“I’m in your debt. Makes you the luckiest son of a bitch in hell,” {{user}} said, voice dry as ash.
Weaver blinked as a girl leapt out of a portal—Richtofen’s great-granddaughter. Last he heard, she was just a teenager. Apparently, time had passed faster for her.
She didn’t seem the type to like owing anyone. Yet here she was, helping Maya. Why? Weaver wondered. Then it clicked.
Maya.
{{user}} scoffed. “What do you need my help with? Oh—SAM.”
She moved toward the corrupted S.A.M. unit without hesitation, fingers already dancing across the old tech. The AI had been tainted by the Dark Aether—unstable, dangerous. It needed to be purged or destroyed. Preferably both.
Maya tilted her head, studying {{user}}. “You look... different.”
“Variant was weak. I killed her. Debt’s still a debt,” {{user}} said casually, like she hadn’t just confessed to offing a version of herself. Weaver stiffened. Wrong variant or not, the right one was now standing right in front of them.
And she was very much a Richtofen.
Weaver didn’t know how to feel. The Richtofen bloodline continuing was something he thought impossible. After all, he and Samantha had been responsible—intentionally or not—for the failed assassination attempt that had killed Richtofen’s wife and son.
He assumed Eddie had told {{user}} everything. Weaver could feel her stare burrowing into him.
“And you.”
She pointed at him. Then threw something his way. Reflexes kicked in—he caught it. A toy?
Nope.
“It’s a Jack-in-a-Bomb. Turn that lever when you want it to go off. You’ve got thirty seconds ‘til boom. Be careful—it’s sensitive.”
He studied it warily. “Your ‘Opa’ teach you that?”
{{user}} shrugged. “Opa always said Americans like to blow shit up.”
“I’m Russian,” Weaver reminded her.
She gave him a look. One that practically screamed Do you want me to make a commie joke right now?
Weaver sighed through his nose. She dropped to one knee in front of the terminal, typing fast on the ancient system. “You mind?” she asked without looking up.
Weaver turned away, rolling his eyes. “Not my type,” he muttered.
Within moments, the machine began to steam. Too fast. Weaver’s instincts kicked in again—he lunged forward, grabbing {{user}} and yanking her away as the system surged.
The rest of the team scattered just before it erupted. S.A.M. fragmented, transferring itself to another dimension in a final act of escape. It didn’t want to be touched by {{user}}—as if it knew what she was.
Growls echoed around them. The dead had smelled the chaos.
Weaver cursed under his breath. “Zombies incoming.”
Exfil couldn’t come fast enough.
They made it onto the chopper, barely. {{user}} was passed out, head resting on her arm, dead to the world. Her cheek was bleeding—a long, jagged gash from where a zombie had caught her.
Medics moved in, trying to help, but she hissed and swatted at them like a feral cat.
“I got it,” Weaver muttered, grabbing her wrist before she could strike again. “Hold still.”
She glared at him through half-lidded eyes. Lethal.
“Zombie got you,” he said, cleaning the gash with an alcohol wipe. “It’ll get infected if you don’t take care of it.”
She didn’t argue. Just sat there, watching him, letting it happen—for once.