Then her other hand lifts to my chest, fingertips brushing the scar that runs over my clavicle.
She looks up.
“This was Rhavadaz, wasn’t it?” she asks.
I nod.
“Mine too,” she whispers, touching her rib cage. “First real damage.”
We stand there, matching wounds. Matching rhythms.
And then?—
WRAAANK!
The alarm blares through the corridor, sharp and gut-punching. Emergency red lights flash across the walls, slicing through the intimacy like a blade.
She curses under her breath. “Every damn time.”
I grin, bitter. “Story of us.”
We don’t speak again.
We run.
Side by side.
Shoulder to shoulder.
The storm hasn’t passed after all.
But neither have we.
Crimson lights strobe through the corridor like heartbeat spikes. There’s no hesitation in my body anymore—not since the Meld, not since she touched me without flinching. I’m halfway to the launch bay before the second klaxon even finishes its cycle.
“Dropship crash,” the duty tech says as I pass, her voice tight over the comms. “One klick west of the ridge. Winds toounstable for drones. No confirmation on survivors. Whiplash is your only go.”
Copy.
That’s all I say.
Inside, I’m boiling. The way the comms officer delivered that news like a cold equation doesn’t sit right. Adropship. That’s not cargo. That’s people. People who probably had no idea what Rhavadaz was until they landed face-first in its fury.
The airlocks hiss as I hit the launch bay. Aria’s already there, sealing the last clasp on her interface suit, neural rig tucked under her arm. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask questions or bark orders.
She just looks at me, nods once, and heads for the rig.
That’s new.
That’s trust.
I fall in behind her.
The Meld chamber in Whiplash flares to life the moment we board. The mech’s core thrums beneath our boots like it’s just as anxious to move as we are. As we lock into place, her voice comes through the internal line, low and steady:
“You good?”
“Never been worse,” I say.
