Page 106 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
“They’re biting,” Josie whispers.
Adrenaline lands in my chest like falling debris. I grip my rifle. "Vector two. Launch restrictions in three... two... one."
Plasma bolts flash. Orbital bursts spotlight the battlefield below: the loyalist ships weave, attempting extraction, but our fighters are boxed in tight. I order med teams stand by, but signal Garrus to hold fire on civilians. The loyalists were fools, not monsters—they took the bait for vengeance, not genocide.
The ground hisses with energy as Josie activates EMP arcs, flickering machines and sprinkling sparks across creaking shelter walls. She’s cool, precise, adjusting the network feed so the loyalists see ghosts of dread Shorcu commanding from every crevice.
On comms, my voice cracks, not from fear, but purpose. “All Hellfighters, engage. We’ve got them.”
We break the enemy formation like crashing ice, volley after volley of controlled plasma. The second cruiser spirals as I hail the orbital team. The rockets are a chorus of controlled destruction—each enemy ship disabled in sequence. The final cruiser explodes with a tremor we can feel through deckplates, flames licking the vacuum like silent lightning.
When the dust settles, silence reigns. Fireballs drift off the moon’s surface, supersonic metal humming in zero-G.
I step away from the monitors. My chest is tight, not with triumph, but relief. The crisis is ended. The echoes of Kernal’s fanaticism have been cut down.
I feel Josie’s hand on my shoulder, gentle warmth grounding me. Space station lights cast soft shadows across her face. "It's done," I whisper.
"Now we decide what comes next," she replies, tone steady but fierce.
I release a breath that I didn’t know I held. “Yeah.”
Her smile is small but defiant. In that moment, we both know this isn’t just a battle won—it’s a crucible. We chose to end a legacy of hate, not by following footsteps—but stamping them out.
I close my eyes and remember all we've built together: rebel rallies under the rainforest sky, stolen kisses echoing through ruined command centers, sandstorms and shipboards, snark and love and battlefield madness.
I open them, meeting her gaze. "Together?"
Her hand squeezes mine. “Always.”
And so we stand, side by side, ready for the next ghost that tries to haunt us—because we know the best way to kill a legacy... is to build something better.
In the hush of the control room, our hearts beat in sync. The stars beyond the viewport scatter in silence—galaxy-strewn, dangerous, beautiful.
We’re still here. And we choose to stay.
CHAPTER 38
JOSIE
The humming of the engines is our lullaby as the ship glides through the void, each burst of ion thrusters a soft heartbeat beneath the floor. I lean against the control console, jaw unhinged in a lazy grin, my fingers idly tracing the holo-sketches of the Snowblossom ion grid I’ve been building in the workshop—miniature towers, wire conduits, schematic notations scarred by my coffee cup. It looks like home in miniature.
Dayn’s in the next compartment, interviewing a trainee in Garrus’s dojo—just a quick demo session. Every so often, I catch the dull thud of kneepads against the floor or the soft grunt of impact. It’s funny, the way home feels like a ship: sealed-off, humming with life, full of possibility.
I don’t pause my work when messages ping in. First, a holo-mail from Novaria: “Professor McClintock, your curriculum is approved.” My chest hitches with pride, even though I should have been dancing in that moment—this is everything I ever dreamed of after graduation. Then there’s a ping from the Hellfighters: “Dayn McShorcu, honored to have you train our rookie cadres.” Dowron's icon flashes on my screen,immaculately single-breasted and potentially scheming. He suggests we lead a new covert task force. Together.
The voices all echo in my head, building a chorus of what-ifs. We could settle in one place—one life. We could have routines, steady schedules, even children somewhere down the timeline.
But Dayn walks in, towel draped over his broad shoulders, hair still damp. His eyes are bright with unanswered question but so much promise. I tuck a stray lock behind my ear and say, “Look at this—My micro-recreation of our favorite ion grid.”
He leans over, voice soft. “It’s perfect. But what are we going to do with it?”
I tap a tower. “We keep building. On Snowblossom, at Novaria, on scrap planets. But also… we build this ship.” I gesture at the holo and back at the ship. “The Sunny Assassin.”
His smile is slow and wicked. “You named our ship ‘Sunny Assassin’?”
“He’s going to be our pirate radio station, spaceship, classroom, strike team—whatever we want him to be.” I grin. “What’s wrong with a little chaos?”
“Only if I get to DJ,” Dayn teases, voice dry enough that I know he’s smiling.
