Page 65 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
During the debriefings later, they're relentless: data logs, sabotage summaries, interrogations. Josie is pressed into a line behind the colonists—standing beside me, shoulder so close I can sense her every breath. She fights back her anger at every casual dismissal of her engineering genius, every bureaucratic footnote that reduces this battle to protocol. I can feel her bristles, her pulse accelerated.
I stay silent—arms folded across my chest, claws retracted, image inducer humming over my shoulders like a silent scream. They treat me like an asset. A classified achievement. Ultimately, they talk of awards. Ranks. Integration.
And then—when they begin to parade the colonists for thank-you statements, Vice Admiral Charn, with a clipped sigh and a toast-lifted hand, turns to me and says softly: "I assume your cooperation will continue, Corporal Vash?" He tips his head—guarded politeness. My image mask flickers as I swallow sharp bile.
"Of course, sir," I say, voice flat. They nod. Two armored Alliance MPs step forward. One of them presents a pair of handcuffs on gloved hands.
The colonists recoil. I see Josie’s face blur, rage and agony colliding. She opens her mouth—half scream, half protest. I raise a hand, silent.
I turn toward her. Her eyes shine with tears she won't let fall. Her lips tremble. But she stands strong—like she'll leap forward with a welding torch if needed.
I don’t resist. Not here. Not today. I let the guards snap the cuffs. Metal closes around my wrist with finality.
A hollow drum rolls through me—this isn't imprisonment, it's positioning. One false move and they bury us deeper.
I lock eyes with Josie. She moves forward but is held back by a colonist block. Her voice breaks through the murmurs: "Let him go!"
The admiral blinks. "Ma'am?—"
She cuts him off. "Don’tma'amme. You’re taking him—kidnapping him—maybe worse. We earned this colony. He bled for it."
Silence rocks the debrief hall. Leaders shift in place, unsure what comes next.
Admiral Charn straightens, regal calm returning. "Colonel McClintock, you misunderstand our purpose. The Alliance provides stability. Corporal Vash—formerly Dayn—is critical. His record must be reviewed."
My chest blooms with cold realization:reviewed. In translation, it meanstrial,detainment,interrogation,removal from the field—one way or another.I breathe slow, grinding. I won’t plead with them. I won’t kneel. I won’t give them cause to harm the colony—or Josie.
She slams a fist on the seat rail. "He is our protector, not your pawn. Don't you, or anyone else, take him from me."
The room breaks. A handful cheer—miners, engineers. Others stare with shock or fear.
Charn’s face tightens, but he nods, authority unwavering. "Guards, escort him. We will… proceed accordingly."
He doesn't wait. They march me past a silent crowd, lines parting. My gaze always returns to Josie—her fury, her promise. I offer a single nod—an anchor, a vow.
She returns it: not just faith, but rebellion. One day soon, we’ll dismantle this narrative—the one that sayshe's Alliance property. But for now, I walk into a cage I can't break—just to protect her freedom.
My hands clink under restraint. The cost of freedom is never over. And under this brutal bureaucracy, I realize the next battle begins not with firepower, but with words, trust, and the fierce defiance of a human engineer who refuses to let me go.
Dowron walks through the metal-framed doorway like a storm in human form—quiet, controlled, but absolutely lethal. His coat is long, dark, custom-tailored military-grade, and the click of his boots across the transport deck echoes like a drum. The guards jump—he doesn’t even nod at them. That’s how trusted he is. I’m cuffed to the bench, but I sit straighter anyway; instinct resurfaces.
He glances at me with that inscrutable face—those pale eyes unreadable. He’s operating off the grid. I know it. My skin tightens.
“You’ve caused quite the headache for a few people,” Dowron murmurs, voice low like gravel sliding over steel.
I lift my chin. “Badge or no badge, I did what had to be done.”
Dowron lets a small smile crack—cold and appreciative. “Maybe,” he says, pausing to tap a finger on my wrist cuffs. “But some of us still value results over rules.”
Heat flickers behind my ribs. I study him. Dowron—the man Garrus once trusted, the one who freed him to be a Hellfighter. What does he want with a Shorcu assassin turned rebel hero?
He steps closer, low enough that I can smell his cologne—woodsy, bitter. “You didn’t just save a colony,” he says. “You sparked a movement. That’s dangerous. For others. Not you. You’re valuable—still.”
I don’t answer. Nothing’s straightforward here.
He glances at the escort guard. “Take him to a secure holding cell. Not their cells. Mine.” He signals. The guard nods, keys ready.
Suddenly, cuffs open, and the guard pushes me to my feet. I crack my neck, folding my arms across my chest.
