Page 3 of Deserted

I flexed my claws inside my gauntlets, feeling the sensors adjust to accommodate the movement. High-sensory warriors were too valuable to waste—even grumpy, insubordinate ones who’d questioned orders. So they’d sent me here, to patrol and report and slowly lose my mind to the emptiness.

The sensor in my gauntlet pulsed once. Faint. Organic.

I went still, every sense instantly heightened. Not an echo. Not a glitch. Something alive where nothing should be alive.

My vision shifted, pupils narrowing to slits as I scanned the rippling heat waves. The desert played tricks—mirages, reflections, hallucinations for the desperate. But my sensors didn’t lie, and neither did my instincts.

Then I saw her.

Collapsed in a shallow hollow between dunes, face-down in the sand, her limbs twisted in the awkward sprawl of heatstroke and desperation. Her skin was flushed, her lips cracked. A human female. Alone. No equipment. No tether. No atmospheric suit.

Impossible.

I approached cautiously, combat reflexes overriding curiosity. No human should have been able to breach the perimeter. No human should have survived the transit. No human should be here, period.

I knelt beside her, running my scanner over her form. Temperature: dangerously elevated. Heartbeat: erratic but present. Dehydration: severe. She’d be dead within the hour without intervention.

Legion protocol was clear. Unauthorized personnel were to be detained, interrogated, then processed according to threat level. But detention required a living subject, and this one was barely clinging to life.

I reached out, turning her gently onto her back. Dark hair, matted with sweat and sand, framed a face that, despite its current distress, showed strength in its lines. Her clothes were reminiscent of the primitive gear and style found on Terra Prime—sturdy materials designed for desert exploration, but woefully inadequate for the dual-sun heat of The Burn.

Her eyelids fluttered—a brief, desperate battle against unconsciousness that she was rapidly losing. Her lips parted, cracked and bleeding, forming a word I couldn’t hear.

I cursed the Swarm for creating this scorched wastelane. I cursed myself for not having the necessary resources for a rescue. But I would not leave her, protocol be damned.

Decision made, I scooped her up, cradling her against my chest. She was too light. Overexposed. Her sweat had dried to salt on her skin. How long had she wandered before collapsing? How had she even gotten here?

Her head lolled against my shoulder, her cheek pressing against my chest plate. She moaned something—a name, maybe. Or a plea. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t survive the coming storm, and neither would her answers if I left her to die.

I strode back toward my outpost, trying to ignore how right she felt in my arms. How her scent seemed to intensify with each step, wrapping around me like a physical presence. These were inappropriate reactions. Unproductive thoughts. I was a Legion Reaper, not some untrained cub experiencing his first rut.

The desert winds were picking up, carrying the electric charge that preceded the worst of the storms. Sand particles swirled in vicious eddies around my boots, visibility dropping with each passing minute. I increased my pace, unwilling to be caught in the open when the real fury hit.

I reached the protective shelter just as the first lightning bolt split the sky, striking a dune barely half a kilometer away. The static charge made my fur stand on end beneath my armor, but the reinforced walls of the outpost would hold. They always did.

Inside, I carried her directly to the medical bay—a sparse room with basic equipment meant for field triage. I placed her in the medical pod that was reserved for me to use in the most dire of situations.

I hadn’t had to use it in the two years of my assignment here.

The pod hummed to life as I initiated the diagnostic sequence. Its sophisticated sensors would stabilize her, hydrate her, and repair the worst of the heat damage. Whether it could reverse the trauma of whatever had brought her here was another question entirely.

I secured the nutrient lines, adjusted the atmospheric settings to compensate for her human physiology, and activated the dermal regenerators for the sun-scorched patches of her skin. Only then did I step back, allowing myself to process what I’d done.

I’d broken protocol. Risked contamination. Prioritized an unknown subject over immediate containment procedures.

The reasons why were beyond anything conscious. It was an instinct, a prime directive I could not ignore, despite what had been trained into me.

It had been the first time in my years of service that I had ever disregarded my training.

As if thinking about them too much called them to me, the communication console chimed. My check-ins. I activated the link to Legion Command, composing my face into its usual stoic mask.

“Reaper Onca reporting. Sector clear. No Swarm activity.” The detail made it the truth—and the omission easier to swallow. “Storm interference expected for the next two rotations. Will resume standard patrols once conditions permit.”

The transmission officer barely looked up from his console. “Acknowledged, Reaper. Maintain position.”

The connection terminated before I could respond. They never expected trouble from my outpost. No one did. That was the point of patrolling dead sites. They were supposed to be inactive and contained.

I returned to the medical bay, watching the pod’s steady lights as it worked to save the human female. Who was she? Howhad she breached our defenses? And why did her mere presence set my protective instincts on fire?

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