I fire my thrusters to propel myself along the hull fragment's surface. Micro-gravity allows for impossible maneuvers—I use the heated metal as a springboard, launching myself at an angle that would be suicide in a gravity well.
Thek-Ka's mandibles spread in what might be approval as I come at him from below. All four of his limbs move in perfect coordination, creating a web of weapon fire and razor-edged appendages that should shred me.
Should.
Through the bond: Left. Now.
Not words. Just certainty. I'm firing my left thruster before the thought fully forms, rolling aside from a plasma burst I never saw coming.
Starboard. Roll.
My body twists through the void, evading a strike from Thek-Ka's blade that would have opened my suit from shoulder to hip.
Center mass. Claws. Gap between plates.
My talons find the opening, scoring deep enough to draw ichor but not deep enough to seriously wound. Thek-Ka's bellow of rage echoes across the open comm channels as he tries to grab me with his free arms.
But I'm already gone, using his own bulk as a shield against his weapons. Zola's tactical awareness guides my movements with the subtlety of instinct, her brilliant mind merging seamlessly with my combat reflexes.
We move like we've been fighting together for decades instead of minutes. My instincts, her calculations—two separate streams of consciousness flowing together into something greater.
"Impossible," Thek-Ka breathes, genuine amazement coloring his words. "You fight as one creature. How?"
"Partnership," I reply, striking at another vulnerable joint. Through the bond, I feel Zola's fierce pride. "Something you clearly don't understand."
There's a pause—a single beat where Thek-Ka's assault falters. Then his mandibles click in what might be grim satisfaction.
"I understand more than you think, Golden Viper. I understand that you have eyes in places eyes should not be. That your movements anticipate mine before I complete them. That you dodge strikes aimed at blind spots." His voice carries a teacher's cadence, testing a theory. "You fight well with your crutch. But let us see what you are without it."
Through the bond: Warning. Sharp and sudden. Alarm spiking through Zola's consciousness like lightning through storm clouds—
The electromagnetic pulse hits like a sledgehammer made of silence.
One moment, I feel Zola's presence—her tactical analysis, her fierce love, her absolute faith in my abilities. The distance between us aches like a pulled muscle, familiar and manageable.
The next moment, there's nothing.
Not ache. Not distance. Not even pain.
Just... absence.
Like someone carved out a piece of my chest and left a bleeding hole behind.
"Zola!" I call out on the open channel, spinning to face Thek-Ka, who holds what looks like a modified EMP grenade in one of his hands. The device is still crackling with residual energy, its light casting strange shadows across his armored carapace.
No response. Of course no response—she can't hear me, and I can't feel her.
I call again, louder, more desperate. "Zola!"
Nothing.
The bond isn't stretched or strained. It's just... gone. Cut off so completely it feels like losing a limb, like the universe suddenly removed a fundamental constant I'd learned to build my entire existence around.
How long has it been since I fought without her awareness flowing through our connection? Days? Weeks? It feels like lifetimes. The silence where she used to be is so profound it makes the vacuum of space seem deafening by comparison.
"Now we see what you truly are without her," Thek-Ka says, and he's not gloating. He's teaching. Testing. The way masters of the fighting circuits used to test their students—by removing their advantages one by one until only their core remained.
He circles me slowly, deliberately, giving me time to feel the full weight of my isolation.
