CHAPTER 3 — SKETCH'S FIRST STRIKE
You ever see a world so fucked up it's beautiful? That's what it looks like after the horde gets its teeth kicked in. The city is on fire, the air tastes like revenge and victory sweat, and even the wind limps. You'd think a guy could relax, crack open a cold one, and bask in the glory. But you'd be wrong. Out here, the only thing waiting for you at the end of a massacre is round two.
DF and I set up camp a hundred yards from the fortress, just outside the kill zone. Not because we need to sleep—adrenaline's still jackhammering through my skull—but because the view is sick. The tower's a silhouette against the bruised sky, twin red moons leaking bloodlight over every corpse-stained alley. There's enough heat to make the buildings sweat, and every shadow is pregnant with aftershocks.
DF takes first watch. She sits with her back to a crumpled tank, sharpening one of her mono katanas with a focus that's almost meditative. Dragon ink flickers on her arms, still hungry for a rematch, but she's got the discipline to bottle it up and save it for the main event.
Me? I can't sit still. I'm pacing, chain-vaping deathsticks, watching the moons slouch across the sky. The chaos core in my chest is humming, unsatisfied, like it knows there's something still on the menu. I get restless when the job's half-done, and right now it feels like the whole universe is holding its breath, waiting for a punchline.
I tell DF, "I'm gonna walk perimeter. You yell if the King sends out an afterparty."
She just grunts, not looking up. "Don't get dead, K."
I grin and swagger into the night, boots crunching glass and old teeth. I make it ten steps before I get the vibe I'm being watched. Not the normal "mutant eyes behind the wall" kind of watched. Something more precise. Targeted. A sniper's heartbeat away from the next move.
You ever get that itch? It's the best. Means the story's about to get weird.
I loop a circuit through the ruins, eyes and ears wide. Then—nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and then everything: a blur of black and neon slamming into me from the side, velocity so hard it feels like reality left the brakes off. I hit the ground back-first, world cartwheeling, and I'm staring up at a face that's equal parts angel and felony.
Sketch.
Last time I saw her, she was stealing my ride and breaking my friend's jaw. This time she's dressed for business: skin-tight speedster suit that looks painted on, short punk hair with streaks of electric blue, pink, and sickly green that defies logic and taste. Her face is all high cheekbones and mischief, lips parted in a sharp smile. Her eyes are yellow—no, amber—and they're so bright they could burn a hole in a god's head.
She's straddling my chest, one hand pinning both my wrists over my head. The other's got a knife, tip digging lazy circles into my sternum.
She leans in, breath warm and spicy. "Miss me, bastard?"
I try for cool, but she's heavier than she looks and I'm just a little bit turned on. "You always come this hard, or just for me?"
She laughs, low and mean. Her skin is lit up, mood-reactive—right now she's running a deep, bloody red, the color of traffic tickets and really good sex. "I had to make it look real. Didn't want your bodyguard to get suspicious."
"She's not my bodyguard," I say, wriggling. "She's my sidekick. There's a difference."
Sketch rolls her eyes. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
She's close enough that I can taste the ozone and the sweat on her collar. Her suit's got seams like shark gills, and every time she shifts her hips I get a little more information about what's underneath. Spoiler: it's all muscle and attitude.
She leans back, knife still at my chest, and looks me up and down. "You been working out?" she asks, mocking. "Or you just wearing tighter armor?"
"I do a push-up every time someone tries to kill me," I say. "Keeps the core strong."
She flicks the knife, testing. "You bleed easy?"
"Depends where you poke."
She snorts and lets go of my wrists, but not before grinding her hips against my ribs, hard enough to leave a mark. I almost miss the pressure when she moves off.
Sketch stands, knife vanishing up her sleeve, and offers a hand. I take it, and she yanks me to my feet like it's nothing.
Up close, she's even better. The suit's matte black but shimmers with movement, so it's like her muscles are fighting to get out. She's got scars, not the fancy kind—ragged little slashes that say "I survived" in every language. Her hands are big for her frame, fingers callused, nails cut short. She moves like a shark, restless and hungry, always looking for a weak spot.
She sizes me up, lip curled. "So. What's the play, Khaos?"
I don't answer right away. I'm busy wondering if she's here to stab me, fuck me, or both.
She reads my mind, smile going sideways. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't come all this way to bang a loser."
"Yet you're the one who tackled me in the dark," I point out.
"Please." She steps in, chest pressed to mine. "You're a means to an end. You want the King dead, I want him dead more. We can kill each other after."
I stare her down, and it's like looking into a black hole wearing lipstick. "What's in it for you?"
She shrugs, making her shoulders ripple under the suit. "Revenge, credits, boredom. Maybe all three. You care?"
I do, actually, but I'm not about to give her the satisfaction. "You run alone now? No goons, no backup?"
She tilts her head, hair catching the moonlight. "Never needed backup. Unlike you, I can handle my shit."
She moves so fast I barely see it: one hand grabs my jaw, the other traces a line down my throat to my chest. The touch is feather-light, but the threat is real.
