A/N:
(For those who have read the chapter yesterday posted)
So I had felt the previous chapter(now resquenced so its the next one) to be lacking quite bit. So I had rewritten the chapter and posted again. There is a lot of things that happening here that didn't there. The overall outcome is same, but Vasha is more badass here than there.
So read the chapter and tell me your thoughts!
Based on feedback, I would delete the previous chapter by tomorrow.
___
(For everyone)
Next chapter comes up tommorrow at 00:00 UTC hopefully.
This is 2 chapter content combined in one btw, so its longer than previous one (length wise 2.5x I think)
Also sad news, Patreon denied my appeal. So for next 2 months, I am out of that site.Subscribestar is where I am setting things up in meantime, but their account review & verification process might take who knows how long.
To every patron, I am extremely sorry for not being able to deliver content for the funds you gave me. According to patreon's policy, they should be refunded to you in 28 days, so I would suggest you to raise hell with them if they dont.
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The warehouse door groaned open, slicing a sharp rectangle of daylight into the cavernous dark. Dust motes, ancient and undisturbed, danced in the sudden beam. Vasha Syndri hesitated on the threshold, the humid Luminara air at her back and a wall of cool, stale air in front of her.
"Here we are," Tevan said, his voice a little too bright. He gestured expansively into the gloom. "Home of the future of automated freight loading. Sorry about the lighting, the motion sensors are on the fritz again. Management's been promising a tech for weeks."
Vasha stepped inside, her boots scuffing on the smooth permacrete floor. Her eyes, adjusting slowly, took in the scale of the place. It was vast, silent, and overwhelmingly empty. A few stacks of sealed, anonymous crates were pushed against the far wall, but they looked more like forgotten stage props than active inventory.
"Your 'entire fleet' must be packed in tight," she observed, her voice flat. She'd come here against her better judgment, worn down by Tevan's persistent comms about needing an in-person quote for his superiors. Now, standing in the silence, her professional annoyance was curdling into a familiar, low-grade suspicion.
"Top-of-the-line models. Very compact," Tevan chirped, walking past her. "The manual light switch is just over here. You'll see, it's quite the operation."
She followed, but her steps were slower now. Her gaze swept the floor. No oil stains. No tire tracks from loaders. No scuff marks from droid chassis being moved around. The place wasn't just tidy; it felt sterile, unused. She ran a hand along the wall as she walked, her fingertips coming away clean.
Tevan kept talking, filling the dead air with chatter about shipping manifests and power requirements, but Vasha had stopped listening. She was counting the support pillars, noting the lack of fire-suppression nozzles, mapping the distance back to the door—the bright, beautiful rectangle of escape.
She was about five meters in when the sound came. A heavy, definitive thump-hiss from behind her.
The rectangle of daylight vanished, plunging the warehouse into near-total blackness.
Vasha froze, every muscle in her body going rigid. She didn't turn. She didn't have to.
A cold, perfect circle of metal pressed against the base of her skull.
"I wouldn't," Tevan said. His voice was different now. The cheerful salesman was gone, replaced by something flat and empty. "Not if you want to keep that pretty head in one piece."
From the far end of the warehouse, a new voice cut through the darkness. It was calm, cultured, and carried an unmistakable chill of authority.
"Lights."
A bank of overhead fluorescents buzzed to life, flooding the space in a harsh, sterile white. The illusion of a functioning warehouse evaporated completely. It was just a big, empty box.
And they were not alone.
Standing by the now-sealed main door were two soldiers in the olive-green jumpsuits of the Planetary Garrison. One more stood near the opposite wall. They held their rifles loosely, professionally.
In front of her, about ten meters away, stood an Imperial officer. His gray uniform was immaculate, his posture relaxed. He watched her not with malice, but with the detached interest of a biologist studying a new specimen.
Vasha didn't look at him. Her eyes were locked on the reflection in a grimy puddle on the floor, watching Tevan's shape behind her, the blaster held steady. She slowly raised her hands to shoulder height.
"Vasha Syndri," the officer said. It wasn't a question. "A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
Her gaze flicked from the reflection to the officer. She kept her breathing even, pushing down the spike of adrenaline. "You've got a funny way of asking for a quote," she said, her voice tight. "This isn't standard procedure for the Planetary Garrison, is it? Or did I miss a memo?"
He turned back to Vasha, clasping his hands behind his back as if resuming a pleasant business meeting. The casual gesture seemed to dismiss the fact a man was still holding a blaster five feet from her.
"Anyway, Ms. Syndri. Let's speak plainly."
