“Good,” I murmur. “I like warm metal.”
I cradle her, feel the rise and fall of her chest, hear the shiver in her next breath. I watch her fingers clench the hem of my uniform shirt.
I don’t let go.
Not tonight.
The dawn won’t bring safety. The dawn will bring motion. Motion forward, or downward. But in this stillness—just us—I hope we anchor ourselves long enough to outrun the ghosts.
I close my eyes again, memorizing: her hair splayed across my arm, his hand on mine, the scrambler collar’s faint hum against my throat. I commit each detail to memory. In case it’s the last time I ever feel them like this.
________________________________________________________________________
The air inside the shelter smells like metal and dust baked in old heat. It clings to my skin, the kind of dryness that makes every breath taste like iron. The recycler hums in the corner, struggling against its age. I keep my back against the cold wall, knees bent, watching the kid build something out of scrap wire.
Nessa’s tongue pokes out the side of her mouth as she works. She’s serious about it—tiny fingers twisting copper filament and plastic connectors into a half-formed shape that looks like it could be a ship or a claw. Hard to tell.
Rynn sits across the room, her compad balanced on one knee. She’s trying to scrub traces of our old IDs from the net. Her hair’s tied up, jaw tight. Every few seconds she exhales hard through her nose, the way she does when the code isn’t cooperating. I watch her for a beat too long before Nessa’s voice breaks the silence.
“Da,” she says, casual as a breath.
It hits me like a plasma round. Not loud. Not dramatic. JustDa.Offhand. Natural. Like she’s said it all her life.
I freeze.
Rynn glances up. Her eyes widen a fraction, then she looks back to her screen like if she doesn’t acknowledge it, maybe I won’t combust on the spot.
“Yeah, cub?” I manage, my voice rougher than it should be.
She holds up her creation—a crooked little model of a raptor, maybe? The wire legs don’t match, and one wing’s too short. She grins. “He’s Razorclaw Two. He can flyandstomp.”
I take it carefully, feeling the jagged edges press into my palm. “Looks like a fighter.”
“He’s got your claws,” she says.
“Claws?” I snort. “I’ve got class.”
She giggles, a small, bright sound that slices through the tension like sunlight through smoke.
Rynn murmurs without looking up, “Careful, she’ll take that as a challenge.”
Nessa does. Immediately.
“You don’t have claws,” she says, grinning at me. “You’ve gothands.” She wiggles her own for emphasis.
“Hands are just claws with ambition,” I shoot back.
She gasps, mock-offended. “That’s cheating!”
I can’t help it—I laugh. Really laugh. It feels foreign in my throat, rusty but real.
For a moment, the air inside the shelter isn’t heavy. It isn’t suffocating. It’s just… ours.
Later, when Nessa curls up against the crate to nap, I sit down next to Rynn. The glow of her screen washes over her face. She’s pale under the harsh light, dark circles hollowing the skin beneath her eyes. Her fingers move in quick bursts of code, deleting, rewriting, erasing.
“You haven’t stopped since dawn,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t look at me. “I can’t stop. Tarek’s sweeps hit the lower grids last night. He’s closing the gap.”
