The House of the Reapr welcomes a new Novice to its ranks. Their contributions and dedication to our cause will be honored through the Stars.
As your Fleet Admiral, I, Crimson_Reapr, welcome you, honor your commitment, and thank you for your service. May our power reach beyond the edges of charted space, and may ruin fall upon all who stand against humanity's strength.
---
POV: Mark Shephard
The crawlspace beneath the primary reactor housing of the Vengeance had once been a claustrophobic nightmare of jagged, twisted metal and exposed, sparking wiring. But we had done out with the old and brought in the new, though the smell of burnt copper, ozone, and the stale scent of the crew that had been scraped out of the ship, faintly remained. I was wedged between two massive structural ribs, a pair of heavy wire cutters in my teeth and a micro-torch in my right hand, trying to splice a severed primary coolant line I had managed to save back together.
I was sweating through my overalls, and I felt a rhythmic ache in my lower back every time I gripped a tool.
"Hey, Mark," Kenjiro's voice echoed hollowly from the deck above, accompanied by the heavy clank of a dropped wrench. "I'm looking at the telemetry for the port-side thruster manifold. The plans say to go through the secondary regulatory valve, but I reason to believe that if we bypass the secondary regulatory valve, we can increase the flow rate by about four percent, though it might run a little hot."
I spit the wire cutters into my hand and hit the comms button on my collar. "Sure, go for it. The new S-Alloy ribs can handle a four percent thermal increase without warping. Just make sure you reinforce the couplings."
"You got it," Kenjiro replied. The heavy, driving rhythm of AC/DC's Hells Bells continued to vibrate through the deck plates, a perfect soundtrack to the industrial surgery we were performing.
I reached up to fuse the coolant line, the bright blue flame of the micro-torch illuminating the dark crawlspace, when the music in my earpiece abruptly dropped in volume.
"Mark," Marcos's voice cut in. It wasn't his usual, casual tone. It was the tone he used when a hostile variable entered the board. "We have a situation."
I killed the torch, plunging myself into the dim, amber light of the emergency strips. "Define situation, Marcos. Did one of the hoppers jam? Tell me we didn't run out of tungsten."
"Negative," Marcos replied, the digital hum of his processing power distinctly evident in the background. "Approximately one hour ago, a heavy luxury battle destroyer flanked by twelve corporate security corvettes made their way into orbit around Mechanicus Station. I have been quietly monitoring their internal comms and station trajectory since they breached the outer orbital perimeter."
I frowned, sliding backward on my elbows to get out of the tightest part of the crawlspace. "Ok.... This happened an hour ago, so why are you only telling me this now?"
"Because they bypassed the standard traffic queues entirely and docked directly at Ring Alpha," Marcos explained calmly. "Given the high-profile nature of that docking ring, I assumed it was simply another political delegation or a planetary governor. However, the group that disembarked bypassed all station formalities and commandeered a high-speed industrial descent elevator. I did not want to alarm you until I was absolutely certain of their trajectory. They are currently making a direct, unapologetic beeline for Shephard Orbital Works."
I froze. The ambient heat of the engine corridor suddenly felt like a freezer. "Who is it?"
"The escort consists of twelve armed guards, dressed in formal, high-end corporate military attire. Subdermal kinetic plating and heavy submachine guns," Marcos reported coldly. "And in the center of their formation is Victor Vance. Director of Starship Inter-Galactic Solutions."
My jaw locked so hard I heard a faint pop in my ears. The blood in my veins, already running hot from hours of physical exertion, boiled into pure, unadulterated rage.
Victor Vance. The head of the snake. The man who had authorized Alistar Thorne. The man who had unlocked his corporate vault and sent Class-A Simulacrums to butcher me and anyone standing near me.
"How far out are they?" I asked, feeling my voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated in my chest.
"Two minutes and some change," Marcos replied. "They are clearing the concourse. The local dockworkers are actively fleeing their path. It appears Mr. Vance is not trying to be subtle."
"Kenji!" I roared, scrambling out of the crawlspace and dropping down onto the grated catwalk with a heavy thud.
Kenjiro poked his head over the railing of the upper deck, looking down at me with mild concern. "Yeah, Mark? What's wrong? Did we blow a fuse?"
"Drop the tools," I ordered, my tone leaving absolutely zero room for argument. I stepped out from under the shadow of the ship, my eyes locking onto his. "Get off the gantry. Go into the secondary storage locker behind the printer room, lock the heavy blast door from the inside, and do not come out until I give you the all-clear. Do it now."
