caveat

(A military drumline song / chant-tale) Steel sang under boots in the hangar bay light, A fighter split open—then spilled out night. Not fire, not smoke, not some dying flare— A man in black armor hung in the air. The craft screamed off. He stayed behind. A lone boarding shadow with purpose in mind. Felicity saw him and went cold inside— ________________________________________ [Spoken Word – Female, panic] “That can’t be him! … Maxmillion killed him… he died.” ________________________________________ But heraldry doesn’t lie, stamped clean and stark: A white peryton shining in the bloodlit dark. Wyatt Staples rose like a verdict made flesh, He didn’t rage. He didn’t boast. He moved like gravity, close to close. He stripped a helmet, found the chit, Swapped his own—then the map lit. No prayers for mercy. No speech for fear. Only a route: bridge room near. Direct path chosen, the shortest line— A hunter’s logic, cold and fine. Inside the ship, the halls ran tight. Auxilia rushed, a dozen in flight— Commoners pushed to the front like shields, Nobles tucked safe where the pressure yields. Further ahead, a quarrel formed— Two factions snarling, corners stormed. One escape pod, one thin hope— Two groups arguing at the end of a rope. Wyatt didn’t bargain. Wyatt didn’t speak. He found the locker—grenade bandolier— Pulled five pins like he was cutting a wire, And tossed them down the hallway like thrown-down fire. The ship shuddered. The lights flinched. The arguments stopped—every throat cinched. And when the smoke rolled back like a curtain drawn, He walked through wreckage and finished what spawned. On the bridge, screens showed a nightmare stride, A man who hunted while others tried to hide. “Close the blast doors,” Casmir roared— But haywire mines had eaten the board. Wyatt looked up at the watching lens And shot the camera dead for its sins. Then the map adjusted, the route turned clean: Hardline means bridge. Bridge means the queen. But then—another group—rifles lowered. A leader stepped up, voices cowered. “You’re not a Marine,” she said, unsure. He answered plain: “I’m commoner. Endure.” He offered a path no noble would give: Drop the weapons, hide, and live. They chose it—quiet, shaking, wise— And watched him vanish with storm in his eyes. A noble lay dying, sword through his gut, Loyal hands frantic, hope nearly shut. Wyatt stopped—against his own hard mind— And spent his biofoam, leaving time behind. “It won’t save him,” he said, voice flat, “But it might buy a pod, if you still have that.” Then he ran again, hating the kindness, Because mercy was weight—and he’d chosen violence. Near the bridge, the last stand formed: Twelve Marines, veterans, barricades stormed. Turrets watched the kill-lane wide— No cover. No trick. No easy stride. Combat stimulant poured like burning rain, And the pilot moved through the narrowing lane. Belly to deck, he slid like a blade, And ten blue trails cut a death parade. Then came the final corridor gate, Forty signatures stacked in a wall of hate. A captain spoke, cordial, tall— A man who still believed in duty at all. He didn’t beg. He didn’t bark. He offered terms in the dim, harsh dark. He said Royal Marines would arrive like doom— And dishonor would fill every traitor’s tomb. The captain answered with pride and law: “A duel,” he said, “to spare them all.” Not swordplay, not noble show— Bare fists, steel deck, and a silent row. Wyatt stepped out, guns put away, Because even killers choose a way. They traded blows like thunder traded rain, And time compressed into bright, hot pain. Weapons clattered. Morale collapsed. The bridge doors opened. The trap was lapsed. Inside waited Casmir with a sword held high— A speech of chivalry ready to try. Wyatt answered with a single shot. The arm came off. The speech came not. No duel today. No ritual dance. Just consequence in a hallway trance. Casmir crawled, chanting rules like prayer, But rules don’t stop a predator there. He ran—two steps—then the leg was gone, And the mighty heir became something withdrawn. Then Felicity stepped out, smooth with fear, Offering surrender, shaking near. A hidden blade flashed from her sleeve— A last cheap trick to try to leave. Wyatt caught her arm before it bit, And punched her face with measured grit. Bone cracked sharp. Blood filled mouth. Then her arm broke, bending south. ________________________________________ [Spoken Word – Male, Strong] “Your surrender has been noted,” ________________________________________ Like stamping a seal on the living and dead. And as the bridge doors breathed in the haze, Royal Marines arrived to end the phase. Wyatt glanced back, armor stained, eyes cold, White stag still clean, untouched by the mold. And with the ship finally quiet, he spoke like a man Who’d finished a job exactly as planned: ________________________________________ [Spoken Word – Male, Strong] “The ship is ours.” ________________________________________