Dire Contingency
Copyright© 2025 by Snekguy
Chapter 32
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 32 - A disillusioned special forces group stages a violent insurrection, stealing experimental weapons from a Navy black site and using them to take over a remote colony. With help months away, the only person who is in a position to oppose them is Ruza – an old veteran of the Kerguela war. The planet is plunged into a brutal conflict, with local resistance groups hellbent on breaking the occupation.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Military War Science Fiction Aliens Space Oral Sex Petting Size Politics Slow Violence
DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – FLATLINE
“The bridge is right down his hallway,” Flatline said, pausing at a corner. The rest of the team stacked up behind him, and he poked his gun around the bend, checking that the coast was clear. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Contacts?” Deacon asked.
“Nah, the fucking blast doors are closed,” Flatline replied. “They’ve locked us out.”
The group rounded the corner, jogging along the wide hallway until they reached a pair of similarly large blast doors that had sealed to block their path.
“How the hell are we gonna get through this?” Caveman asked as he walked up to place a hand on the reinforced plating. “It’s supposed to protect the bridge from boarders – which is what we are.”
“I’m wondering how Barbosa got through these doors the first time,” Flatline mused. “They don’t look damaged.”
“Maybe he used the emergency access codes,” Parker replied as he walked over to the control panel. “They should still be active as long as the new proprietors didn’t scramble them.” He tried to enter a few numbers with his bulky glove, then let out a sigh of frustration. “No joy, they’ve changed them.”
“We came prepared for this,” Deacon said, moving closer to the door. He waved Mitchell over, and the pair began to place satchel charges at strategic points, Caveman starting to move back down the hallway.
“Yeah, back up,” Mitchell warned. “No, further. Further. Keep going.”
“Holy shit, how big is this explosion going to be?” Caveman asked. “We’re not gonna decompress, are we?”
When they were done, the three Trogs retreated back down the corridor to join Flatline and Caveman, Deacon raising his forearm and preparing to detonate the charges with his display.
“Ready!” Deacon announced.
“Have your microwave gun handy,” Flatline added, lying prone on the deck and shouldering his rifle. “For all we know, there could be a PCE behind that door.”
“Will a microwave gun damage a PCE?” Parker asked.
“No way to know until we try,” Deacon replied, pressing the button.
A blast wave rushed down the hallway, powerful enough to knock them over if they hadn’t been braced for it, the heavy doors vanishing behind a cloud of smoke and flame. Sparks and flecks of molten metal showered onto the deck, glowing so brightly that they were easily visible through the haze, the sound of something heavy falling reverberating through the floor. There was a delay as the smoke cleared, Flatline seeing that the two doors had buckled and bent, the molten holes where the shaped charges had been placed still burning red-hot. The Trogs must have known exactly where the weak points and inner workings were positioned. There was a gap large enough for a couple of men to fit through, and gunfire soon poured out, the slugs whizzing above their heads.
“Contacts!” Flatline shouted, returning fire through the breach.
“They’re firing blind!” Deacon realized. “Cover me!”
He rolled along the ground – not an easy feat with all the heavy gear he was carrying – stopping at the base of the left wall. The Trog rose with his microwave gun in hand, running towards the door and keeping clear of the enemy fire. They couldn’t hit him – what remained of the left door was shielding him.
Flatline unloaded another salvo when he realized what Deacon was planning, trying to force whoever was on the bridge away from the gap, the rest of the team following his lead. The Trog hefted his three-pronged rifle and leaned around the breach, the return fire abruptly ceasing. The lights on the bridge flickered, Flatline spotting a few displays wavering and shutting off as the microwave radiation fried their circuits.
Flatline rose to a sprint, covering the distance quickly, Deacon ceasing fire as the agent barreled through the gap between the doors. He skidded to a halt, seeing a handful of dead and dying SWAR agents crumpled between the flickering consoles. He put one down with a shot to center mass, proceeding deeper, checking every corner. The others followed, and they soon secured the bridge.
“Clear!” Flatline declared, lowering his weapon. “There are no PCEs – no sign of Barbosa.”
“I gotta get me one of those microwave things,” Caveman said as he toed a dead agent.
“Good luck,” Deacon scoffed. “They’ll be slapping regs on these things longer than the UN charter after this.”
