Then the floor beneath me shudders.
Not a tremor. Not the Hulk’s usual creaks. This is a jolt—sharp, seismic, calculated. I drop into a crouch instinctively, claws splayed wide for balance. The vines react—curling back, glowing brighter. Something in the Hulk isawake.
The ground bucks again, harder. Gravity yanks sideways. A groan echoes through the ship’s bones.
“Isolde!” I bark, turning.
She jerks upright just as the world lurches. The walls groan. A steel panel above us rips loose. I dive toward her as the gravity field twists again. I wrap her in both arms just as the metal sheet crashes down.
Sparks explode. She screams.
My body takes the brunt. Pain flares down my back, but I hold her tight—tighter than I’ve ever held anything.
Then the deck shifts a third time. Harder. Violent. The fungus cracks, tiles snap. She’s torn from my arms in the quake, sliding across the mossy floor with a cry. I lunge—but a collapsing strut blocks me.
“No!” I roar, slamming my shoulder into the wall. It doesn’t budge. My mate—myjalshagar—is beyond the wreckage.
“Garokk!” she calls. Her voice, muffled. Afraid.
“I’m coming!” I slam my shoulder again. The ship whines, resisting.
And then—quiet.
No more lurching. No more tremors.
I shove my way through the twisted arch. My vision is streaked with red. Not blood—rage. I step into the corridor?—
And she’s gone.
Only her voice lingers, like smoke. Fading.
I drop to all fours, sniff the air. I catch her scent. Still warm. Still close. But there’s another. Cold. Mechanical.
Lor.
The cyborg.
I snarl low in my throat. Of course it’s him. Precision. No waste. He would’ve taken her like a mission—efficient and brutal.
“Where?” I breathe. “Where did you take her?”
I stalk down the corridor. Feral. Ready to tear steel from bone.
Then something clatters behind me.
I whirl, blade raised—but it’s not a threat.
It’s Reflector.
The little drone sparks as it hovers unevenly. One of its arms is torn. A lens cracked. But it’s alive.
Barely.
“Help…” it buzzes. “She… she’s… they…”
It projects a stuttery hologram—grainy, but clear enough.
Isolde, limp in Lor’s grip. Her head turned toward the camera, lips parted in pain. A smear of blood on her temple.
