Chapter Text
Aquila Major filled half the viewport, a wound of fire and shadow. Boss Johns braced his boot against the battered deck as another concussion rocked the evac ship. The display was bleeding red—burning settlements, fleet debris, pockets of survivors blinking out one by one.
Dahl's knuckles were white on the weapons board, her face sheened with sweat. The comm was a snarl of static and desperate calls. Somewhere in the debris ring, Grif's code pinged, just a blip, but it was enough.
He jabbed at the screen.
"There—see that? That's your girl. Grif is down there too."
Dahl's eyes flicked, fast and cold, but her jaw clenched.
"We give them five more minutes, then we're target practice."
"Five'll do." He scanned the scope. A Necromonger destroyer was swinging broadside, starboard guns flashing. "When they fire, light 'em up, and don't look back." He keyed his mic, voice flat, hiding the tremor.
"This is Boss Johns, evac detail. Mercy's Cut—if you're reading, window's closing. We'll draw fire."
Dahl snapped switches, every movement crisp, the ship's guns rumbling under their feet. On the viewport's edge, an Aquilan city cracked open, white flame pouring skyward. The Necromonger ships shifted in, slow and methodical.
Boss Johns watched, every muscle tense.
"C'mon, Ash. Get your people moving."
An alarm shrieked—a missile lock. Dahl's hands flew.
"Incoming. Firing chaff."
The ship lurched as a spread of countermeasures bloomed in the dark. For a breathless instant, Necromonger guns swung their way, drawn off the surface—just enough.
Dahl's voice was a growl, "Now or never, Ash. Hope your pilot's better than your mouth."
He almost smiled. Almost. Another hit rattled them. He muttered, "Don't die for nothing, Grif. Not again."
Jackie's helmet was heavy in her lap, palms slick inside her gloves.
The ready bay at Helion Prime's main port reeked of sweat, old coffee, and the stale anxiety of people pretending not to watch the news. A card game clattered on at the next bench, but every few moments, someone's gaze flicked to the overhead feeds—Aquila Major's cities burning, the comet-thing still streaking across system-cam, evacuation routes stuttering red, then black.
She should have been there—on Aquila Major, in the air, flying cover for her own. If she hadn't gone haring off after Carolyn, she might have been on one of those last runs. Might not be here, sick with guilt and waiting for the sky to fall.
A manifest of incoming ships—blank, then blinking, then blank again. Mercy's Cut. Ash. Grif. No status.
She pressed her thumb over the Aquilan patch on her sleeve—blue and silver, edges worn by years of hope and sweat. Don't think. Just breathe. Just move.
Her squadron leader's voice echoed off the walls, "Eyes up. We have incoming on the rim—no confirmation yet, could be evac, could be pursuit. Be ready for cover or dust-off on my word."
Jackie shut her eyes a second, picturing Ash's steady hands, Grif's growl, Mercy's Cut crammed with survivors—if they made it out. If there was anything left to make it from.
Her bunkmate leaned in, voice careful, "You trained there, right?"
Jackie nodded, throat tight. She didn't trust herself to speak.
Outside, the tarmac was lit up, evac crews waiting beside cold ships, everyone holding their breath. Every minute stretched. Somewhere above, the comet split and blurred—ships, not a rock, and every sensor crew knew it now.
She flexed her hands, helmet balanced in her lap, pulse skipping.
The feeds looped the same burning city, the same debris-laced starfield.
No word. No arrivals. No sign.
Don't you dare, Ash. Not today. Not like this.
Jackie sat in her flight gear, surrounded by banter and bluster, but all she heard was the silence between announcements—the knife's edge of hope and dread, waiting for the blade to fall.
Behind her, the world waited to see who—if anyone—would survive.
Sirens wailed, echoing down shattered corridors. Smoke stung her throat. Ash's boots slipped on broken glass, ribs creaking every time she twisted to fire. First Necro patrol breached the arch. Three abreast—faces hidden, pikes already sparking.
She squeezed off a burst, sent one sprawling, armor sparking. Don't hesitate, she told herself. They don't.
She rolled behind a heap of ductwork—checking the breach, quick and automatic. Used to think it would be pirates at the end, or slavers. Not holy men in black armor.
They fanned out. She felt it—tactic, not instinct. They weren't afraid.
Neither was she.
Ash pivoted, took out a trooper's knee. Heard the crack—real, satisfying. For a second, the memory rose:
—running, smoke, his hand in hers, the world ending behind them—
She shoved it away.
Refugees flooded the ramp. "Left side—move!" she barked. A boy tripped—Ash caught him by the collar, hauled him up.
A smile for his terror. "That's it. Don't look back. Just run." Another squad rounded the fuel tanks. Memories, old, not her own, flooded in like the ache from a phantom limb.
They always come in threes. Like the ones on Furya, the day it burned.
