13. Bruticus

CHAPTER 13

brUTICUS

R otting hands reach for my throat. The stench of decay fills my nostrils as my ancestors surround me, their flesh hanging in strips from yellowed bone.

"Weak," Great Uncle Lari spits, his jaw dangling by a single tendon. "I died with my enemy's heart in my hand. What have you done?"

"I will kill him." The words echo in the void. "Daniels will pay."

"Empty promises." Uncle Lari's remaining eye glows red. "You waste time with a human female while your mother's murder goes unavenged."

The other ancestors press closer, their bone spurs clicking against each other. Blood drips from their ancient wounds, pooling at my feet.

"No excuses." Another ancestor opens his ribcage, showing the sword that killed him. "We all died for vengeance."

The crowd parts. My breath catches.

Mother stands before me, her chest cavity torn open from the explosion that killed her. Her eye sockets are empty black pits that bore into my soul. She reaches toward me with blackened fingers.

I jolt awake, choking back a scream. Sweat coats my skin as I gasp for air.

Beside me, Maryse sleeps peacefully, her red hair spread across the pillow. Her gentle breathing fills the darkness.

Sleep eludes me. The phantom stench of decay lingers in my nostrils as I stare at the ceiling. Maryse's warmth beside me should bring comfort, but my ancestors' accusations echo in my mind.

"Ancient ones, hear me," I whisper in the darkness, careful not to wake her. "I have not forgotten my oath."

The bone spurs along my arms ache with the weight of generations of vengeance seekers. My people do not forgive. We do not forget.

But Maryse shifts in her sleep, her hand finding mine. Her touch sends electricity through my body, awakening possibilities I never dared imagine.

"Give me time," I continue my prayer. "Let me have both - justice for my mother and a future with this woman."

The words feel strange on my tongue. A future. Such a foreign concept. My kind live fast, die young, our bodies returned to the void after extracting payment in blood.

Yet I picture Maryse in a garden, tending her beloved plants. Our children - both human and reaper - playing among the greenery. Peace. Purpose beyond the next kill.

"I will have Daniels's head," I promise the darkness. "But I want to live afterward. To build something lasting."

My mother would have understood. She chose life among the humans, chose love over tradition. Until Daniels took that choice from her.

I trace the curve of Maryse's shoulder with my fingertip. So soft. So precious. Worth surviving for.

The ancestors may call me weak. But there is strength in wanting more than death and vengeance. In daring to reach for joy.

Sunlight streams through the window, painting Maryse's skin golden as she stands before the mirror. Her fingers trace the collar at her throat.

"Bruticus? Can you take this off? I need to get ready for class."

"The collar stays." A smile tugs at my lips. "Forever."

Her eyes widen. "What do you mean forever?"

"It marks you as mine. Among my people, that's not temporary."

She stares at me, mouth agape. The horror in her expression proves too much and I burst out laughing.

"Here." I reach over and tap the small control panel on the side. "Watch."

The collar shimmers, then vanishes from sight. Maryse's fingers fly to her throat, finding the invisible band still there.

"Holographic camouflage. You can toggle it on and off whenever you want."

"Good." She smooths down the front of her blouse. "Because it clashes with most of the clothes in my closet."

I pull Maryse close, drinking in her sweetness one last time before she heads to class. Her lips taste of mint toothpaste and promises I shouldn't make.

My compad chirps. A message from Vorpa flashes across the screen:

"Found leverage on Daniels. Meet at Rusty Bolt ASAP."

Perfect timing. The ancestors' accusations still echo in my skull.

"Got to run, little human." I tap Maryse's nose. "Business calls."

"Stay safe." She grabs her bag, heading for the door.

The weight of tradition settles on my shoulders as I watch her leave. If I'd already avenged Mother, I'd have earned the right to forge my own weapon - something worthy of my bloodline. The bone-steel would sing with purpose, an extension of my very soul.

Instead, I'm stuck with whatever mass-produced garbage the local AmmUNation stocks. Their weapons lack spirit, manufactured without proper ceremony or blood offerings.

The nearest outlet sits three levels down, wedged between a noodle shop and a discount cybernetics store. Their window display features garish neon signs advertising "Special Deals for Mercenaries!"

My ancestors would weep. But vengeance won't wait for proper armament. Daniels has evaded justice long enough.

I send Vorpa a quick reply:

"On my way. Just need to pick up some tools first."

The AmmUNation clerk's eyes widen as I approach the counter. His Adam's apple bobs.

"The McPistol." I tap the display case.

"Excellent choice sir." He fumbles with his keys. "Our most popular model."

The weapon he places before me sports garish red and yellow stripes. A demented clown leers from the grip, accompanied by text that reads 'When you've had enough of their fucking McShit.'

My ancestors roll in their graves.

"I'll take it."

The clerk's hands shake as he processes my payment. The McPistol disappears into the depths of my pocket, its gaudy colors hidden from judging eyes.

The Rusty Bolt's neon sign flickers as I approach. Inside, the usual mix of spacers and mercs crowd the bar. No sign of Vorpa's distinctive red scales.

I claim a stool, order synthetic blood. The minutes tick by.

My compad vibrates. A message from Vorpa:

helpupstairs

The text appears garbled, hastily typed. Something's wrong.

I slide off the barstool, weaving through the crowd toward the back. The synthetic blood leaves a metallic taste on my tongue. A narrow hallway leads past the kitchen, dimly lit by flickering plasma tubes.

The staircase rises into darkness. A Hruuthi blocks the way, his potbelly straining against a security uniform three sizes too small.

"Hey buddy." I stumble against the wall, letting my words slur. "Where's the head?"

The guard's multiple eyes blink in sequence. "Restroom's back that way." He points with one tentacle.

