I tighten the harness across my chest, watching the blood-red light crawl across the bridge. The crew’s a blur of motion—hands flying over cracked consoles, boots pounding against deck plates, somebody shouting for a coolant reroute.
The Hulk shudders, hungry.
“No protocol,” I growl. “We’re past that.”
“Statistical prediction indicates an eighty-seven percent chance of overexposure if you engage another Combine outpost without repair interval.”
“Then I’ll beat the other thirteen percent into existence.”
“Garokk—”
“Enough, Reflector.”
I slam the throttle lever forward.
The Hulkscreamsto life.
Engines burn white through the black, and the stars stretch like they’re afraid of me.
It started small.
A Combine drone station. One raid. Quick hit. Just enough to steal fuel rods and keep the hull breathing.
But small things never stay that way in the Badlands.
Every ship we hit added another ghost to my legend, another whisper to the name they’ve started using out there:
The Crimson Raider.
I didn’t choose it.
Didn’t want it.
But I didn’t correct them, either.
The legend protects the crew. Keeps the pirates and Reapers guessing. Keeps the Combine afraid to send anyone less than an armada.
And if they fear me, they’ll hesitate.
Hesitation buys time.
Time keeps us alive.
“Target acquired,” says Fierra from the gunnery bay, her voice low and steady. “Combine relay outpost, designator D-9. Weak shields, no escort. Easy pickings.”
“Define ‘easy,’” mutters Kraye, our navigation officer, who still twitches whenever the hull moans too loud. “Last ‘easy’ job cost me half my tail and a year’s worth of sleep.”
“Then you should’ve ducked faster,” Fierra fires back.
I cut through the chatter. “Weapons ready. Reflector, pulse the arrays.”
“I advise restraint,” he says. “Outpost D-9 services multiple civilian freight routes. Engagement will?—”
“Spare the civvies. Hit the Combine core. You know the drill.”
Silence. Then a resigned hum.
“As you wish, Captain.”
