When the doors to the tactical ward slide open, floral antiseptic and warm steam spill out. Nyra is standing by the sleeping dais, dressed in charcoal silk. The fabric clings to her wiry frame, Reaper-tech fibers adjusting to her heat and contours until they fit her as perfectly as her boots. She has scrubbed the grease from her skin, revealing the rich, deep brown of her complexion and the sharp, defiant lines of her face. The Reaper glyph on her sternum illuminates faintly through the silk, a violet brand that makes my own blood burn.
She glares at me, her damp hair clinging to her neck in dark, tight coils. "I did it. I'm clean. Now let me go back to my ship."
I set the tray down on the small table near the door, my movements deliberate. "You will eat."
"I'm not hungry." She tilts her chin up.
"Your biology argues otherwise." My response echoes in the small space. "Your caloric reserves are depleted. You will consume the nutrients provided, or I will ensure they are administered through a more invasive method. Choice is a luxury you currently lack, scavenger."
She stalks toward the table, her eyes darting toward the tray as if she suspects it might be rigged to explode. She picks up the water canister, taking a cautious sip before glancing back at me. "Is this how it's going to be? You just show up, bark orders, and expect me to jump?"
"I expect you to survive." The command drops like a guillotine blade, severing any possibility of an argument. "I have no desire to keep a corpse."
She scoffs, leaning against the wall with a hollow sort of bravado. "Well, you’ve got your living host. Now what? You just keep me in this box until I rot?"
I step closer, the violet-toned light in my armor intensifying as I invade her personal space. She holds her ground, though asharp breath escapes her as she finally realizes the scale of her predicament.
"This box was temporary." The finality in my tone snaps like a lock. "You have proven yourself too industrious for standard containment. I am moving you to controlled quarters adjacent to my own. You will be monitored. You will be fed. And you will remain exactly where I can find you."
The water canister trembles in her hand as she shrieks, "Near you? No. Absolutely not. I'm staying here."
Gripping the doorframe, I pin her in place. "You are mistaken. The decision was made the moment you woke me. Finish your sustenance, Nyra. We are leaving."
I stand motionless as she turns back to the tray. She eats with a frantic, feral energy, tearing into the block, chewing fast and swallowing hard. She is treating the meal purely as a fuel resupply, calculating the caloric output required to bypass the locked doors and tear her way back to theHarrow. While she resists looking at me, her eyes are unnecessary for me to feel her presence. The bond broadcasts her every spike of resentment. It changes to a sharp, acidic taste in my throat—a constant reminder that my stability now rests in the hands of a creature who would likely slit my throat if she found a sharp enough piece of wire. Every time her teeth click against the canister, I feel the echo of the vibration in my own jaw.
"Finished," she snaps, shoving the empty tray away so hard it skids across the table and clatters to the deck. She stands, the charcoal silk of her new tunic shifting over her frame. The Reaper-tech fibers map her perfectly, highlighting the lean muscle of her shoulders and the rapid, shallow rise of her chest.
I gesture toward the door. "Move."
She stomps past me, her boots hitting the bio-mat with a series of sharp, timed thuds. The Reaper-tech footwear molds to her feet as perfectly as the suit she once wore, giving hera grounded, heavy stride that broadcasts her indignation. I fall in step behind her, my movement easily matching her hurried, angry pace. I loom over her like a shadow she cannot shake, all obsidian-stone alloy and ancient intent.
As we navigate the primary transport spine, I keep a close eye on her. Tactical awareness forms only part of it. Compulsion drives the rest. I memorize the micro-movements of her body—the way her head pivots, her eyes scanning every recessed light, every ventilation grate, and every seam in the hull. She is looking for a flaw. She is searching for the one loose plate or unguarded terminal that will lead her back to the vacuum of space. I notice her fingers twitching at her sides, ghosting over her thighs as if reaching for a tool belt that is no longer there.
"Don't bother." The shout carries down the hall, rolling over itself in a series of hollow, metallic ghosts that haunt the shadows long after I fall silent. "Virex Primehas already mapped your intent. The internal sensors are keyed to your biometric signature. You could spend a century wandering these halls, and you would never find an exit I did not authorize."
Nyra lets out a sharp, frustrated huff, her shoulders hunching. "I'm going to find one. Even if I have to kick a hole through the side of this glorified tin can. You can't keep me synchronized to your ship’s clock forever."
"You would die in the vacuum before you cleared the first layer of shielding," I counter.
"At least I'd be a free corpse!" Her yell cracks with a raw, biting edge that makes the light in my gauntlets flicker.
I find myself focusing on that sound—the way her vocal cords strain, the way her anger creates a heat that my sensors read as a beautiful, chaotic disruption. Every reaction she has, every stomp of her foot, and every glare she throws over her shoulder triggers a response in my own systems. My twin hearts beat in a synchronization that is unapproved. She affects me. It developsinto a realization that carries the weight of a planet, a variable that currently eludes my logic. I feel the phantom pull of her hand in mine, a residue of the heat from the holding cell that refuses to dissipate.
We reach the Sector Seven suites. These quarters sit in the shadow of one of my sanctums, a more secure wing where the walls are thicker and the stasis fields are absolute. I command the door to retract, revealing a space far more opulent than the holding wing. The sleeping dais is larger. The air holds a perfect temper. Along the far wall, a plexiglass-fronted storage locker sits recessed into the obsidian, and behind the thick glass, her sterilized suit hangs neatly beside the helmet, while K-Seven rests in a cradle below them, its lenses dark and its limbs folded tight against its chassis in enforced stasis.
Nyra stops at the threshold, her eyes widening as she sees her gear. She rushes toward the locker, her hands flying to the plexiglass over her helmet. She stops when she realizes the mag-lock is active.
"It's locked." The words emerge as a low, grinding rasp, sounding like stone dragging over stone in a dark, forgotten corner of the ship.
"It is secure," I clarify, stepping into the room to tower over her. "You have no need for salvage tools in a sanctuary. You will have access to your machine when I deem your temperament stable enough to handle it."
"My temperament?" She spins around to face me. "You kidnapped me! You branded me! And now you're telling me I need to settle down? I’m a scavenger, you oversized paperweight! I move! I fix things! I don't sit in pretty rooms waiting for a monster to check my pulse!"
"I am telling you that you are exhausted." My response leaves no room for argument. "Your heart rate is erratic, and your cognitive functions are beginning to lag. You are a defectiveengine running on fumes. You will rest, Nyra. The ship will monitor your cycles. I suggest you use this time to accept the reality of your situation."
The urge to spit at me is written across her face, yet she forces a long, shaky breath through her teeth, her fingers curling into tight fists at her sides. "I refuse to sleep. I'm going to stay awake and think of all the ways I can dismantle you. I’ll start with the joint seals in your knees."
"Then you will be a very tired revolutionary," I drawl, finding it amusing that she believes my whole body to be metal. "Though I suspect you will find the biological components of my anatomy far more difficult to unbolt than a joint seal."