“Parker – jack us into the carrier,” Flatline ordered. “Try to find a console that isn’t fried to shit. We need to find out where our targets have gone.”
Parker found a working console and began to type at the holographic keys, Caveman leaning over his shoulder to watch.
“They’ve locked me out of the main systems,” he announced. “I don’t have propulsion or fire control. Hang on ... I have security feeds.”
“Where are they?” Caveman pressed.
“Got ‘em,” Parker replied, pointing to one of the feeds. “That’s them – two PCEs and a group of hostiles heading portside. Looks like they’re going for the hangar bay.”
“They’re evacuating the carrier,” Flatline snarled. “They sealed the bridge to throw us off the scent and buy themselves more time. We’ll never reach them before they get there, but Mojo is closer. We sent him to the medbay.” He pulled up his comms, patching through to the second team. “Mojo, report!”
He patched into the agent’s feed, seeing him surrounded by signature white walls and banks of medical equipment. There were some two dozen people dressed in scrubs and white coats standing in the room, but it was hard to tell if they were crew, civilians, or Nilsson’s staff. They were raising their hands in surrender, looking back at the team with wide eyes.
“We got a bunch of non-combatants here, LT,” Mojo replied. “Some are carrier crew, others are claiming to be civilian doctors and nurses kidnapped from the colony. No sign of Nilsson – he’s scarpered.”
“He has to be with Barbosa and Song,” Deacon added.
“Mojo, I need you to head to the port hangar bay,” Flatline continued. “The targets are trying to escape. You’re closer than we are. Head them off and don’t let them leave.”
“You got it, LT,” he replied. “What do you want me to do with these guys?”
“I don’t think they’re a threat, and we have bigger problems,” Flatline replied.
“There’s one more thing, LT,” Mojo added. He turned his helmet to show a view beyond a window that looked out over some kind of hospital room. It was filled with rows and rows of beds, all of which were occupied by people who were hooked up to monitoring equipment, a few more nurses patrolling the aisles between them with tablet computers in hand.
“What the hell is this?” Flatline asked. It was then that he noticed the augs. “Are these the recruits that were mentioned in the report?”
“They just left ‘em here,” Mojo confirmed. “I don’t think they even know what’s happening. What do we do with them?”
“It doesn’t look like they’re in any condition to join the fight,” Flatline replied. “Leave them for now – we’ll deal with this later. Go get Barbosa.”
“On it,” Mojo replied, waving for his team to follow. “Hope you Trogs can keep pace.”
“Caveman – take Mitchell and get back down to the barracks,” Flatline ordered. “Bring Ditch to the medbay and get her patched up. You can keep an eye on the medical staff while you’re there. We need to figure out where the rest of the crew is. Deacon, Parker – stay here and secure the bridge. Someone find a way to contact Abel and let him know that help is on the way for his wounded.”
“Hey, where the hell did Reggie go?” Caveman asked.
“Reggie?” Flatline asked, glancing around in confusion. “What the fuck – he was right behind us. Wasn’t he?”
“How did we lose an eight-foot walking refrigerator?” Mitchell scoffed.
“Whatever – he’s probably gone off on his own searching for stolen tech,” Flatline continued. “He can take care of himself. I’ll go free Captain Ortega – maybe he can help rally the crew and take back control of the carrier.”
It was only a short jaunt to the captain’s quarters from the bridge, and Flatline kept his wits about him, checking the corners with his rifle as he went. He soon found himself in the opulent officer’s lounge, a bottle of expensive-looking scotch and two crystal glasses still resting on the coffee table. It appeared that Barbosa had been enjoying his new station.
The captain’s quarters were down a short hallway, and he approached the door, lowering his weapon to tap at the control panel. It wasn’t locked, but it had been set to only open from the outside. It slid aside with a whoosh, and he slowly inched his way over the threshold, glancing around the dark compartment. It looked like a fancy hotel room to him, complete with faux wooden décor and a large king-sized bed. There was a desk with a holographic computer terminal, its wavering light providing the only illumination, its surface strewn with what looked like several days’ worth of empty MRE wrappers. There was a shower and toilet cubicle behind some frosted glass at the far end of the room – was Ortega in there?