Kenjiro's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth, likely to ask a dozen questions, but the sheer, murderous intensity in my posture stopped him cold. He didn't argue. He dropped his datapad onto a nearby crate, turned, and sprinted for the rear of the drydock.
I didn't watch him go. I turned and started walking toward the front office.
Every step I took was heavy and fueled by an anger that was threatening to tear me apart from the inside. They had failed to kill or control me twice. And now? Now the Director of SIGS was walking up to my front door with a personal army. I assumed it was another hit squad. I assumed they had finally decided that if they couldn't buy my secrets or steal them in the night, they would simply wipe me off the map, because, after all, third time's the charm.
'You want to play in my house?' I thought, my hands clenching into fists as I crossed the grated floor of the drydock. 'Let's play.'
I only had to think about it, and my pendant, which I had been using as goggles for the past few weeks to help me work, began to shift. A wave of liquid, midnight-black metal spread out from my eyes, washing over my chest, rushing down my arms, and enveloping my legs. It consumed my overalls in a fraction of a second, hardening into sleek, angular, interlocking plates of heavy armor.
The armor was primarily a matte, light-absorbing black, accented with deep, crimson-red inlays that traced the synthetic musculature of the suit. As the nanites reached my wrists and my neck, they formed a thick, bristling collar of dark, synthetic fur, giving the armor the distinct, terrifying silhouette of a primal hunter. Finally, a half-cape unfurled from my right shoulder pad, dropping down to my waist.
The nanites encased my head in a smooth, featureless black helmet. Two aggressive, slanted optical sensors ignited, glowing with a piercing, baleful red luminescence in the dim light of the drydock. The HUD flared to life across my vision, feeding me tactical data, thermal imaging, and a live feed of the corridor outside my office as Marcos connected to it.
I raised my right hand, opening my system inventory with a mere thought, and my K-272 energy rifle materialized in my hand. To the untrained eye, it looked like an oversized, brutalist piece of kinetic artillery. The long barrel was matte black, but thick, crimson-red running stripes ran the entire length of the weapon, pulsing softly in the dark as the internal capacitors drew power.
"One minute, Mark," Marcos updated, his voice feeding directly into the audio receivers of my helmet. "They are approaching the outer perimeter. The guards are moving in a standard VIP diamond formation."
"Let them come," I said. My voice was electronically modulated by the helmet, turning it into a deep, vibrating rumble that sounded less human and more like a force of nature.
I stepped through the heavy personnel door connecting the drydock to the front office. The reception area was lit by standard fluorescent strips. I walked to the absolute darkest corner of the room, positioning myself perfectly so the amber industrial light bleeding through the windows from the drydock would only catch the edge of my silhouette.
"Marcos," I commanded, raising the heavy K-272 and resting the stock against my armored shoulder, my finger resting dangerously close to the trigger guard. "When he steps through that door, I want the music to cut instantly. I want the main lights killed. And I want the door sealed behind him."
"Roger, roger." Marcos chirped. "Trap is set. Victims are at the front gate."
I stood perfectly still in the shadows. The muffled, heavy, driving beat of Hells Bells bled through the glass from the drydock, shaking the floorboards. I breathed slowly, feeling the cold, sterile air circulating through the helmet's filtration system.
The door slid open, the music from the drydock seemingly amplifying for a moment as the ambient noise of the corridor rushed in.
Two corporate guards stepped into the room first. Their eyes scanned the area methodically, their submachine guns held at the low ready. They were professionals, moving with a fluid, terrifying grace. But they didn't see me in the pitch-black corner. The armor absorbed the light, making me nothing more than a void in the shadows.
Then, Victor Vance stepped in.
He was wearing a dark, bespoke suit under a heavy, fur-lined greatcoat. He looked the part of a billionaire kingpin, immaculate and untouchable. He adjusted his cuffs, pulling his shoulders back, his eyes sweeping over the office with a look of barely concealed disdain.
Three.
I watched him take a breath, preparing to speak, preparing to deliver whatever corporate ultimatum or threat he had rehearsed.
Two.
One.
"Now," I ordered.
*SLAM*
The heavy, pressure-sealed personnel door behind them slammed shut with the force of a kinetic hammer. The locking mechanisms engaged with a deafening, quadruple CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK that sounded like a vault sealing them inside a tomb.
Instantly, the heavy metal music pumping from the drydock was severed, plunging the office into an agonizing, ringing silence.
The fluorescent overhead lights snapped off, and the office was plunged into pitch-black darkness, save for the dim, amber industrial lights bleeding through the reinforced glass window behind the reception desk.
