They come teeth-first, hauling salvage claws and boarding spears. They try to crawl through the Hulk like parasites.
I leave bodies in the vents for the rest to find.
They don’t come back.
The legend grows.
I hear it sometimes—leaked through static-channels, whispered across the Badlands' black.
A ghost ship, dead but moving. A monster captain, face burned to ruin, who speaks in war-code and keeps trophies of the men he kills. A machine god at his side, half mad, half divine.
Some call me "The Hulk-Widow."
Others, "Scourge of Tharsk."
My favorite?
"The Last Brutal."
None of it’s true.
But I let them believe it.
Because fear keeps the small ones away. Fear keeps the bounty low, keeps Combine eyes off my trail while I dig in deeper.
Fear buys me time.
I’m not here to conquer.
I don’t want to rule.
I wantout.
I wanther.
I want the thing I never believed I’d want: home.
Not the blood-pit where I was raised. Not the arena. Not the throne of skulls Meyer thought I’d claw my way back to.
Her.
Isolde.
Soft. Strong. Mouth like a blade.
She’s the first person who didn’t flinch.
The first who called me something besides monster.
She made mechoose.
And I did.
I chose her life over mine.
But fate screwed up, because I’m still breathing.
So now I choose again.