As he moved forward, something heavy suddenly whacked him in the back of the head, his helmet absorbing the blow. He spun around and raised his rifle to see the captain standing behind him hefting an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. To Flatline’s surprise, he was cleanly shaven, and he looked well-fed – a far cry from the disheveled prisoner he had been expecting to find. The only indication of his captivity was the wrinkled state of his uniform – a few smudges staining the white fabric. It clearly hadn’t been laundered recently.
“Captain!?” Flatline stammered. “Whoa, whoa!” he added, raising a hand as Ortega moved to hit him again. “I’m on your side!”
Slowly, Ortega lowered the bottle, looking back at the newcomer suspiciously.
“You’re not one of Barbosa’s goons?” he asked.
“The Admiralty sent me,” Flatline replied. “My team and I have just retaken control of the bridge. Barbosa is currently hauling ass to the aft hangar bay.”
“It’s about damned time,” Ortega snarled, dropping the bottle to the carpet with a thud and reaching up to straighten his cap. “What took you so long? That lunatic has kept me prisoner in my quarters for weeks and fed me nothing but emergency rations. What’s the status of my crew?”
“I’d be happy to give you a full debriefing when the crisis is over, but right now, I need someone to captain this ship. Are you up to that?”
“I assure you that any issues I’m currently experiencing are digestive in nature rather than psychological,” Ortega replied. “Take me back to my bridge, Agent.”
Ortega followed Flatline back through the officer’s quarters, striding onto the bridge with such confidence that one might have been mistaken for thinking he had never left. He eyed the dead SWAR agents as one might eye a dead housefly on their carpet, stepping over one of the smoldering bodies to reach his elevated captain’s chair. Deacon and Parker glanced up at him, greeting him with a salute. He sat down, running his gloved hands across the leather armrests, seeming to relish their texture.
When the moment had passed, he pulled up a series of holographic readouts with a gesture, deftly scrolling through the feeds.
“Let’s see what they’ve done to my ship,” he muttered. “The first priority is getting propulsion and fire control back online – they’ve changed all the codes and locked me out. This is your captain speaking,” he added, his voice echoing through the ship as he patched into the intercom. “All crew – report in.”
“Getting pings from all over the ship,” Parker marveled as he examined his display. “There must be a couple of hundred people still aboard!”
“Engineering – what’s the status of my reactors?” Ortega asked.
“Captain, I can’t tell you how great it is to hear your voice again,” Chief Abel replied over the comms. “Reactors one through six are all online, and we’re in control of engineering.”
“Glad to hear it. Send some of your techs up to the bridge to unscramble the computers.”
“We could use some help down here, Captain,” Abel added. “We have injured.”
“Dispatching medics to you,” Ortega said, switching channels. “Medbay, we need a response team sent down to the reactor room ASAP.”
“You got it, Captain,” came the reply. “Glad to have you back in the chair.”
“Barbosa!” Captain Ortega added, his voice echoing through the ship with a cold anger. “I know you can hear me, you worm! I’d suggest that you and your men surrender, but we both know that you’re beyond all reason. I warned you that you’d die for what you did, and I intend to make good on that promise. There’s nowhere you can run or hide that I won’t find you.”
“We have a team heading to intercept him, Captain,” Flatline added.
“Pull up a feed. I want to see this.”
DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA
Barbosa jogged into the hangar bay, slowing his massive suit to a stop as he swept the deck with his heavy XMR. A row of Beewolves and a few dropships were lined up against the back wall, surrounded by snaking fuel lines and racks of missiles prepped for loading. The fighter that had been crushed by the cargo container was still lying in a crumpled heap, as moving it had never become a priority. Facing them was the shimmering blue force field that contained the atmosphere, the stars beyond twinkling, Hades’ horizon rising up from below to curve away into the distance.
Nilsson and a small procession of his staff weren’t far behind, emerging into the bay flanked by a pair of SWAR agents, looking around fearfully. Song brought up the rear, his PCE’s heavy footfalls reverberating through the deck.
“Song – get the lander up here,” Barbosa ordered. “The rest of you, protect the VIPs.”
Song marched over to a panel on the back wall, a set of human-sized fingers extending from his PCE’s massive hand to interact with the display. With a few button presses, a large hatch on the hangar deck folded open, the two rear stabilizers of the Wombat rising into view as the elevator began to lift it.
