And then Raaze had walked into frame, naked to the waist, and she hadn’t been able to look away.
He was completely and utterly ripped. Of course he was. Because apparently the universe had decided that her life wasn’t complicated enough without adding a handsome as hell alien guy with a body like that to the mix.
The cargo bay wasn’t big, not on the H4-RPY. It was maybe twenty feet by thirty, and was crammed with mag-locked crates and clutter she’d been meaning to clear out for months. But he’d cleared a space in the center, shoving containers aside until he had enough room to move, and now he was… doing something.
She leaned forward, the liquid in her mug sloshing dangerously. Why was he crouching down like that? She wasn’t opposed to the view. Not at all, especially not when it highlighted his ass in those tight pants.
Exploding from a standing start into a sprint, he ran three steps, then dropped low and changed direction so fast she almost lost him. Another burst of speed, and he dropped, pivoting on the hand he planted on the deck. His body cut through the air like a blade, landing in a neat crouch on the other side of the bay.
Oh… my. He could move.
Heat crept up the back of her neck, and she bit her lip. The temperature regulator was way off in here as well. She should log that for maintenance, because it was definitely the regulator. Had to be. It was definitely nothing to do with the way his shoulders rolled when he moved, or the flex of muscle across his back, or the memory of his jaw under her fingers and his mouth?—
Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
She took a sip of the caff and almost spat it out. It was cold and bitter.
On screen, Raaze launched into another sequence. This one was different, though… a series of sharp, staccato movements as his hands snapped out at angles, precise and fast. Then a spin, low and coiled, and he came up with his arm cocked back. She didn’t know what it was. Perhaps some kind of Latharian dance? It looked too sharp and violent for that, though.
“Fred.” Her voice came out rougher than intended. She cleared her throat. “What am I looking at?”
I was wondering when you would ask. Fred’s voice was dry and amused. I have been analyzing his movement patterns for the past four minutes.
“And?”
Inconclusive. At first.
She waited. Fred did like his dramatic pauses. It was one of his more annoying qualities, right up there with the constant commentary on her life choices. Anyone would think he was her uncle rather than an AI flight unit.
This does not match the data we have on the behavior of Parac’Norr inmates, Fred said. The planet houses males diagnosed with what the Lathar call ‘Blood Rage.’ Combat-trained soldiers with aggression disorders and a lack of control. This is not a lack of control.
She nodded as, on screen, Raaze dropped into a crouch, then launched himself sideways in a controlled roll that brought him up on his feet facing the opposite direction. It was fast and brutal, but…
“This doesn’t look like he’s pretending to fight,” she said slowly. “It’s not a martial arts routine or anything. He’s?—”
Agreed. The movements are wrong for martial arts. It’s similar… the explosive power is there, but the targeting looks wrong. If we assume he’s training for a similarly sized opponent, then he is not aiming for what would be vulnerable points. Fred’s voice dropped, almost like he was musing to himself. I wonder…
She waited a few seconds for him to work through whatever thought he’d had. Yes, I have it. Each time his hands and body return to set positions.
“Positions?”
Spatial markers. As if he is tracking multiple moving objects and calculating interception trajectories.
The words hung in the recycled air.
Interception trajectories.
She set the mug down on the console, her brows snapping together as she studied Raaze’s movements again. “Fred, run me a search. Everything you can find on him. Target media nets, sports archives, anything public.”
Already running. Another pause, longer this time. Oh hello… I found something.
A screen to her right flickered, and a new image appeared on it.
Raaze.
But not the Raaze she could see on the screen, an exile with haunted eyes and that sharp, bitter edge in his voice. This Raaze stood on a field of packed dirt under stadium lights, wearing body armor that gleamed, his arms raised as a crowd behind him blurred into a roaring wall of color and sound. His face was split in a grin so wide and unguarded that she almost didn’t recognize him.
Raaze S’Vre, Fred said. Former warball player. Professional league, tier one. According to archived broadcasts, he was the highest-paid player in three generations.