"By all means," Vasha said, her arms held loosely away from her sides. "This has all been a model of transparency so far."
A thin, dismissive smile touched the officer's lips. "Your name has come up. Word travels in the capital. There are interesting rumors about a certain Twi'lek mechanic on the middle rings, one with a knack for breathing life into machines that are, for all official purposes, scrap."
He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his polished boots making sharp, solitary clicks on the permacrete floor. "Frankly, most of us dismissed it as clever advertising. But my superiors are interested in potential. They've authorized me to extend an opportunity."
"I'm a freelance mechanic," Vasha countered, her gaze unwavering. "I'm not looking for a new employer."
"This isn't a job, Ms. Syndri. It's an enlistment into something far greater." His voice took on a practiced, reverent tone, the kind reserved for recruitment holos. "The Empire is embarking on a project of vital importance. A technological undertaking so advanced that it will make the work you do now seem like tinkering with children's toys." He spread his hands, a gesture of magnanimous offering.
"We are gathering the most promising technicians and engineers from across the Outer Rim. And we believe you have the potential to be one of them."
He painted a pretty picture, she had to admit. A picture of purpose, of being part of something grand. He didn't mention specifics, because there weren't any for her to know. It was a standardized pitch designed to stroke the ego.
"Imagine," he went on, "never having to worry about paying rent again. Or where your next meal comes from, or your personal security. The Empire provides for its own. Your housing, your food, your every need is met. All we ask in return is your loyalty and your talent."
It was the oldest trap in the galaxy: the golden cage. Security in exchange for freedom. Comfort in exchange for a collar. She saw the bars behind his pretty words.
"Thanks for the offer," she said, her voice flat and final. "But I like haggling. I'll pass."
The officer's smile did not falter, but a coldness crept into his eyes. The easy part was over. "I see. A principled stance. Admirable, in its own way." He began to pace slowly, a lazy circle that put him between her and the sealed door. A casual move that completely cut off her only escape route. "But principles can have unforeseen consequences. Especially for off-worlders."
He stopped, tilting his head. "You're from Ryloth, aren't you? Your file says so. It must be difficult, hearing the news from your homeworld these days. All that unpleasantness. The resistance cells, the Imperial response. Things can get messy. Reputations get smeared by association."
Vasha's jaw tightened infinitesimally. "I haven't lived there in a decade. Whatever is happening on Ryloth has nothing to do with me."
"Doesn't it?" the officer murmured, his tone laced with faux sympathy. "But you still have family there, I believe. In the Vess clan, a rather prominent lineage. It would be a shame if your reluctance to serve the Empire here, on a peaceful world like Lothal, were to be misinterpreted back home. A Twi'lek with your skills, turning down such a generous opportunity. An Intelligence Officer might see a pattern. They might wonder what influences shaped such defiance. They might decide to pay the Vess clan a friendly visit. Just to ensure their loyalties are properly aligned."
The threat was no longer abstract. It was a poison dart aimed thousands of light-years away, at people she hadn't seen in years but who were still connected to her by blood.
She could picture it: troopers kicking down doors in her old village, the worried faces of aunts and cousins she barely remembered, all because of her. It was the Empire's favorite tactic: making your choices someone else's problem.
She met his gaze, her own eyes like chips of flint. "Are you threatening my family?"
"Threatening? Goodness, no," he said, the picture of offended innocence. "I'm merely outlining political realities. Actions have echoes, Ms. Syndri. Your refusal is an action. It will echo." He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the implication sink deep into her bones. He clearly expected her to break, to negotiate.
Instead, a slow, contemptuous smile spread across her face. It was not a happy expression. "You know, I've met a lot of Imperial bootlickers in my time. They come in all shapes and sizes. But they all have one thing in common."
The officer's polite mask tightened. "And what is that?"
"You all think a shiny uniform and a platoon of thugs makes you clever," Vasha said, her voice dropping to a low, scathing tone. "You pull up a file, you find a pressure point, and you think you've won. But all you are is a petty little tyrant with balls bigger than your brain, pushing buttons you don't understand until one of them blows up in your face."
The officer's face went pale, then flushed a dark, blotchy red.
The pretense of a professional negotiation evaporated in a flash of pure, vindictive anger. The calm, calculating man was gone, replaced by a snarling, insulted bully.
"You arrogant little…" he hissed, taking a step forward. Tevan, seeing the shift, raised his hand again. The officer waved a hand dismissively, not even looking at him. "No. No, she wants to be difficult."