She whispers, "You gonna be a good boy, or do I have to teach you how to listen?"
My heart is going double-time, chaos core crackling. She's so close I can see the sweat beading at her hairline, smell the copper on her breath.
I grin, showing teeth. "What if I want the lesson?"
She lets go, steps back, and laughs like I just told her a dirty joke. "You haven't changed. I give it a week before you're dead."
I adjust my armor, pretending she didn't just make me sweat. "It's the optimism I admire. Seriously though, what's your angle?"
She scans the horizon, hands on hips. Her suit is cut high at the thighs, and every time she shifts, the lines stretch and snap like a geometry lesson from hell. She's not flirting, exactly. She's just built that way.
"I'm going in at dawn," she says. "You want to tag along, you follow my lead. Otherwise, stay out of my way."
I nod, considering. "You know DF's gonna try to kill you on sight."
Sketch shrugs, unconcerned. "She's welcome to try. I like the competition."
We stand in silence for a second, the kind of silence that's almost foreplay.
She breaks it: "You're staring."
"Just waiting for the punchline," I say.
She grins, then slaps me—hard, but not mean. "There. Now we're even."
I touch my cheek, still stinging. "Not even close."
She turns to go, but then looks over her shoulder, eyes blazing. "Try not to get ambushed again, Khaos. Makes you look weak."
Then she's gone—literally. One blink and she's a hundred meters out, moving so fast the air whines. She doesn't look back.
I stand there, blood humming, and realize I'm grinning like an idiot.
To you, my judgmental peanut gallery: I stay getting jumped by women. Y'all better not judge me.
Tomorrow's gonna be a shitshow.
The night's supposed to be a cool-down. No more action until sunrise. But when has anyone ever listened to my plans? The camp is dead quiet when I get back. DF's gone, probably staking out the perimeter or meditating with her blades, and I'm left alone with the ruin and the heat and the memory of Sketch's body on top of mine.
I'm not built for waiting. I stalk the shadows, run diagnostics on my chaos core, count how many times I can reload before my hands start to shake. But all I want is to see her again. To feel her. Even if it kills me.
She doesn't make me wait long.
It's maybe two hours before dawn when she glitches back into my reality, appearing in the middle of camp like a popped blood vessel in the eye of the universe. No warning. No hesitation. She just steps out of the void and into my face.
Her eyes are all mischief and hunger, but her body language is something worse—something wild. She's got this way of moving, like she can't decide if she wants to fuck you or eat you, and she's not picky about which comes first.
She looks me up and down, tongue running over her teeth, and says, "You're not gonna be any use in the morning if you keep staring at the sky."
I shoot back, "You want to tuck me in?"
She doesn't smile, but her skin runs a hot, angry crimson. "I want to see if you're as tough as you pretend."
Before I can answer, she's on me, both hands grabbing the collar of my vest. She rips it open with a single motion, the nanoweave giving way like wet tissue, and then she's biting my neck—no build-up, just teeth and heat and the taste of iron. My chaos core spikes, a fresh wave of adrenaline burning through every nerve.
I grab her by the waist, try to twist her off, but she rides the momentum, legs wrapped around my torso, thighs digging into my ribs with a pressure that makes my vision blur. She locks her ankles behind me, arching her back, and the friction between our bodies is the only thing keeping me tethered to the here-and-now.
"You're gonna have to try harder," she whispers, tongue flicking over the bite mark she just left.
I do. I dig my fingers into her hips, flex, and try to throw her. She laughs and leans in harder, the weight of her body crushing, suffocating, perfect. Her suit is slick and warm, the synthetic material catching the sweat on my skin, amplifying the contact until every nerve is either screaming or begging for more.
She pulls my head back, exposing my throat, and runs her tongue up the side of my neck. It's not gentle. It's not even a tease. She's marking territory.
"You like it rough," she says, voice low.
I grit my teeth, taste blood. "You have no idea."
She grins. "Show me."
I lunge, trying to flip the script, but she's already moving. She pushes me backward, hard enough that I stumble, and I catch myself on the edge of the busted tank. She follows, one hand around my throat, the other clawing down my chest and into my waistband. Her nails leave tracks—raw, unfiltered lines of pain that feed the chaos core and make my muscles lock.
She's strong. Stronger than anyone I've ever fought or fucked. It's not just muscle, either—she's got that edge, the one that comes from knowing you can break someone and being desperate to prove it.
She shoves me against the cold metal, grinding her hips into mine. Her suit is peeled back at the crotch, exposing slick, flushed skin, and she's already wet. So am I. My pants are already undone from her attack, and when she reaches inside, her fingers close around both cocks like she's grabbing a live grenade.
She hisses, "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
I try to joke, but the words die in my throat. "You started it."
She squeezes, then positions herself above me, lining up one cock with the heat between her legs. She moves with precision, the tip sliding inside her in one brutal motion. She grinds, slow at first, then faster, the friction unreal. Her skin shimmers between red and blue, pulse strobing with every thrust.
