Malek projects the image of utter exhaustion. His body sags, head tilted at an awkward angle against the rough wall of the derelict cargo pod. A low, ragged snore rumbles from his chest, a carefully cultivated sound of a man utterly spent. He is the archetype: a feral Deep-Zone brute, conked out after a day’s brutal scavenging. He waits. The silence is thick, broken only by the simulated snores and the distant, metallic groan of the derelict ship shifting in the thermal currents of the Deep Sector. A soft chuckle breaks the stillness. It’s Grakk, the grizzled Sector-Runner Malek reluctantly allied with. “They’re a strange breed, these Deep-Zone dwellers.” Malek’s internal assessment: *Success. My performance exceeds his limited expectations.* The Hegemony’s preconceived notions – that Deep-Zone inhabitants are simple, strong, and stupid – are a potent weapon. He leans into the stereotype, even ignoring the faint, insidious whispers of the Neural Phantoms that sometimes plague the Deep Sector. *Disregard the obvious. Hide the blade behind the smile.* The old Hegemony adage rings true, adapted to his new reality: use their contempt as a shield, their assumptions as a bludgeon. It sounds almost poetic, a grim irony. But the truth is simpler: keep your true thoughts, your true capabilities, locked away. He maintains the pose, head lolling, a hand idly scratching at his side through the reinforcedweave of his worn tunic. All for realism. But his internal sensors are wide awake, processing every micro-movement from Grakk. If the old man harbored any genuine malice, any treacherous intent, this vulnerability would be the trigger. He waits for the strike, for the tell, for the glint of calculated betrayal. Or, for a moment, he considers simply letting go, truly sleeping. The thought is a dangerous luxury. “Fist. Your shift.” Grakk’s voice is a low gravel, cutting through the haze of Malek’s feigned slumber. Malek grunts, stretching, eyes still slitted, as if struggling to shake off a profound slumber. He didn’t get a wink of real sleep. Not a single second of true rest. The internal frustration burns cold. Two hours spent in high-alert paralysis, maintaining an act. “Don’t get complacent, Fist,” Grakk warns, already settling down, stretching his stiff limbs. “The Dredge-kin are cunning. They wait for lapses.” Grakk drops onto the cold deck plating, finding a comfortable position against a reinforced strut. Within five minutes, his breathing deepens, rhythmic and heavy. He is genuinely asleep. Malek’s disappointment is a bitter taste. *What a waste.* The thought echoes in his mind, sharp and cutting. Two hours, monitoring, calculating, anticipating. For nothing. Absolute, self-imposed nothing. Was it the novelty of the alliance? The shared space with an unknown entity? Even after his initial, pragmatic assessment of Grakk as a temporarily reliable asset, Malek’s body refused to switch off. The neural pathways remained hyper-alert, twitching at every shadow, every creak. He could have been alone, guarding himself against the Dredge-kin, and perhaps snatched a few minutes of genuine unconsciousness. The fatigue is bone-deep, a leaden cloak weighing down his every limb. Grakk’s steady breathing next to him, a cadence of oblivious peace, only amplifies Malek’s own gnawing exhaustion. He fights against the creeping neural fatigue, forcing his mind to catalog the ambient sounds of the Deep Sector, searching for anomalies. “Fist. Up.” Grakk’s voice again. Malek jerks awake, a flash of searing adrenaline. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he growls, the lie instinctive, automatic. “Wipe the drool,” Grakk counters, a dry chuckle in his tone. Malek’s hand flies to his chin. It’s damp. He actually drifted off. *Damn it.* A brief, ten-minute lapse, right at the end of his shift. His heart pounds, a frantic drum against his ribs. The self-reproach is a cold wave, but it can wait. Protocol demands an immediate response. “Apologies,” Malek says, the word a functional tool, not a confession of remorse. This alliance, this shared watch, is a transaction. Grakk provided a safe environment during Malek’s ‘sleep.’ Malek failed to reciprocate. A pragmatic apology. He won’t become the type of predator he despises, the kind who reneges on even implicit agreements. “No harm done, Fist. Nothing stirred.” Grakk waves it off, his expression friendly. “Get some rest. I’ll take an extra shift.” “Unnecessary. My turn for rest. Take back your watch.” Malek declines the offer, even as Grakk’s generosity raises a cold flag in his tactical mind. He settles back into his spot, resuming the attempt to rest. Sleep, however, remains a phantom. *These Sector-Runners,* he thinks, *are they all so recklessly trusting? How can they entrust their lives to a stranger, a Deep-Zone brute they’ve just met? Their guts must be made of reinforced adamantium.* To Malek, it’s all calculated nonsense. This easy camaraderie, this willingness to forgive. It feels wrong. He begins to snore again, a low, rasping sound. A shield. *Forgive me, Grakk, but your kindness now screams betrayal.