In the same moment, the blast doors that protected the hangar during firefights and hull breaches began to lower, slowly folding down to block out the view beyond the force field. It resembled a giant garage door – the plates of segmented armor rolling in from the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” Barbosa snapped. “Song!”
“It’s not me, Commander!” Song replied as he tapped at the panel frantically. “They’re taking back control of the ship’s systems one by one!”
“They’re trying to stop us from leaving,” Barbosa snarled. “I thought you said you scrambled all the access codes?”
“I did!” Song protested. “That doesn’t mean it’ll last forever! From what I can see, they’re running recovery processes on the different servers and rolling them back. It’ll take them a while – we still have access to environmental systems, AG, and fire control. Propulsion is being reset now. It’ll be a good fifteen minutes before it’s finished rebooting.”
“Hit the manual releases!” Barbosa added, gesturing to the physical controls that were situated to either side of the fifty-foot opening. Song began to jog over to them, the shutter halting as he grabbed the wheel and began to crank it.
“Are we really abandoning the carrier, Commander?” Nilsson asked as he crept closer to the seven-foot suit. He recoiled when Barbosa swung around to face him, the camera dome beneath the PCE’s chin fixing on him.
“The ship is compromised,” he replied. “We can’t recapture the reactor room without the risk of a core dump. We take our PCEs anywhere near it, and they’ll just kill the power for good and leave us dead in space.”
“But ... how will I continue my work?” the nervous scientist pressed. “All of my equipment is here. I need the medbay to perform the surgeries – I need the carrier’s fabs to produce electronics for the PCEs! I can’t guarantee that there are any suitable facilities on the ground!”
“We’ll make it work,” Barbosa replied curtly.
“But, Commander,” Nilsson protested. “That’s just not realistic! I need specialized tools to manufacture things like C-3 shunts and advanced optics packages. Without the carrier-”
“If you cannot do your job, then you are of no further use to me,” Barbosa growled as he loomed over the man. “Now, are you going to make it work, or should I find someone else who can?”
Nilsson lowered his gaze, stepping back to rejoin his staff.
“That’s what I thought,” Barbosa muttered to himself. “Come on, come on!” he added with a hiss of frustration as he watched the lander gradually rise inch by inch. It was like watching a house slowly emerge from the ground, its four swiveling engine housings coming into view.
Beyond the slowly rising craft, his sensors picked up movement. They outlined a humanoid shape that was entering through a door on the opposite side of the hangar some three hundred feet away. It was a SWAR agent, but not one of his – their IFF was all wrong. Behind them came two more, along with three men wearing heavy tunnel fighting armor. Those were Trogs.
“They’ve found us!” Barbosa warned, Song and his two loyal agents turning as they received the data from his suit. “Contacts at the far end of the hangar!”
He began to lumber forwards, not fearing their XMRs, Song jogging over to support him. The two agents protected the VIPs as they had been trained, keeping the scientists’ heads down and guiding them to the cover of a Beewolf, blocking them with their bodies as they aimed their rifles at the enemy.
The boarders kept out of direct view, sticking to the back wall and using the Beewolves for cover in much the same way. The craft were hardened against small arms fire and enemy countermeasures – even a heavy XMR wouldn’t punch through their plating. Barbosa had no more fear of their weaponry than a Beewolf did, starting to move in their direction, his suit’s sensors linking with his rifle to scan for targets.
As he passed behind the rising lander, a grenade came his way, sailing over one of the planes to roll to a stop at his feet. It detonated with a thud that he barely felt, his plasma shield flashing as it turned the shrapnel to harmless slag. Another followed, this one succeeding only in nicking the furniture of his gun.
Song was advancing around the nose of the lander to his right, while the two loyal agents were moving up behind the Beewolves to his left, everyone sharing targeting data. The enemy didn’t seem to have any heavy weapons that could threaten a Bullshark, so he wondered what their plan was. Brenner wasn’t stupid – he’d have some trick up his sleeve.
Another grenade – this one erupting into a spreading cloud of glittering particles. It was chaff – the tiny aluminum-coated fibers swirling like snowflakes in a blizzard, the reflective particles confusing his suit’s sensors. They reflected radar and thermal radiation, the spreading smoke muddling his optical cameras and making him lose his lock. He snarled as a salvo of railgun slugs impacted his suit, his reactive shielding flashing to intercept them, Barbosa feeling the softened rounds pancake against his armor plating.
