Raaze tracked the pattern.
One second… two. On three, Vaath scanned left. Four. Five. There we go, on six, his eyes went up to the ceiling. Seven… Eight, head right, and his gaze hit the wall. Rinse and repeat.
Eight seconds and as predictable as a rookie defensive line. Pathetic, really.
Raaze drew back into the shadows, a frown creasing his brows. He couldn’t charge straight in, that would be suicide. Vaath was feral. The second his body registered a threat, biology would take over—claws, armor—the whole ugly package. And Raaze had… precisely none of that.
Which meant he needed timing and surprise instead.
He ran through his memories of Vaath training, every little move the kid made with the sphere in his hand. Just like he would a player on an opposing team.
There, two days ago… the memory was sharp and clear. Vaath turning to catch… pivoting to block.
Raaze’s lips curled upward in the darkness.
Every time the kid turned right, his right shoulder dropped half a beat before the feet moved. A tell. It had been there since day one of training. Raaze had nearly corrected it yesterday, almost opened his mouth to tell him he looked like a malfunctioning bot, and then—nothing.
Now he knew why.
One, two… Centering himself, he waited. Five. Six.
Vaath scanned left, his attention sliding down the corridor.
Low and silent, Raaze exploded out of the darkness, eating the distance between them as Vaath looked away.
Seven.
His weight shifted, and he dropped his right shoulder.
Eight.
Raaze hit the young feral as he started to turn back. His forearm drove hard into the base of Vaath’s skull, right where spine met the skull. He’d taken that same shot in the semi-finals three years ago and spent thirty minutes out cold on the pitch.
Vaath’s knees folded under him, and he dropped like a stone. Raaze stepped in and caught him halfway down. One hand grabbed the back of his vest as the other cupped the back of Vaath’s head, keeping his skull from smashing into the stone floor. The kid was out cold. No claws. No armour. Not even a twitch.
For three seconds, he just stood there holding up the male he’d knocked cold.
Possibly the strangest thing he’d done since landing on this planet. And that included the time he’d tried to find a decent drink in the mess hall.
Easing Vaath down against the wall, he looked at him for a moment. Gods, the kid was so young. Slack-faced in unconsciousness. But he’d forgotten that ferals were never down and out as the kid’s nervous system fired and his hand jerked.
Claws snapped out and raked down Raaze’s forearm before the rest of him went limp. He reacted on automatic, pinning Vaath against the stone with his good arm as blood rushed in his ears.
Too slow, draanthic.
Pain tore through him, a line of acid shooting from elbow to wrist that made him grit his teeth so hard he thought he’d break them off.
Draanth it all to hell. Another inch to the right and he’d be bleeding out on the corridor floor, ready to explain to whatever waited after death that he’d died stealing scrap for a human female he’d met six hours ago.
What a way to go. Draanthing embarrassing.
He remained frozen, listening out in case anybody had heard the scuffle.
But there was nothing. All he could hear was the ventilation humming and the drip of condensation somewhere in the darkness. There were no alarms, no boots pounding against the stone, and no shouting that somebody was trying to steal from the stores.
There was just him and an unconscious guard, and the fresh stink of blood slicing through the stale air of the corridor.
Trall, he looked down to find his sleeve had already darkened, the torn fabric wet with blood. Plumping a hand over the wound, he counted slowly to ten, waiting for his physiology to start the clotting.