His eyes, now burning with a petty, malicious light, raked over her. "I see. Distant concerns don't move you. Family half a galaxy away—that's too abstract. You need something more immediate huh?"
She just looked at him with contempt and disgust.
He snapped his fingers. "Your file. There was another entry. A local asset." His lips peeled back in a truly vicious grin. "The boy. The stray you keep. Ezra, is it? No clan, no parents. Just a piece of undocumented flotsam you picked up."
The air in the warehouse seemed to drop twenty degrees. Vasha's smile vanished, replaced by a stillness so absolute it was terrifying. Every line of her body screamed danger.
"Don't," she said, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the vast room with the sharp edge of broken glass. "You don't want to finish that thought."
Her reaction was everything he'd hoped for. He had found the real lever. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, poisonously sweet tone. "I didn't say we would do anything to him. The Empire has procedures for undocumented minors. Imperial Youth Centers are clean, orderly. He would be re-educated, given a productive role. He might even thank you for it one day."
He paused, watching the fury build in her eyes, savoring it like a fine wine. "But accidents happen. Lothal has so many dark corners, doesn't it? An unregistered boy… nobody would look too closely if he went missing from your workshop one night. There are always rumors of slavers passing through. The kind who pay a premium for exotic children. They have particular appetites, you know. A boy that age, all alone. He wouldn't last long. They break them so thoroughly, so quickly."
The troopers shifted uncomfortably. Even for them, this was crossing a line. Tevan looked disgusted but didn't say anything. The officer was lost in his own sadistic monologue, fueled by her silent, coiled rage.
"Or perhaps he just runs into the wrong spice-head in a dark alley," the officer said, voice drifting into a slow, dreamy cadence. "Imagine the things they'd do to him before they got bored. Imagine you finding what's left. Maybe not even a whole body. Maybe just a piece. A hand. A foot. A lekku, if he were one of yours."
He smiled wide, savoring the picture. "The report would be filed. Another tragic little orphan lost to the streets. Another number on a datapad. Unless…" His eyes narrowed on her. "Unless you reconsider."
Vasha didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the floor, her hands still raised, her breathing even but tight.
"Unless..."
That was when his gaze shifted. Down her face. Across her chest. Slowly along the curves hidden beneath her work coveralls. The smile changed, becoming something uglier, more personal.
"You know," he murmured, his tone softening into something intimate, "you're wasted fixing junkers. Quite beautiful. For a Twi'lek." His eyes lingered on her mouth. "On second thought, if you'd just agreed earlier, maybe the boy would've had guarantees. But now? My generosity's… limited. You insult me, and I don't forget that."
He took a step closer, boots clicking sharp on the floor, his eyes crawling over her lekku. "Still… I can see the appeal. Those lekku of yours, the way they twitch when you're angry. Exotic. It's no wonder your clients keep coming back. I wonder how many of them left with more than just a repaired engine."
Vasha's jaw tightened. She kept her chin dipped, refusing to look at him, though every muscle in her body was taut with revulsion.
The officer chuckled low in his throat. "Don't act surprised. You know the reputation of your kind. I've been to Ryloth. I've seen the pleasure dens. Rows of girls like you, on their knees or bent over tables, servicing pirates, smugglers, whoever had a handful of credits. Don't tell me you never learned the trade. Don't tell me you didn't suck and fuck your way into safety while your little resistance friends got shot in the street."
Her breath caught in an never-decreasing disgust. He caught it, and understood it as per his own interpretation. His grin widened.
"That's how you got here, isn't it? A clever little mechanic, but smart enough to use every tool available. You tinker with their ship, then climb into their lap. A long night on your knees, and suddenly you've got loyal customers. Repeat business. Big payouts. Isn't that your real skill?" He leaned closer, eyes glinting. "Not the machines. The way you wrap your lips around a cock to close a deal."
Tevan shifted, looking away now, whisteling some tune to himself as if the circus didn't concern him. The troopers were stiff, uncomfortable, but silent. But the officer ignored them all.
He began to circle her, slow and predatory, words dragging like slime across the floor. "I've seen Twi'lek whores in the city. Painted faces, fake smiles. They'd line up for a chance to entertain an officer. But you…" He whistled low. "You beat them ten out of ten times. A real prize. And don't pretend you're better. You were born to it. That's what your kind are for. Spread legs, wagging tails, sweet little noises while the men get what they want."