"Director, get down!" the security chief barked, his voice tight with sudden, explosive panic.
The two guards instantly moved to physically shield Vance, their heavy weapons coming up, their eyes frantically trying to adjust to the sudden blackout.
I didn't move. I let the silence stretch for two agonizing seconds, letting the sheer, suffocating weight of the trap settle over them.
Then, the ceiling above them shifted.
A heavy, mechanical whirring sound echoed through the dark office. From the concealed panels in the ventilation ducts, two massive, automated heavy-caliber rotary turrets dropped down. The servos whined as the twin barrels instantly locked onto the two guards. Two bright, lethal crimson laser targeting sights cut through the dark, painting the chests of Vance's men.
"Do not move a single muscle," Vance commanded, his voice trembling slightly.
The two guards froze, their fingers hovering over their triggers, the red lasers illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air between them.
I took a step forward.
*Thud*
I let my armored boots hit the floorboards deliberately loud and stepped just far enough out of the shadows for the dim amber light to catch the crimson fur of my collar, the sleek lines of the black armor, and the glowing red coils of the rifle in my right hand. I didn't raise the weapon. I just held it, letting its brutal presence speak for itself.
The optical sensors of my helmet flared, cutting through the dark like two burning coals, locking directly onto Victor Vance.
"Now," I said. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't splatter you all over my office, Mr. Vance?"
POV Shift: General 3rd Person
Victor Vance felt his throat constrict as if a steel band had been tightened around his windpipe. He was a man who traded in intimidation. He had bankrupted planetary economies and ordered the executions of thousands without his heart rate ever rising above ninety beats per minute.
But looking at the towering nightmare of black armor, red optics, and synthetic fur standing in the corner of the room, Victor felt a primal, cold terror that bypassed his logic and struck directly at his lizard brain.
This wasn't a grease monkey. This wasn't a lucky mechanic who had stumbled onto a good patent. The man standing before him looked like a god of war, draped in the pelts of his enemies, holding a weapon that carried its own aura.
Victor swallowed hard, forcing his corporate mask back into place. He couldn't show weakness. If he showed weakness, the wolf would bite.
"Mr. Shephard," Victor said, his voice remarkably steady despite the sweat gathering at his hairline. He slowly raised his hands, keeping them empty and visible. "I apologize for the dramatic entrance. But I assure you, I am not here for violence. I am here with an offer you simply would be a fool to refuse."
Mark let out a slow chuckle. The sound was distorted by the helmet, a mechanical grinding noise that lacked any humor.
"An offer," Mark repeated, taking another slow, heavy step forward. The red optics of his helmet narrowed. "Is this how you show your sincerity, Vance? Bringing twelve heavily armed men to what is essentially my home? You walk into my shipyard with a military escort and expect me to talk business?"
"The security detail is a necessity, not a threat," Victor said quickly, acutely aware of the red laser dot resting squarely on his security chief's heart. "After all, I am the Director of Starship Inter-Galactic Solutions. Being such an incredibly high-profile figure, I'd be a fool not to have any. There are factions across the galaxy that would pay billions for my head. It is simply a reality of my position that I cannot travel unprotected."
"Uh-huh," Mark scoffed. "Well, you're in my backyard now... And in my place, I am the only protection you need. Or the only threat you have to worry about."
Mark shifted his grip on the rifle.
"If you want to talk business, Victor," Mark said, leaning forward slightly, his imposing frame dominating the room. "Your men will ALL be waiting outside. Every single one of them. Or, you can turn your ass around, walk out that very door you came in from, and hope you make it back to Celestine Prime before the IUC Navy gets word that SIGS has yet again taken public action against a man they are now in cahoots with."
Victor stared into those glowing red eyes. He weighed his options. He knew his guards were lethal, but against the twin rotary turrets and whatever the hell Shephard was wearing, it would be a bloodbath. And Victor would be the first casualty. Gregorio Volanti's words echoed in his mind: 'Buy him.'
Victor let out a slow, defeated sigh. He nodded once, muttering something under his breath about the indignity of the situation.
"Kril," Victor said, not taking his eyes off Mark. "Go outside, secure the perimeter, and wait for my signal."
Kril did not like the orders he had just received. "Director, I strongly advise against leaving you alone in a hostile-"
"That was an order!" Victor snapped, the authority of the Director returning for a fleeting second.
The security chief's jaw clenched. He slowly lowered his submachine gun, glaring at the dark figure in the corner. He tapped his comms earpiece. "All units, hold position outside. We are stepping out."
Mark didn't say a word. He didn't move. But somewhere deep in the digital architecture of the shipyard, Marcos was watching.
