We crash.
It’s not a pretty fight.
It’s a goddamn brawl.
She moves like someone who’s had her bones rebuilt for speed and spite. I counter with raw Vakutan rage and the cold edge of combat memory. Metal clashes. Sparks fly. I duck a blade, ram my shoulder into her gut, drive her back against a fuel tank.
She kicks out, catches my knee. I grunt, stumble, slash.
Blood sprays.
Not hers.
She laughs again. “Slower than I remember.”
“Still a snake,” I growl.
She spins, lands a hit that sends me skidding into the wall. My back screams. My cybernetics stutter. I breathe through the pain, drop to one knee, and when she rushes me again.
She overshoots.
I catch her wrist, twist, drive my elbow into her ribs.
She howls.
We fall.
We roll.
It ends with my blade at her throat and her boot pressed to my ribs.
Breathing hard.
Sweating blood.
Alive.
For now.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she hisses.
I press the knife in tighter. “Who sent you?”
She grins, blood in her teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
I slam her head against the ground. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make her stop smiling.
She goes limp.
I drag her unconscious body into a rusted locker and jam the latch shut with a snapped pipe.
My ribs ache. My skin is slick with sweat and plasma burns. But I’m still breathing.
Barely.
I limp to the far wall, find a comms panel with enough juice to fry a rat, and reroute the signal to bounce through a ghost relay. My fingers shake. My vision doubles. But I manage one coded pulse to Rynn’s backup channel.
Not to say I’m okay.