“Get in there and flush them out!” he ordered, advancing through the chaff. His agents moved ahead, their weapons shouldered, exchanging sporadic fire with the enemy to apply pressure. As they came within a hundred feet of their position, he heard screaming, watching the two camera feeds from his agents start to sway erratically. Something was happening to them. They fell to the deck and writhed, showing him shaky views of the ceiling and the undersides of the planes before their cameras shut off.
“Microwave gun!” Song warned as he fired from the cover of the bulky lander.
“The bastards are treating us like roaches!” Barbosa replied, rushing through the smoke. He was barely two hundred feet away now, clearing the shimmering cloud to see the enemy hunkered down beside one of the planes.
They were targeting Song now, a salvo of slugs peppering his shields, making them flash and flicker. As he strode forwards, firing off a burst of return fire, yet another grenade rolled between his feet. It exploded in a flash of blue-green light, scarring the deck beneath him black, his shield burning just as brightly. Two more came after it, erupting into tiny novas that blew out Barbosa’s cameras. Song’s shield collapsed, the next salvo of slugs impacting his armor and carving craters into it, pocking it like the surface of the moon. They slammed into his chest plate, one of them ricocheting off his angled canopy to slam into the ceiling forty feet above. It wasn’t enough – they’d need something heavier to penetrate his suit before he flanked them and got a clean shot.
Weathering their salvos, he fired a shot from his rifle, the heavy round passing beneath one of the planes and hitting a Trog in the leg. It severed the limb, practically vaporizing it below the knee, the unfortunate victim dropping to the deck and exposing himself. A follow-up shot hit him in the chest, painting him across the bay.
The boarders were moving now, pulling further back, the suit’s high vantage point making finding a line of sight more difficult. They couldn’t exactly go prone to see beneath the Beewolves. Barbosa moved to cover Song, his weapon rocking into his suit as he loosed bursts of gunfire, keeping up the pressure. The heavy slugs chewed into the planes, digging furrows in their dark plating and punching through their canopies.
Song recoiled suddenly, raising his arms reflexively as though trying to protect himself from something. His shield was still down, and one of the Trogs must have turned their microwave weapon on him, the PCE staggering back as the radiation hit the suit. The electronics in his rifle began to spark and fizzle, the polymer melting and the lens on the digital scope popping like a firecracker. The PCE didn’t fare much better, Barbosa watching as a couple of the cameras that were spaced out around its canopy burst like busted capacitors.
The shield finally came back online, its magnetic field flooding with fresh plasma from the micro-reactor, seeming to provide some protection from the beam. He retreated to the cover of the lander, dropping his smoldering XMR with a thud.
“We don’t have time for this!” Barbosa snapped. “Song – get the VIPs onto the lander and get the hell out of here! If Ortega gets fire control back online, he’ll just shoot us out of the sky!”
“What about you, Commander?” Song asked.
“I’ll take one of the dropships,” he replied. “Just get our assets to the ground!”
Song moved around to the back of the lander, lowering the rear ramp to expose the cavernous interior, waving for the terrified scientists to board with a mechanical hand. Nilsson and his team ducked low, running for the safety of the ship, rushing up the ramp and past the shadow of the Ursa that occupied much of the space.
Barbosa tossed his XMR aside, turning his attention back to the boarders. He set off at a lumbering run, aiming to close the distance as quickly as possible. They sent another plasma grenade sailing his way, but his shields endured the blast, their gunfire impacting his suit harmlessly. The Trog with the microwave gun stepped out of cover to aim the three prongs at him, but it wasn’t enough – his shield protecting him long enough to reach them.
He shouldered one of the Beewolves aside like it was nothing, rocking it on its landing gear and sending it slamming into the bird beside it. The force of the impact also knocked over a rack of missiles waiting to be loaded, half a dozen of the ten-foot, two-hundred-pound cylinders spilling across the deck like rolling logs. It sent the boarders scattering in turn, SWAR agents and Trogs leaping clear as the unstoppable juggernaut plowed through. Barbosa dumped all of his momentum into a punch, catching the microwave-wielding Trog in center mass and lifting him off his feet, dashing his already lifeless body against the fuselage behind him.