"No, no. Up there." I wave vaguely at the stairs. "Friend said there's one upstairs."

"Private area." The guard moves to block my path. "Staff only."

"Aw come on." I sway closer, fighting the urge to gag at his rancid body odor. "Gonna make a mess right here if you don't?—"

My fist connects with the sweet spot under his third chin. The Hruuthi's eyes roll back as he crumples. I catch his bulk before he hits the floor, easing him down silently.

The stairs creak under my weight. Each step brings Vorpa's muffled cries closer. My ancestors stir, sensing violence ahead.

The McPistol's grip warms in my palm as I take the steps two at a time. Vorpa's screams grow louder, punctuated by the meaty sound of fists on scales.

The door at the top of the stairs stands locked. Ancient wood, reinforced with steel bands. My boot connects with a satisfying crunch. The door explodes inward, splinters flying.

I burst through, McPistol raised. The garish weapon feels wrong in my hand, but it will serve.

The attic reeks of blood and fear. Vorpa hangs from a ceiling beam, chains biting into her wrists. Silver tape covers her mouth, but her golden eyes blaze with fury.

Four humans crowd the room, all sporting fresh injuries. One cradles a mangled hand against his chest, knuckles purple and swollen. Red scales cling to his broken fingers.

"Nobody move." The McPistol's sights settle on the nearest thug.

Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead where Vorpa clearly headbutted him. Another sports a black eye and walks with a limp. The third's nose points sideways, dried blood caking his chin.

My ancestors would laugh. Vorpa gave better than she got before they managed to chain her.

The one with the broken hand edges toward a rusty pipe lying in the corner. His good hand twitches.

I click off the safety. The sound echoes in the cramped space.

"That includes you, friend. Unless you want to lose the other hand too?"

The nearest thug squints at my weapon, his bruised face scrunching up.

"Wait a minute. Is that... is that a McPistol?"

Heat crawls up my neck. The thug with the broken hand leans forward.

"It IS a fucking McPistol!"

Laughter erupts from all corners of the room. Even Vorpa's shoulders shake, muffled snorts escaping around her gag. The clown on the grip leers at me, mocking my choice.

My ancestors' disapproval burns in my chest. The bone spurs along my arms bristle.

"Shut up!" The word tears from my throat. "I said nobody move!" I jab the gaudy weapon at the first smart-mouth. "You, Mr. Comedian, cut her down."

He smirks, shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter. "Do you want me to cut her down, or to not move? Because I can't do both?—"

The McPistol bucks in my hand. The crack of the shot drowns out his final word. He drops, clutching his groin as a high-pitched keen fills the room.

"I had enough of his fucking McShit," I tell the others, the weapon's stupid slogan suddenly feeling appropriate.

The remaining thugs freeze, their amusement evaporating like morning dew. Blood spreads across the floor beneath their writhing companion.

"You." I point the McPistol at the thug with the black eye. "Get her down. Now."

He scrambles to comply, fumbling with the chains. The moment Vorpa's feet touch the ground, she spins. Her tail whips around, catching her rescuer in the temple. He drops like a sack of rocks.

The remaining thugs don't even have time to blink. Vorpa moves like liquid mercury, her scaled fists connecting with brutal precision. Bodies hit the floor in rapid succession.

"Efficient." I lower the McPistol.

Vorpa rips the tape from her mouth. "I should kill them all."

"But?"

"But dead men tell no tales." She kicks the nearest unconscious form. "Wake that one up. He seemed chatty before."

I grab a fistful of the smart-mouth's shirt, hauling him upright. Cold water from a nearby pitcher brings him around.

"Who hired you?"

His eyes dart between me and Vorpa. "I ain't saying shit."

I grasp his pinky finger. "Wrong answer."

The snap echoes through the attic. His scream follows a heartbeat later.

"Daniels!" He clutches his mangled hand. "Commander Daniels hired us. Said some nosy detective was getting too close."

Vorpa's golden eyes narrow. "How long has he known about me?"

"Weeks. He's got eyes everywhere. Said to make an example—" His words dissolve into whimpers as I reach for another finger.

"That's enough." Vorpa's scales ripple with barely contained rage. "He's known I was investigating him this whole time."

The thug slumps in my grip, passed out again from the pain. I let him drop.

"Now what?"

"Now we move faster." Vorpa checks her weapons. "Before Daniels decides to make an example of someone else."

"Daniels doesn't know about me." The McPistol's weight feels lighter now that I've drawn blood. "He won't see me coming."

Vorpa's tail twitches. "These thugs have seen your face."

"True." I level the garish weapon at the unconscious man at my feet. "But they won't be telling anyone."

The first shot echoes through the attic. Clean. Efficient. The smart-mouth's body goes slack, blood pooling beneath his head.

My ancestors stir, their approval thrumming through my bone spurs. This is what we are. What we do.

The second thug tries to crawl away. The McPistol barks twice more. His movement stops.

Number three doesn't even have time to scream before joining his companions. The last one, the one with the broken nose, manages to reach the door.

"Please—"

The word dies with him.

Vorpa's scales have paled to a dusty pink. Her golden eyes are wide, but she doesn't interfere. She understands necessity.

"The ancestors demand blood." I holster the smoking weapon. "And I have promises to keep."

Maryse's face floats in my mind - her smile, her trust, her love. To deserve that future, I must first honor my past. No witnesses. No loose ends.

The bone spurs along my arms pulse with ancestral approval. Soon, Mother. Soon you'll have justice, and I'll be free to build something new.

"We should go." Vorpa's voice sounds strained. "Before someone investigates the gunshots."

I nod, stepping over the cooling bodies. My ancestors whisper their satisfaction as we descend the stairs. Four more lives claimed in service to vengeance.

Four steps closer to Daniels. Four steps closer to my future with Maryse.