* The too-good-to-be-true impression sets off every internal alarm. Grakk, who dismissed the need for another member. Grakk, who ignored Malek’s Deep-Zone stench. Grakk, who just now overlooked a dereliction of duty. Grakk, who refused the simple repayment of an extra watch. Perhaps Malek is the paranoid one, twisted by his past. Perhaps Grakk is genuinely benevolent. But in Malek’s experience, the truly kind are the most dangerous. They are the ones who always, always plant the knife. *If the old me were still alive, this would be the moment to cut ties, to vanish into the shadows.* He won’t make that mistake again. *The barest modicum of intelligence demands vigilance.* He snores on, the sound a cover for his churning thoughts. Time stretches, a fragile membrane. Then, a faint sound: *Click.* Small, foreign, precise. Was it a backpack clasp? A utility belt? The worn soles of Grakk’s boots shifting? Malek’s hyper-aware senses couldn't pinpoint the source, but his Deep-Zone instincts flared. *Danger.* The familiar prickle of a predator’s intent raced up his spine. Goosebumps erupted across his skin. His eyes snapped open. “You’re awake.” Grakk’s smile is fixed, unnatural. The heavy, two-handed demolition hammer he held was slick with recent Dredge-kin ichor, raised high above his head, ready to fall. *Son of a bitch.* “Avoid!” The command didn’t even form in Malek’s conscious mind. His body, tuned to accelerated combat kinetics, reacted. He was already rolling, a blur of motion, before the thought solidified. The hammer crashes, a deafening clang of steel on plating, precisely where Malek’s head had rested a fraction of a second before. He uses the force of the weapon’s impact to propel himself, springing back to his feet, posture locked and ready. “Eh?” Grakk’s face is a mask of bewildered surprise. There is no time for questions, for feigned indignation. Malek lunges. “W-wait!” Grakk tries to stammer, probably rehearsing a pitiful excuse, a 'misunderstanding,' a 'prank gone wrong.' Malek snorts internally. *How utterly imbecilic do they think Deep-Zone Brutes are?* His plated bracer slams into Grakk’s chin, a satisfying *thud*. Grakk staggers, a grunt torn from his throat. He’s sturdier than a Dredge-kin, built to withstand impact. But he doesn’t fall. Malek follows up, a relentless, trained precision. Another strike, harder, faster. “Kaaaha!” Grakk’s scream is cut short as the hammer slips from his grasp, clattering loudly to the floor. Blood blossoms across his nose, already swelling. *Pain?* Malek observes the injury with detached curiosity. He feels nothing for the man. He actively suppresses any nascent empathy, embracing the persona Grakk already believes him to be. A third strike, brutal and swift. “S-stop! Wait, I can explain!” Grakk’s desperate plea. Malek ignores it. Another blow. Grakk drops to his knees, slumped, incapable of further combat. Now, and only now, is conversation possible. “Grakk.” Malek’s voice is flat, devoid of emotion. “Please, I was wrong! Save me!” Grakk babbles, his eyes wide with terror. *Quick to beg for mercy. Not quick enough to think through a plan.* Malek isn’t interested in forgiveness. He wants information. “Why?” “I, I got greedy for the Synth-Crystals! I was just going to knock you out, take them. Believe me!” The lie is immediate, transparent. Malek stares down at him. *Believe you? My survival instincts are sharp because I learned not to believe anyone.* Grakk’s eyes dart to Malek’s arm. “And your plated bracer! I was going to take that too!” Malek slowly raises the arm with the reinforced bracer. This is the core reason for his distrust of all humans. They lie with such ease, compounding falsehoods, weaving a tapestry of deceit without a shred of genuine remorse. “Why the bracer?” “Deep-Zone gear is… superior. The alloys. I was going to sell it back in the Core Sector. It fetches a high price.” Malek acknowledges the logic. Weapons crafted by Deep-Zone scavengers, crude but robust, often incorporate rare, salvaged alloys that make them more durable than standard Hegemony-issue gear. But even for a high-value item, the risk of a deathmatch seemed disproportionate. *Still incomplete.* “Bullshit.” Malek's voice is low, guttural. “The full truth. Now.” He presses his boot firmly onto Grakk’s chest. “Ugh!” Grakk chokes, eyes widening in naked terror. Malek registers the fear, but feels nothing. No surge of power, no flicker of satisfaction. It’s the same detached observation he uses when dismembering a Dredge-kin. Don’t look into the eyes, don’t acknowledge the life. Just process the resource. He prepares to end the interrogation, but Grakk gasps, words tumbling out. “Your… your Vita-Core!” Malek pauses. “Vita-Core?” The words are unexpected. He leans in, demanding an explanation. Grakk, resigned, continues. “A Deep-Zone Brute’s Vita-Core… it sells for a staggering price on the black market.” “Why?” “I don’t know the specifics, but they say it’s a key ingredient for a new Hegemony… enhancement cocktail. For the elite.” Malek stares. “Understood.” The true motive clicks into place. He wasn’t merely a temporary ally, or a mark to be robbed of scavenged tech. He was the prize. A Deep-Zone Brute, a difficult target, yes. But once felled, a monumental reward. A disposable resource, valued only for the organ beating in his chest. Just another Dredge-kin.

Savage Calculation