectation.
The kind of anticipation that tightens your lungs and makes the air taste like copper. I’ve seen it before—before drops on burned-out moons, before that failed siege on Caelum’s Nest. It always means blood.
“Bet the Seeker’s got real bunks,” someone mutters behind me. A joke, half-hearted and hollow. “Gravity showers too.”
No one laughs.
Graal doesn’t even bother turning. He just growls, low and deep. “Quiet.”
Silence follows. The heavy, loaded kind. I welcome it. Let it settle in my bones like familiar weight. I need the focus. I need the ritual.
After formation disperses, I make my way down to the armory deck, alone. My armor’s already prepped, but I inspect every plate again. The metal is matte black, layered over reinforced carbon mesh. My reflection stares back at me from the chestplate, distorted by the curved surface—red eyes burning from beneath scaled ridges. I look like a weapon. That’s the point.
Each piece locks into place with a hydraulic hiss. Shoulders, gauntlets, shins. I’m sealing away the soft parts—heart, doubt, memories. Until there’s nothing left but a mission.
But I don’t forget.
I reach into the chest cavity of the suit before closing it, fingers brushing over the hidden compartment. The holopod is small, palm-sized, its casing scratched with time. I press the activation node.
A flicker. Then she’s there.
My mother.
Frozen in a looped moment, her features hard as bedrock. Her braid is tight, battle-precise. She never smiled for the lens. Never needed to. Just being there was enough. She hated the war. Hated that I chose the military. But she understood duty. Understood sacrifice. That was our shared language, even when we said nothing at all.
“I’ll make it worth it,” I whisper. The words hang in the air, useless and weightless. But I say them anyway. Then I close the pod, press it back into its cradle, and seal the chestplate shut.
It’s not just a mission anymore.
Back in my quarters, I sit on the edge of the bunk and check my pulse. Steady. Strong. My breathing slows. This is the moment before the storm. The silence before violence. My claws flex against the durasteel floor, scraping out a rhythm that keeps me anchored.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Come.”
Graax, one of the lieutenants, steps inside. He’s bulkier than me, but slower. Never won in a sparring match. “Captain wants a briefing review in ten.”
“I’m ready.”
He nods, but lingers. “You ever hear of this Seeker crew before?”
“No.”
“Word is they’re running a civilian complement. Science ship. Technicians. Soft targets.”
I bristle. “Then they shouldn’t be toying with singularities.”
Graax grunts, unconvinced. “Feels dirty, that’s all.”
“You want clean, join the clergy.”
He smirks. “Too many robes.”
He leaves. I stay seated a moment longer. Let his words soak in. Civilians. Scientists. Non-combatants. That kind of intel changes nothing. Not for me.
Still… my gut twists.
Doesn’t matter.