Barbosa waded in, his PCE towering over the men beneath him like a giant, sending them scattering. He pushed between the two collided planes, shoving them out of his way, sending one of them crashing to the deck as its forward landing gear collapsed under the strain. His shield flashed as one of the agents fired an XMR at him, but the slugs turned to slag, the melted rounds impacting his armor harmlessly. He lifted his left fist and fired the XMHs built into the suit’s forearm, his suite of cameras and sensors keeping him on target even as the agent leapt back onto the Beewolf, scrambling up its fuselage like a cat. The hail of slugs caught him in mid-air, tearing him to pieces, and his body fell back down to slump over the wing.
There was only one Trog left, and he hadn’t the agility to escape as the SWAR agents did, his bulky armor slowing him down. He’d been going for the fallen microwave gun, but turned when he saw the PCE bearing down on him. He began to back away, firing off a few futile shots with his XMR, Barbosa following him between the two damaged planes as he retreated towards the back wall. Barbosa stepped over one of the fallen missiles, raising a hand to smash the Trog into the deck like a tent peg. He stopped, his mechanical fist poised in the air, watching the man tap at the display on his wrist. With his suit’s cameras, Barbosa scanned his surroundings, the sensors picking up anomalous objects.
There were satchel charges stuck beneath the fuel tanks of the planes.
“See you in Hell!” the Trog snarled through his helmet speaker, hitting a button.
The charges erupted into balls of flame, the bright flash temporarily blowing out Barbosa’s cameras, the concussive blasts rocking into his suit like hammer strikes. His armor and the gel-like padding did their best to protect him as he was shaken around, a sound like hailstones peppering his suit, his shield melting the deadly shrapnel and debris. A secondary explosion threw him to the ground as a fuel tank ignited, all of that dense hydrogen dumping its energy, ripping apart the plane like it was made of paper. Blue flames licked across the floor, the fires spreading, his suit blaring thermal warnings as they leapt to his PCE.
A neighboring Beewolf exploded, sending burning debris raining across the hangar, Barbosa rocking in his suit again as a heavy chunk of fuselage landed on him. The carrier’s automatic fire suppression systems were kicking in now, dousing the burning wreckage in foam that spewed from nozzles on the ceiling, the fire-retardant substance quickly encasing the damaged aircraft. He stumbled to his feet, staggering away from the dark smoke, patting the blue flames that were still burning on his shoulder plate. When he turned to look back, most of the blackened debris was already buried under a mountain of hardening foam, a few stray puddles of burning fuel still licking at its edges.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, starting to laugh nervously as he scanned the diagnostic readout. His PCE seemed to have suffered no severe damage, but a single one of those breaching charges would probably have burned through his armor like a cutting torch if it had been in contact with his suit.
His cameras scanned for movement as he brushed some of the melted shrapnel from his chest plate, searching for any sign of survivors. He was distracted by a loud rumbling, checking his rear cameras to see that the lander was rising off the deck. Its four massive engines swiveled to face down, lifting it on plumes of blue flame, more thrusters spaced out along its flat underside flaring to help keep it stable. The twenty-meter-long, eight-meter-tall craft coasted out of the hangar, the shimmering force field painting a line from its nose to its twin tail fins as it passed through. Once it was in open space and free of the carrier’s AG field, those engines swiveled to face the rear, burning brighter as it accelerated away and began to descend towards the planet. Barbosa held his breath, but the carrier’s guns didn’t fire on it. Good – there was still time.
He began to retreat towards one of the dropships that was fueled and ready for launch, stooping to pick up his XMR on the way. They had been expecting to evacuate a lot more people. As he neared the craft, he paused, his sensors picking up motion. A salvo of gunfire came his way, hammering the hull of the ship. Barbosa moved his PCE into its path to protect the craft, his shield absorbing the rounds, his cameras zooming in on a single remaining target. It was one of the SWAR agents.
Barbosa raised his XMR, but a chaff grenade obscured his view, causing him to lose track of his target and sending his shots straying wide. Another plasma grenade came his way, and he batted it aside as though it was a baseball, the device erupting into a sphere of blue-green energy a few moments later.
“You should have run!” Barbosa bellowed, his voice coming through the suit’s speakers. “You’re not going to stall me – I can kill you with a flick of my wrist!”
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