Her words, fierce and certain, from a conversation that feels like a lifetime ago. Spoken in the aftermath of our bonding, when I was still learning what it meant to be half of something greater without losing myself entirely.
My claws extend fully and hook the edge of the debris I was tumbling toward, using the leverage like a grappling line. The angle isn't perfect, but it's enough. I swing my body in a tight arc, using momentum instead of fighting it, and the plasma bolt that should have cored me through the chest passes so close I can feel the heat through my suit's insulation.
Thek-Ka's mandibles click in surprise as I come around the debris like a slingshot, my damaged ribs screaming in protest but my trajectory finally under control.
I'm not operating on Zola's tactical genius anymore.
I'm operating on rage.
And rage, it turns out, is something I learned to use long before I ever met a brilliant human woman with a gift for turning chaos into certainty.
"Disappointing?" I echo his earlier word, and my voice comes out as a predatory rasp that would make my old fighting circuit masters nod in approval. "Let me show you what the Golden Viper was before he had someone to share the load with."
I don't wait for his response. Don't give him time to prepare. I just attack—reckless, aggressive, and absolutely furious at himfor taking away the best thing that ever happened to me, even if only temporarily.
My claws find his damaged chest plate, and this time I don't score a precise surgical strike at the perfect angle. I just dig in and tear, using brute force to exploit the weakness Zola identified minutes ago. Ichor sprays across my suit as chitinous armor gives way under sheer violence of action.
It's not elegant. It's not efficient.
But it works.
Thek-Ka bellows—part pain, part anger, part what might be approval—and tries to grab me with his lower arms. I twist away, sacrificing technique for speed, using instincts honed from dozens of matches where one mistake meant death and hesitation was worse than wrong.
Without the bond feeding me Zola's awareness, I can't predict Thek-Ka's moves before he makes them. Can't sense the optimal angles of attack or know the exact moment his guard will drop. But I can read his body language, see how he favors his left side, notice the minute delay when his damaged thrusters force him to compensate.
It's not the same as having Zola's tactical consciousness flowing through our connection. It's messier, harder, and it hurts more than I want to admit.
But I was doing this—surviving, winning, earning the name Golden Viper—for three years before she ever stepped aboard The Precision.
The universe wants to remind me of that? Fine. Consider me reminded.
I press the attack, ignoring the way my ribs grate with every movement. Pain is data. Data is useful. And right now, the data says Thek-Ka expected me to fold without Zola's support, which means he's fractionally overconfident, fractionally less guarded than he should be.
My claws rake across his damaged rear limb—the same servo connection that was weak from the start. Hydraulic fluid sprays into the vacuum, freezing almost instantly into glittering crystals that catch the twin suns' light.
The limb seizes up completely.
Thek-Ka's combat stance immediately destabilizes. With only three functional limbs and compromised thrusters, he can't maintain the defensive web that's kept him alive against fighters for decades. His weapons are still deadly, his reach still superior, but his mobility is shot.
"Impossible," he breathes, struggling to compensate for the failed limb.
"Not impossible," I reply, circling to stay in his compromised quadrant. "Just partnership. The kind where both people are strong enough to stand alone but choose to be stronger together."
My left arm is still partially numb, but I force it to work, to grip the plasma sidearm at my hip. The shot takes him in the upper right shoulder—not a fatal hit, but enough to further degrade his capabilities. His return fire goes wide, his aim thrown off by pain and mechanical failure.
"The female—Zola—she is still with you," Thek-Ka observes, backing away from my advance. "Even silenced, her influence remains."
"No," I correct, driving him toward a large section of debris that will limit his maneuverability even further. "She's not influencing me. She's trusting me. She trusted me to be who I was before we bonded, and she trusts me to be who I am without her presence in my mind. There's a difference."
I strike again, this time targeting the micro-fractures in his chest armor. Not because Zola calculated the optimal angle of attack, but because three years of pretending to be harmlesstaught me to see stress patterns in materials, to read weakness where others see strength.
The plate cracks further, creating an opening for follow-up strikes.
Blood pounds in my ears. My ribs feel like someone replaced them with broken glass. Every breath hurts, every movement costs, but I'm still standing. Still fighting. Still the Golden Viper.
Just like I always was.
Thek-Ka's defensive stance crumbles under my assault. His stimulant-enhanced reflexes are failing him now, the drugs burning through his system too fast while his damaged body struggles to keep up with demands his mind is making. He overcompensates for injuries he can't properly gauge, leaves openings in his guard that his training says shouldn't exist.
