“Don’t do that out loud. People will think we’re dating.”
He laughs—a bark of sound that startles a flock of neon pigeons from a power line.
We turn onto my street. Home’s only two more blocks away. The scent of synth-baked pastries wafts from a kiosk, and for a moment, things almost feel normal again. I catch myself thinking: maybe this is working. Maybe I can have something close to real life with a giant sentient tank shadowing my every step.
Something flickers in my periphery.
A shimmer. A gleam from the rooftop. A movement that’s justwrong.
Before I even finish turning my head, Voltar slams into me like a freight train, his arm wrapping around my waist and yanking me behind the nearest support column.
The next secondexplodes.
A white-hot bolt of plasma crashes into the spot where I was just standing, melting a crater into the duracrete. The air sizzles with ozone and burnt stone. Screams erupt from down the street as pedestrians scatter.
Voltar is already moving.
He lets go of me, shoves me down behind the column, and pivots with predator fluidity. His massive hand pulls a compact blaster from his thigh holster—still bigger than most carbines. With a grunt, he fires twice. The first shot hits nothing. The second shatters the edge of a rooftop panel, sending fragments cascading like a mechanical waterfall.
“Keep your head down!” he barks, already sprinting toward the building across the street.
I scramble lower, my heart jackhammering, palms scraping against rough stone. The world narrows to smells—burned air, melting metal—and the high-pitched whine of Voltar’s weapon humming back into readiness. My compad buzzes, frantic alerts flaring across its screen: “Attack Detected. Seek Shelter. Do Not Engage.”
Too late for that.
A second shot comes—misses, but closer. The heat of it licks my cheek.
Then Voltar’s roar echoes off the buildings. “Got eyes on! Slippery little voidrat—hold still!”
I hear another blast, something shatters—a window? A drone camera? I can’t see. I want to move, want to help, but my limbs feel sluggish, like I’m swimming through wet synth-fabric.
Then silence.
No more shots.
No more screams.
Just my breathing and the staccatothump-thump-thumpof Voltar’s boots returning.
He’s dragging something behind him—a long black cloak, smoldering at the edges, empty.
“Sniper’s gone,” he says grimly. “Used a short-range transporter. Zerbaru tech, probably stolen. Left behind the thermal imprint, though.” He tosses down the cloak. “Nothing else. No blood.”
I stare at the scorched fabric like it might morph into answers. “You sure it wasn’t Tugun?”
He grunts. “Can’t confirm. Could’ve been. But the aim wastoo good.This wasn’t a warning shot.”
I stand, shakily, brushing soot from my pants. “Great. So now we’re in open season.”
Voltar doesn’t reply immediately. He’s still scanning the rooftops, body rigid, predator mode fully engaged. Then his gaze darts my way.
“You okay?” he asks.
His voice is low. Rough. Laced with something I don’t recognize at first—maybe concern, maybe something more dangerous. It drags me back from the edge I didn’t realize I’d been teetering on.
I nod. Slowly. Automatically.
I’m still clutching the support column like it’s the only thing keeping my legs from giving out. My heartbeat’s in my ears, fast and furious, drowning out everything but that voice. That question.
