He doesn’t ask who.
He knows.
“Statistically improbable,” he says. “But... not impossible.”
I nod once.
That’s enough.
That word—not impossible—becomes my anchor.
Weeks later,the Reapers find us.
Not scouts this time. A full frigate. Black as oil, hungry for glory.
They drop out of warp right in our path.
The crew panics. Screaming, running, loading weapons that aren’t ready. The Hulk groans as I push her past safe limits.
Reflector’s voice fills every channel, calm amid chaos. “Multiple heat signatures. Heavy armament. We cannot outrun them.”
“Then we don’t.”
“What?”
I stand tall in the command pit, hands braced on the rail.
“They want the Crimson Raider?” I growl. “Then they get him.”
The battle’s chaos.
Noise and color and fire.
We cripple their engines first—one precise plasma shot through the vent ports. Then we circle, brutal and close, claws against metal, teeth against hull plating.
Their distress signal flares, begging for Combine backup.
I cut it off halfway through transmission.
We leave them spinning.
Drifting.
Alive.
“Why spare them?” Reflector asks when the smoke settles.
“Because somebody has to remember mercy.”
When the wreck fades behind us, I lean back in the captain’s chair, breath ragged, the hum of the Hulk matching my pulse.
The crew’s cheering.
They think we won.
They think this means something.
It doesn’t.