The fluorescent overhead lights suddenly snapped back on, flooding the room with stark, blinding white light. Victor squinted, his eyes watering. The heavy personnel door behind the guards hissed and unlocked, sliding open to reveal the concourse and the other ten heavily armed guards waiting tensely outside.
"Out," Mark ordered calmly.
The two guards slowly backed out of the room, their eyes locked on Mark until the very last second. As soon as their boots cleared the threshold, the doors slammed shut again with a violent thud, instantly sealing.
The whirring of servos filled the room again. Victor watched in horror as the two ceiling turrets smoothly pivoted. The twin crimson laser sights drifted across the room and came to rest dead center on Victor's chest.
Victor stood entirely alone in the center of the room. Twelve heavily armed guards on the other side of a durasteel door, and not a single one could save him.
"Sit," Mark commanded, gesturing with the barrel of the rifle toward a simple metal chair situated in front of the reception desk.
Victor straightened his coat, trying to salvage a shred of his dignity. "I prefer to stand, Mr. Shephard. I find negotiations are best conducted-"
Mark rested both his hands on the stock of his hung rifle and looked at Victor. "I wasn't asking."
Victor's mouth snapped shut, the corporate bravado evaporated. He walked over to the metal chair and sat down stiffly, keeping his hands resting on his knees.
Mark lowered the rifle. He didn't sit across from Victor. Instead, he began to slowly pace around the room, his boots thudding rhythmically. He walked behind Victor's chair, disappearing from the Director's line of sight.
Victor felt his heart hammering inside his chest. Having the beast of a man out of his peripheral vision was infinitely more terrifying than facing him head-on.
"Things could have been so nice, Mr. Vance," Mark began, his voice a low, echoing rumble behind Victor's head. "I came to this station to build. And to do that, I had to create technology that could help me generate the funds I needed. It was a simple plan that should have led to a simple end."
Mark paused behind the chair. Victor could feel the ambient heat radiating off the massive, black armor.
"But then," Mark continued, his voice dripping with disgust. "Corporate slop like you had to get involved. You couldn't just compete or innovate. You saw a threat to your bottom line, and instead of building a better product, you tried to buy my knowledge. And when I refused to be sold, you decided to kill me for my knowledge and my ideas. But when that failed, you sent a squadron of Simulacrums."
Victor gripped the edges of his seat. He took a breath, forcing his fear down, tapping into the ruthless logic that had elevated him to the top of SIGS.
"There is a price to knowledge, Mr. Shephard," Victor said, his voice steadying, trying to project strength into the empty space in front of him. "In this universe, in the reality of the Union, you are either strong enough to keep your genius, or you serve others. That is the way of the galaxy. You disrupted a multi-trillion-credit industry. Surely, a man of your obvious... capabilities, didn't expect us to simply roll over and applaud?"
Mark let out a sharp, dismissive scoff.
Suddenly, two massive, armored hands clamped down on Victor's shoulders from behind.
Victor gasped, his body freezing. It felt like two hydraulic vises were crushing his collarbone. He couldn't move. He was entirely pinned to the chair.
Behind him, the soft, mechanical hum of shifting nanites filled the air as Mark's helmet retracted, folding back into the armor's collar to reveal Mark's face. He leaned down, his face stopping mere inches from Victor's right ear. There was nothing human about the absolute, predatory malice in his voice.
"You have absolutely no idea," Mark whispered, his breath warm against Victor's skin, his tone so terrifyingly intimate it made Victor's blood run cold. "You have no idea how hard I am fighting to restrain myself right now. It is taking every ounce of my willpower not to just grab your head and slam it into this floor until it's nothing but mush."
Victor's eyes widened, staring blankly ahead, a bead of cold sweat tracing down his temple.
"Two separate attempts on my life," Mark hissed softly. "That doesn't exactly make me want to welcome the party trying to kill me, Mr. Vance."
"I... I understand," Victor stammered, the facade cracking entirely. The grip on his shoulders was agonizing. "I understand your anger, Shephard. But you must understand things from my point of view. I am a Director. I have a board. I have responsibilities to the stability of the Union's economy."
The grip on his shoulders vanished.
Mark stepped around the chair, walking into Victor's line of sight. He didn't have the helmet on, and Victor was finally able to look at the man's face. He looked infuriatingly calm, though his eyes burned with a dark, simmering violence.