She emptied her mag at their feet, sparks and ricochet. Tactics, not rage. Rage got you killed. She darted close, slashed a boot knife behind a knee plate, felt warm blood slick her hand.
One down.
Another coming.
Ash yanked a fallen pike, rammed it under a helmet.
One less Necro to haunt the system.
A baton flashed—she ducked, jammed an elbow into armor, grinned as the man buckled.
For him. For all the ones you didn't save.
Grif's voice snapped through her earpiece: "Ash! Five seconds. If you're not on that ramp—" She ducked behind a luggage trolley, lungs on fire. Not running, not this time. Not leaving anyone else behind for them.
A woman and child scrambled past. Ash covered them, rifle up, breath coming in ragged bursts. She shoved the trolley forward, knocking Necro soldiers aside.
Her shoulder ached.
Her chest burned.
A Necro grabbed her arm—
She twisted, headbutted him, spat blood.
Satisfaction, sharp as glass.
Not enough. Never enough.
The ramp started to rise.
"Now, Grif! This round's on you!" she yelled—code and promise both.
The platform lit up, Mercy's Cut roaring.
Ash staggered, swung her last punch at a visor, watched the glass shatter.
Good.
Another baton slammed down, sent her sprawling.
She tasted blood, grit, metal.
She'd bought them time.
Just enough.
A Necro helm, close and inhuman.
You wanted a fight? You got one.
"Echo identified. Furyan extraction confirmed."
She laughed, teeth red. "You boys always this desperate for a date?"
A blow to the temple, and everything went black.
Another shell hit the hull, lights flickering. Dahl kept the ship steady, burning for the shadow of the Mercy's Cut as it finally lit up on the scope—leaving the planet's surface behind, battered but flying.
Johns exhaled, something in his chest loosening, but only just. He turned away from the viewport, voice flat and certain.
"Let's get out while we can."
He wondered, for the briefest moment, if any of them would live long enough to regret it.
She came to in chains, wrists raw. Columns of fire flickered across the ruined ceiling—this was once a place for music, not sermons.
A Necromonger priest, face pale, young, and impossibly calm, regarded her from the dais. "You fought for those beneath you. Why?"
She flexed her shoulders, lips curling. "That's what people do. Or did, before you lot started rewriting the rules."
"You could have run."
"I did, once. Didn't work out."
He stepped forward. "We know you, Ashford of Aquila Major. Furyan Echo. Your suffering can end. Bow, and be remade."
He gestured. Two acolytes moved aside, revealing the conversion chamber with its dual needles.
"One last pain, then the peace of conversion. You can belong again."
She stared.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated.
She heard her old bondmate's voice, far away: Tamsin, come home—
Her breath shuddered. The ache, the fatigue, the endless flight—
But then the memory snapped tight—
Grif, risking everything. The old woman's hand in hers. The kids' faces. Fry and Riddick and all the broken bastards she'd patched together.
Her world, fragile as spun glass, but hers.
She bared her teeth in a grin.
"Keep your peace. I earned my scars."
The priest nodded, no anger.
"Then you die as you lived: Furyan."
The blade flashed. She looked right at him as it came, eyes hard as slate.
"Go on, then. Get it over with. Got people waiting for me."
She never felt the blade.
Never bowed.
Grif stared at the burn marks where the landing pad used to be, hands white-knuckled on the yoke.
He muttered, "Last round's on you, Ash. Not how we planned it."
Riddick gasped awake, heart seizing in his chest, eyes burning with loss.
Fry shuddered, hands to her chest, knowing but not knowing.
Jackie, elsewhere, blinked back tears, unable to explain the sudden grief.
For a moment—
A rush of cool air, wet grass beneath bare feet.
Light glancing off water, a memory of music.
Arms around her waist—strength, warmth, grief, love—her bondmate's presence like a pulse in her skin.
His hand brushes hers: a current, a promise, a thousand silent dances unfinished.
The ache in her bones softens, almost sweet.
She hears laughter—Grif's, sharp and bright; a child's arms clutching her neck, the comfort of familiar weight.
Fry's hands, callused and strong, pressing hers in silent solidarity.
The taste of Dahl's lips on her own.
The perfume of old leather, engine oil, smoke.
A flash of light—refugees running, fear, the thunder of Mercy's Cut lifting off.
For an instant, she is both lighter and tethered:
The world letting her go, and yet—
She feels herself echoed in others: a girl's determination, a friend's stubborn grit, a mechanic's battered hands.
All the lives she's touched, a ripple, a warmth.
No words.
Just belonging.
Just the certainty:
She fought.
She loved.
She mattered.
The vision blurs to silver, then white—
You only lose when you stop fighting. Remember me. Remember us.
The priest crouched over Ash's body, fingers brushing the blood from her brow, closing her eyes with ritual care.
"To die unbowed is to die in darkness," he said, doctrine etched into every syllable. But under his breath, almost lost, "Still . . . few face the dark as you have."
He lingered a moment, then turned away, the war still waiting.