“What about him?”
Rhea lifts the compad, screen still flickering with transfer confirmation.
“There was a second data crystal. Hidden. Quinn never sent it. His brother found it behind a false panel in his compad case. It’s encrypted. But he cracked the shell. Val?—”
Her voice breaks.
“It’s about Gladiator Prime.”
My blood goes cold.
“What about it?”
She swallows. “The Combine’s been using the arena.”
“For what?”
Her eyes burn. “For cover. Logistics. Prisoner transfer. Testing. Everything.”
My hands curl into fists before I can stop them. I want to punch the console, the wall, the sky. Instead I pace, each step a barely controlled quake.
“How much does the crystal show?”
“Enough. Drone footage. Transit logs. Live-chat from a handler. Names. Timetables. It’s all dated within the last three months.”
I stop pacing. Turn to her.
“You’re telling me the arena—my home—is a goddamn Combine shell op?”
She just nods.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on either side of her, my breath coming rough.
“I thought we were done with this war,” she whispers, voice gone small.
I stare at the floor. It’s cracked tile. Dirty. Real.
Then I say it, low and feral:
“We were.”
I look up.
“But the war’s not done with us.”
They saywar turns you into something else.
I never turned into something else.
I just let it all out.
And now here I am again, boarding a transport with two people I’d carve the stars for, pretending this is just another ride.
The smell of recycled air and burnt coolant chokes the cabin. The seats are cracked, the bulkheads buzz with poor wiring, and the other passengers are the kind of quiet that comes with paranoia. Traders, smugglers, low-tier civvies, maybe one or two ex-spooks trying to ghost out of the system unnoticed.
We fit right in.
Rhea’s beside me. Her hood is up, face turned away. She’s got Ripley pressed against her side like she’s trying to weld the kid to her ribs.