His voice dropped, almost a whisper now, his mouth close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. "I could protect your boy. Ezra. Keep him off the streets. Make sure no slaver ever lays a hand on him. But why should I? My goodwill's been trampled tonight. My sentiments are hurt." He let the words drag. "Unless you… convince me. Convince me the way Twi'leks always have. Show me what makes you different. Or maybe what makes you the same. Filthy girl like you, it shouldn't be hard."
The silence that followed was thick and choking.
Vasha's eyes stayed down. Her lekku coiled tight, trembling with barely contained fury and disgust. For a moment, she looked broken, beaten, like the words had crushed her into submission. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Her face was tight, pale, her breath shallow.
And then—just for a heartbeat—the corner of her mouth twitched upward. A tiny, hidden smirk. Gone as fast as it came.
When she finally lifted her gaze, her expression was different: hesitant, troubled, as though she were actually weighing the words. The contempt was buried under a mask of defeat.
Her voice was soft, cracked in just the right way
Her voice was soft, cracked in just the right way. "You really think… that's all it would take? To keep Ezra safe?"
The officer's eyes lit up, pupils dilating. He leaned closer, whispering fast, eager, his words tumbling over one another. "Yes. Yes, that's it. That's all it would take. I'd keep him safe, I'd keep him clean. Nobody would lay a finger on him. He'd never see the inside of a cell. He'd be untouchable. You have my word."
Vasha glanced sideways, hesitating just enough for him to sense her discomfort. Her voice trembled, softer still. "And the others? They're all watching."
That made him twitch. He darted a quick glance over his shoulder, then back to her, licking his lips. His whisper grew sharper, urgent. "Ignore them. They don't matter. They don't see what I see. They don't understand. You don't need to care about them. Just look at me."
She let her eyes fall to the ground again, saying nothing.
He leaned closer, the whisper turning frantic. "You're only shy because they're here, right? That's it, isn't it? You don't want to… perform with an audience. I get it. I get it. You want privacy. I can give you that. I can make them leave. I'll make them leave."
His face flushed, breath uneven now, the officer fighting to maintain composure but utterly clouded by his own lust. He straightened abruptly, coughing to cover the slip, and turned to the room at large.
"She's stubborn," he announced, his voice louder, almost jovial. "But I have… ways. Special methods of persuasion. You wouldn't know them. They're subtle. Effective. But they require… privacy."
The troopers exchanged glances, stiff and uneasy. None moved.
His jaw tightened. "That was an order. Out. Now."
Still they hesitated, armor shifting uncomfortably.
"Do you need me to repeat myself?" His voice cracked like a whip. "You're garrison fodder, not ISB. You follow orders when they're given. Get out."
Reluctantly, with heavy boots and lingering looks, the troopers filed toward the exit, leaving only Tevan behind.
The younger officer folded his arms, eyes narrowing. His tone was cold, professional. "You'd better not damage her. Command will have our heads if she comes back broken. She's flagged for interrogation, not disposal."
The senior officer snapped his head around, face red, his veneer shattering. "How dare you? You—some mid-tier ISB paper-pusher—think you can lecture me? You know nothing. Nothing about fieldwork. About real persuasion. You hide behind your rank and your memos, but you've never gotten your hands dirty. You think you're better than us because of your little badge? You're not. You're nothing."
His voice rose, spittle flying. "I've broken more dissidents than you've ever read about in your tidy little reports. Don't you dare question me again."
Tevan's face was unreadable, but his posture stiffened. The contempt in his eyes didn't waver. The older officer saw it, hated it, but pressed on.
"Get. Out." His finger jabbed toward the door. "Close it behind you."
For a moment, it seemed Tevan might argue further. Then, with a sharp breath through his nose, he turned on his heel. The contemptuous glance he cast over his shoulder lingered, icy and sharp, before he stepped out. The door shut with a final, echoing click.
And the officer was left alone with Vasha.
The heavy door clicked shut, sealing them in. The silence that followed was thick and heavy.
The officer turned back to Vasha, his composure completely gone, replaced by a hungry, entitled leer. He fumbled with the clasp of his uniform trousers, his breathing already ragged. "Now," he panted, taking a step closer. "Where were we?"
Vasha hadn't moved. Her head was still bowed, her hands held away from her body. Her voice, when it came, was so quiet it was almost swallowed by the vast room.
"You shouldn't have brought Ezra into it."
He stopped, his fingers pausing on the clasp. A slow, ugly smile spread across his face. "What was that? Did you say something?" He took another step, closing the distance. He was so close now she could smell the stale caf on his breath. "Speak up. I want to hear you beg properly."
Vasha's head snapped up. Her eyes weren't defeated anymore. They were hard and cold.
