Page 2 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
Extraction risk: Maximum.
I nod once. That’s how this works. Blood or conscience. You only get to save one.
I’m halfway back to the access shaft when the mercs find me.
"Hold!" a voice barks. Deep, modulated. Amplified helmet speaker. I duck behind a broken console as plasma fire sears the wall behind me.
Three of them. Exo-suits, no insignia. Black-glass visors. Probably ex-Coalition dogs sniffing out easy coin in the League’s cracks. One’s carrying a pulse blade longer than my arm. I don’t wait for introductions.
I roll right, swing my legs up, and vault over a support strut. They follow—predictable. Aggressive.
They always underestimate Vakutan speed.
The first one’s on me fast, too fast, blade humming through the smoke. I let it come close, then pivot inside his guard, slam my elbow into the soft seam of his shoulder joint. Armor cracks. He stumbles. I take his legs out and twist. Something gives.
The second merc fires. I feel heat skim my ribs. Close enough to burn.
I launch the dead man’s rifle like a spear. It clips her visor—shatters it. She screams.
The third’s smarter. He doesn’t close the gap. He retreats, taps something on his wrist. Probably calling backup. I don’t give him the chance. I hurl a flash charge into the air. The corridor erupts in white light.
I dive for the hatch. My lungs are on fire. My shoulder’s bleeding. Doesn’t matter. I move.
The countdown hits thirty seconds as I reach the maintenance shaft.
I slam the hatch behind me, locking the override bolt. Crawl space is tight. My scales catch on the metal. I scrape my elbow and leave blood behind.
Doesn’t matter. I’m not the one I’m saving.
The blast goes off mid-crawl. I feel it through the steel—a low, concussive pulse, not a scream. My ears ring. My vision dances.
But it’s clean. It’s surgical.
The ceiling doesn’t collapse. The shaft holds.
And in the silence that follows, I imagine Yarro’s voice. Still bitching about pay cuts. Still alive.
Outside, the station’s edge is frigid and sharp, night bleeding into the smog clouds. The industrial lights above buzz like dying insects. Sparks cascade from somewhere behind me—maintenance bots, maybe. Or damage I didn’t intend. My side throbs. Blood slicks my ribs under the armor. I smell burnt plastic and ozone. I should move. I don’t.
The compad on my wrist pulses with blue light. Command incoming. No time to clean up, no time to breathe.
I accept the transmission.
The world around me flickers and vanishes. A holo field wraps around my eyes, casting everything in cold white. A figure resolves in front of me—clean uniform, gray hair, smug precision. Commander Rellin, Intelligence Oversight. Last I heard, he got promoted for a failed siege that killed three thousand civilians. Efficiently, of course.
His face splits into something that might be called a smile.
"Agent Thorne. Report received. Operation complete?"
I stand at attention, posture iron. Old habit. Bad one.
"Yes, sir. Charges deployed. Primary and secondary relays destroyed. Structural cripple complete. Encountered unexpected civilian presence—rerouted detonation to minimize impact. Mercenary resistance engaged during exfil. Casualties: three hostile combatants neutralized."
He nods like he's checking off a box.
"We reviewed your live feed. Impressive deviation reflex. Your field adaptability remains… admirable."
There’s something slippery in his tone. Praise with a leash. The way handlers talk about good dogs that bite too hard.
