Chapter 3: High Noon on Walston

The Calibrandr’s sensor operator stiffened, their voice cutting through the tense hum of the bridge. "Captain! The Beowulf - it’s got a sensor lock on us!"

The bridge fell silent for a heartbeat before the captain’s laughter filled the corsair's bridge, sharp and manic. It echoed across the room, sending a chill down even the most hardened crew members' spines. "Those fleas dare interfere?" he bellowed, rising to his full height. His eyes burned with fury beneath his death mask as he thrust a finger toward the viewport. "Turn us about! We’ll put an end to their meddling once and for all!"

The crew scrambled to obey, the tension thick as the ship groaned into motion. The captain’s laughter died into a low growl, his gaze fixed on the distant stars where his enemies lurked. He understood the danger - two ships closing in, the odds turning against him. But the thought of revenge ignited a fire in his chest, more potent than fear or reason. Salvage be damned; nothing would stand between him and the destruction of the Wayward Wind.

"Prepare the weapons," he barked, his voice cold and ruthless. "Today, we bury them all!"

The Calibrandr shudders as fire rips through its spine. Once a predator of the void, she now drifts wounded, its weapons mangled beyond recognition. The Wayward Wind’s missile strike has struck true.

He stands rigid at the center of the bridge, his eyes flickering with raw, seething fury from behind his death mask. His remaining organic hand clenches into a trembling fist, while the steel fingers of the other curl against his palm, servo motors whining with the force of his rage. His revenge was so close—he had them, helpless before his ship's mighty guns. And now, those guns are gone.

The crew is silent, too afraid to speak, too afraid to acknowledge the truth pressing down on them like a weight: they must flee. The captain does not give the order right away. His breathing is harsh, mechanical, like the damaged ship itself. He turns toward the main viewscreen, where the Wayward Wind is on a direct intercept course.

His fury roils through the ship like a living thing. The Calibrandr feels it, in the way his cybernetic implants interface with its systems, feeding his thoughts directly into its wounded circuits. If there were even a single functioning weapon left, the ship knows he would fire it, consequences be damned. But there is nothing. No missiles. No laser cannons. Only the broken husk of a warship bleeding sparks into the void.

A crew member dares to speak. "Sir, we need to withdraw before they..."

The captain turns on them so quickly that they shrink back, eyes wide. His voice is a growl, each syllable edged with distortion from his damaged vocal modulator. "I know that."

The order comes, spat like venom: "Get us out of here."

This is not over. He will see them broken. He will see them burn. And the Calibrandr will carry his vengeance until the stars themselves are nothing but cinders...