"Yeah," she said, her voice dropping its act, becoming flat and deadly. "I said you shouldn't have fucking brought Ezra into this, you piece of shit."
Her right hand, which had been held loosely behind her back, moved in a blur. It wasn't empty. Clutched in her fist was her custom multi-tool, the one she always carried. Two sharp, tungsten prongs were extended, gleaming under the harsh lights.
She didn't stab him. She jabbed it forward, a short, brutal punch, driving the prongs right into the soft spot below his ribcage.
He grunted, more from surprise than pain, his eyes wide with confusion. He looked down at the tool handle sticking out of his gut, then back up at her, his brain struggling to process the sudden, violent intrusion.
"Balls bigger than your brain," Vasha hissed. "Remember?"
His mouth opened to scream, to call the troopers back, but all that came out was a wet gasp. Vasha's thumb found the button on the tool's handle and pressed it.
There was a loud, sharp CRACK-ZZT and the smell of ozone and burnt meat. The officer's body went rigid, every muscle locking up at once. His eyes bulged, fixed on hers in terrified, shocked understanding. A full-system overload, delivered directly to his central nervous system. The kind of charge you'd use to jump-start a dead landspeeder engine.
He dropped like a sack of rocks, hitting the permacrete floor with a dull, heavy thud. He didn't move again.
A sharp, acrid smell hit her nostrils—burnt cloth and something worse. "Oh, kriff," Vasha whispered. "Is he fucking dead?"
She dropped to her knees beside him, the reality of the situation crashing down. She pressed two fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. She held her hand under his nose, waiting for the faintest whisper of breath. Still nothing.
She rocked back on her heels, staring at the body. "Oh, shit," she mumbled, a low, disbelieving stream of words. "Too much kriffing charge. What the fuck, Ezra... you just killed a guy, ya know..." The absurdity of blaming her absent apprentice was the only thing that made sense in that moment.
A voice from outside the main door cut through her panic. "Sir? Is everything fine in there?"
The sound of a trooper's modulated voice snapped her back. Well, there goes my fucking hostage plan straight down the drain.
She was on her feet in an instant. The nearest cover was a stack of crates against the far wall. It wasn't close, but it was all she had. As she sprinted across the open floor, her eyes caught the manual light switch on the wall. She slapped a hand against it on her way past, plunging the entire warehouse into utter darkness just as she dove behind the crates.
The heavy door slid open with a groan, slicing a beam of dull exterior light into the blackness.
"Sir?" a trooper called again, his voice tighter now. "The lights—"
Another voice, higher with alarm. "Something's wrong."
They weren't rushing in. They were hesitant, clustered at the threshold, their white armor making them perfect silhouettes against the open door. Vasha held her breath behind the crates, pressed into the shadow. *Come on, you bucketheads. Just take a few steps in.*
"Scan the area!" one ordered, but the reluctance was clear. They fanned out slowly, their bootsteps cautious on the permacrete. One of them flicked on a rifle-mounted light, the beam cutting a wobbly path through the dark. It swept away from her, toward the center of the room.
"Sir? Commander Jaden?" The beam landed on a dark shape on the floor. The light trembled. "Kriff. Is that—?"
That was all the distraction she needed. Staying low, Vasha moved, using the noise of their own frantic calls as cover. She kept to the deep shadows near the wall, a silent ghost in the oppressive dark. The open door was a glowing rectangle of freedom, now clear of troopers. They were all inside, their attention fixed on the body of their commander.
*Almost there.* Her heart was a hammer in her chest. Five meters. Three.
She burst from the darkness into the slice of light at the doorway, her legs driving her toward the open air of the alley.
She never made it.
A searing, blinding pain exploded in her chest. The impact was like being hit by a speeder truck, knocking the air from her lungs and stopping her forward momentum dead. She heard the sizzle a second later, smelled the ozone and the scorched synth-leather of her vest.
Vasha stumbled, her body going rigid before her knees buckled. She didn't even feel herself hit the ground. The world tilted, the grimy permacrete rushing up to meet her face. Her vision flickered, the edges going dark, as a wave of numb, paralyzing cold washed over her limbs.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was Tevan, standing calmly just outside the door, the barrel of his hold-out blaster still smoking. He hadn't even raised his voice.
He let out a long, weary sigh, like a professor disappointed by his worst students. "I knew he was going to kriff this up," he muttered to himself.
The troopers had spun at the noise, their rifles jerking toward the doorway. They saw Vasha's motionless form on the ground.