She rides me hard, hips pumping like she's trying to drive me through the tank and into the planet's core. Her nails dig into my shoulders, raking up and down in rhythm with the motion. She leans in, teeth at my earlobe, breath hot and ragged.
"You like this?" she growls.
I nod, barely coherent. "Don't stop."
She doesn't. She sets a brutal pace, then shifts, lining up my second cock with her ass. She's already got it slick, probably planned this from the jump, and when she slides down on both, I lose my mind.
It's the pressure, the stretch, the raw sensation of being inside her twice at once. The chaos core overloads, every circuit firing at once. I grab her by the hair, yank her head back, and watch her eyes roll. Her mouth drops open, a moan so loud it rattles my bones.
She claws at my chest, tearing new scars over old ones, and then bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. She tastes it, licks her lips, and grinds even harder.
"Fuck," I gasp.
She rides me for what feels like hours, switching up the tempo—fast, then slow, then fast again, like she's got an internal metronome set to "destroy." The friction is unbearable and perfect. Her body heat is insane—she's running a fever, and every part of her is electric, alive, desperate for more.
She starts to lose control, moans getting louder, movements more erratic. The mood-skin goes ultraviolet, veins lighting up like neon. I can't hold out anymore. The chaos energy spikes, and both my cocks pulse inside her, filling her with heat and static.
She comes at the same time, digging her nails into my ribs, hips bucking, head thrown back. The sound she makes is pure animal, a war cry and a love song in one.
For a second, everything goes white.
When the world comes back, she's collapsed against my chest, panting, sweat running down her spine. I wrap my arms around her, not because I want to, but because I physically can't let go. My body is locked up, chaos core still processing.
She lifts her head, eyes unfocused but still defiant. "Told you I was better."
I try to laugh, but it's more of a cough. "You cheat."
She grins, then slaps my face, just because she can. "Next time, you're on your knees."
She pushes off me, stands, and surveys the damage. Her suit is shredded at the crotch, thighs slick with sweat and cum. She doesn't bother to fix it. She just looks at me, eyes predatory.
"Sleep tight, Khaos. We're not done."
She glitches out, vanishing into the predawn haze.
I'm left there, legs jelly, skin burning, heart going way too fast.
Somewhere, the ship's systems whine, picking up the aftershock from our energy spike.
I lean my head back and stare at the sky, feeling the chaos settle. Maybe tomorrow I'll get the upper hand. Or maybe I'll just let her win.
Either way: worth it.
I wake up sore, sticky, and so dehydrated I can barely see straight. My head is pounding—either a hangover from the chaos overload, or just the realization I got topped by the one girl in the system who makes DF look like a choir girl.
Sun's barely up. DF's nowhere to be seen, which is a blessing. She'd never let me live this down. I reach for a water bottle, drain it, and then try to piece together what happened.
The camp is trashed. My gear's scattered, one boot missing, and there's a burn mark on the side of the tank where Sketch must've pressed my ass into the metal so hard it left a scar.
Speaking of the devil: she's standing ten feet away, arms folded, wearing nothing but the top half of her suit and a mean, mean smile. Her mood-skin is back to normal—just a faint electric pulse along the collarbone—but her eyes are still lit with that same wicked intent.
She points at my face. "You drool when you sleep."
I wipe my mouth, embarrassed for half a second before I remember I'm supposed to be the dangerous one here. "You always watch people after you fuck them, or am I just special?"
She tilts her head. "Special? You barely kept up. I thought the infamous Khaos was supposed to be hard to kill."
"I was pacing myself. Didn't want to break you first night out."
She snorts, then pulls the rest of her suit up, zipping it with one practiced flick. She doesn't bother to check for tears or stains—she knows she looks good.
She moves in, fast, and I think maybe she's going to kiss me, or at least say goodbye. Instead, she sucker punches me in the gut. I double over, nearly lose my breakfast, and she's grinning when I look up.
"Lesson one," she says, "never let your guard down."
I swing a wild haymaker at her, but she glitches left, reappearing behind me. Her knee slams into my kidney, and I see spots. She laughs, shoves me face-first into the dirt, and sits on my back like she's riding a slow pony.
"Lesson two," she purrs in my ear, "don't get cocky."
I try to roll her off, but she holds fast, arms locked around my neck in a chokehold that's more intimate than it should be. I twist, shift my chaos energy, and manage to buck her off. We tumble, limbs tangled, and for a second it's like last night never ended.
She lands on top, pinning my arms with her knees. She's not even breathing hard.
She leans in, nose touching mine. "You done, big guy?"
I could headbutt her. I could use the chaos core, or my blasters, or just beg for mercy. But instead I laugh, because honestly, I've never felt more alive.
"You're gonna be the death of me," I say.
She kisses my forehead, then slaps me. "That's the plan."
She gets off me, stands, and walks away, hips swaying like she owns the planet. She doesn't look back, but I know she expects me to follow.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the dawn. My ribs hurt, my pride hurts, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
To you, my silent audience: Y'all saw that, right? Tell me you saw that.
Because I'm starting to think she's the real main character.
And if you think I'm about to let her win that easy, you don't know me at all.