She’sacting.
An identity forged in chaos and confidence.
The holo battlefield blooms brighter, louder, more convincing — and the Reaper retreat is already in full broadcast, their own communications fracturing with word that the target has been compromised bysomething horrific, organized, and unknown.
And everyone is repeating the name they heard first:
“The Butcher.”
I swallow, the taste of oil and anxiety sliding down my throat. The name reverberates off every open channel.
Whether she likes it or not, thatrumoris burning through space like a hot brand.
I finally speak — voice rough, synchronization almost useless in the sudden quiet:
“Roxy — why?”
She doesn’t stop.
Just keeps layering the immersion.
“Because they respond to perception,” she says, without looking at me, eyes fixed on the shifting holograms. “If they think this ship’s a slaughterhouse, they won’t stay to find out what’s real.”
Her voice isn’t afraid.
It’s analytical.
Cold.
Prepared.
I watch as the final wave of imaginary troops collapses in the holo feed — dramatic, chaotic, overwhelming — enough to convince any would-be boarder that this deck is burning and they’re already casualties.
And it works.
Slowly, methodically, the Reaper vessel pulls back. Reports go from hostile occupation to ordered retreat. The specter of defeat spreads faster than the actual reality ever could.
The last message I hear — relayed across interstellar channels — is frantic:
“The Butcher is here. She’s real. Get clear!”
The broadcast explodes outward, rumor bleeding into panic, panic bleeding into confession.
I turn to Roxy.
She’s breathing steady.
Not proud.
Not relieved.
Just calm andalive.
No hesitation. Just authority.
I’m struck by it.
Not the rumor. Not the response.