"Is she… is she dead? You killed her!" one of them stammered, his voice cracking with panic.
"We're done for," another whispered, his helmet swiveling frantically between Vasha's still form and the officer's cooling corpse. "Command will have our heads for this."
Tevan holstered his blaster and walked calmly over to them, his boots scuffing on the dusty floor. "Dead?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "It was a stun shot, you idiots. A blaster bolt would've left a smoking hole in her chest. Did they teach you anything at the academy, or did you just trace the pictures?"
Just then, the trooper with the rifle light finally let his beam settle on the center of the room. The light illuminated the officer's glassy, staring eyes and the dark, wet stain spreading across his uniform.
"Commander Jaden!" the trooper cried out, his voice shooting up an octave in pure alarm. "He's... he's dead!"
A fresh wave of panic visibly went through the group. Tevan didn't even flinch. He just pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Yes. I can see that. Which is why we now have one very valuable, live prisoner to show for this colossal mess," he said, his tone shifting from contempt to cold efficiency. "So stop gawking like a bunch of rookies on their first patrol. You, cuff her. You two, secure the perimeter. And someone get a med-scanner on her to confirm she's just sleeping. We need to move, now."
"And the… the Commander?" the other asked, nudging the body with his boot as if expecting it to get up.
Tevan didn't even look back. "Dump him. Refinery overflow, lower market gutters, I don't care. Make it look messy. Command is too busy to investigate one incompetent officer getting himself killed during a recruitment pitch."
The troopers exchanged an uncertain look. Tevan turned on them slowly, his expression one of profound boredom.
"Let me rephrase. Do you want to be the ones to write the report explaining how a civilian mechanic with a souped-up multi-tool killed our commanding officer while four armed soldiers stood here and watched?"
"…No, sir."
"Exactly. Erase the local cam logs. File a report about insurgent ambush. Add a casualty. Say they took his body. You know the drill. Now kriffing get to it."
The troopers scrambled into motion, suddenly efficient. One started yanking cables from a nearby security panel while the other began the grim task of dragging the officer's body toward a service exit.
Tevan walked back over to the corpse, staring down at the officer's wide-eyed, surprised expression. A quiet, dry chuckle escaped him.
"Honestly," he muttered, shaking his head. "Should've happened years ago."
He turned and walked toward the main door, pulling out a commlink. His voice drifted back, laced with cynical satisfaction. "…died with his kriffing quota still incomplete. Here's hoping the next one they send isn't such a preening shit-head…"
SNAP
I gasped, yanking my hands back from the cold permacrete like it had burned me. My whole body was shaking.
A sound tore out of my throat, something between a sob and a choked laugh. I slumped forward, my forehead thunking against the grimy floor.
She was alive.
That was the only thing that mattered. The only thought my brain could latch onto. They'd taken her. That slimy ISB bastard had stunned her and they were taking her somewhere. That was bad. That was a whole new level of kriffed.
But she was alive.
A wet, ragged laugh escaped me, mixing with the tears I couldn't stop. I was a mess, kneeling in an empty warehouse, crying and laughing like a complete lunatic.
"You crazy, brilliant, stupid, amazing woman," I mumbled into the floor, my voice cracking. "Of course you killed him. Of course you did. You absolute badass." The image of her jabbing that multi-tool into that smug, entitled bastard was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I was so proud of her I could burst.
The pride instantly curdled into a white-hot rage so pure it stole my breath. "That fucking piece of shit," I snarled, my fist slamming weakly against the floor.
He fucking dared to touch her. To fucking look at her like that!? Fucker should have suffered more. He got off easy. So fucking easy.
I hoped wherever he was, it hurt. A lot.
Don't let me find out that afterlife existed, or there would be fucking hell to pay for him...
Then the fear came rushing back, cold and practical. "And you, Vasha," I whispered, the words thick with a desperate, joyful anger. "What were you thinking, going alone? I told you not to trust them! I fucking told you!" It was a useless, helpless complaint. She'd have done it anyway. She always did.
But none of it stuck. The anger, the fear, the pride—it all just washed away under this huge, stupid wave of relief. It was all just noise.
The sobs won out, great, heaving things that made my whole body ache. I cried for the terror of thinking she was dead. I cried because she'd fought back like a legend. I cried because that bastard was dead and I was glad. But mostly, I just cried because she was breathing.
Nothing else mattered. Not the Empire, not the danger, not whatever came next. For one stupid, broken-down minute, all that existed was the fact that Vasha was alive.
And I just let myself fall apart because of it.
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