"I am not a monster, Shephard," Victor continued, desperate to regain control of the narrative, desperately trying to sell the corporate lie. "I am a virtuous and righteous man, doing what is necessary for the greater good of humanity. The stability of SIGS ensures the stability of the Navy. I make the hard choices so that-"
"Righteous?" Mark interrupted, his voice deceptively soft. He stopped pacing. "Virtuous? You?"
Victor hesitated, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. "Yes. I-"
"Tell me, Victor," Mark tilted his head, his eyes boring into Vance's soul. "Is having your corporate hit squads, your precious little Simulacrums, decapitate an entire family righteous? Is it virtuous?"
Victor frowned, genuine confusion warring with his fear. "What? Decapitate? Shephard, I don't know what you are talking about. Thorne's hit squad was a targeted operation. We don't-"
Mark walked forward and crouched down directly in front of Victor. They were eye-to-eye now, and Mark let out a slow, deliberate smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of a psychopath.
Victor, thoroughly unnerved and desperately seeking a de-escalation, tried to mirror it. He offered a weak, awkward, trembling smile in return, hoping he had somehow found common ground.
Mark's left hand reached out to his cheek, giving a rougher mafia-style double slap to Victor's right cheek. It wasn't a hard hit since it was meant to insult more than anything. It carried the utterly dismissive weight of a master disciplining a disobedient dog.
Victor's head rocked to the side, his awkward smile vanishing, replaced by profound, humiliating shock. His cheek instantly bloomed a bright red.
Mark stood up slowly, turning his back on Victor, walking toward the window that overlooked the drydock.
"I've got a friend," Mark said, his voice dropping into a hollow, echoing register, staring out at the skeleton of the Vengeance. "A good woman. Someone who, since that incident, has dedicated her life to taking care of kids who have nothing. When she was younger, she was badly hurt because of the games your corporations play. Because of the greed and the absolute disregard for innocent life that companies like SIGS breed."
Mark turned his head slightly, looking at Victor over his shoulder, the fury finally bleeding completely into his voice.
"So, hearing you sit in my chair, in my shipyard, in my office, and call yourself 'righteous' and 'virtuous'?" Mark's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "It is simply... infuriating."
Mark turned around, and before Victor could even register the movement, Mark was standing over him, sending a blurry backhanded slap his way.
*CRACK*
Mark's armored knuckles slammed into the left side of Victor's face in a sudden, explosive fit of anger. The force of the blow was devastating.
Victor's world exploded into white-hot agony. The force of the strike lifted him entirely out of the chair, sending him airborne and crashing backward over the seat in a tangled mess of expensive fabric and flailing limbs. He hit the floorboards hard, his vision swimming as a high-pitched ringing deafened his left ear.
He groaned, rolling onto his side, coughing violently. He spat a mouthful of hot blood onto the floor, accompanied by three stark white molars.
Mark stood over him, a towering monolith of black and red armor.
"You deserve that," Mark said coldly, looking down at the bleeding, broken Director of SIGS. "And you deserve so much fucking more."
Mark reached down with his left hand, grabbed Victor by the lapels of his heavy greatcoat, and, with zero effort, hoisted the two-hundred-pound executive off the floor with a single hand.
Victor dangled in the air, his feet kicking weakly, blood pouring from his split lip and ruined teeth, dripping onto his pristine shirt.
With his right hand, Mark casually reached out and set the metal chair back upright. Then, he slammed Victor down into it roughly.
Victor gasped, the wind knocked out of him, his head lolling against the backrest. He clutched his face, his chest heaving in ragged, painful breaths. He tasted the copper of his own blood, the absolute humiliation of his defeat total and complete.
It was as if he were standing before Gregorio Volanti. He wasn't a god here. He was just a sack of meat in expensive wrapping.
Mark leaned down, resting his hands on the armrests of Victor's chair, trapping the executive in a cage of black armor.
"Now," Mark asked softly, the violence rolling off him in waves. "Do you still want to talk business?"
Victor sat there, his head swimming in pain. He looked at Mark standing over him and forced himself to swallow the blood pooling in his mouth. He took a ragged breath, forcibly calming his own surging anger, pushing the pain deep down into the corporate vault of his mind. He looked up into Mark's eyes and nodded slowly.
"Yes," Victor wheezed, his voice thick with blood, a twisted, macabre acceptance settling over him. "I... I deserved that."
Mark stared at him for a long moment, analyzing the truth in the man's broken voice.
Slowly, Mark smiled. It wasn't the mocking smile from before. This one was hungry. It was angry. It was the terrifying smile of a predator that had just established its absolute dominance over the jungle.
"Good," Mark said, pushing himself off the armrests and standing tall. "Let's talk business then."
---
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