And I think: Did I die? Did we both die in that explosion? But it’s a miracle I’m breathing. So how?
My bed shifts. The door opens. A guard stands. Uniform prim but too tired. An officer I recognize—Commander Cowley.
“Vakuta,” he says. “Glad you’re awake. I’d shake your hand if my morale allowed it.”
I manage a chuckle, weak. “Morale or sarcasm?”
He smiles. “Little of both.”
He steps inside. I sit up, and it’s like I’m waking from a long nightmare—limbs stiff, body unfamiliar.
“How’s Sanchez?” I ask.
Cowley’s face hardens. “She’s in London now. Leave of absence. Saw her yesterday. She… wants you grounded.”
“I’ll comply,” I say. “But why London?”
“It’s complicated. Burn trauma. Beside that—you know she’s not the type to stay put.”
He leans. “Vakuta, listen. The logs show the Titan we encountered wasn’t catalogued. The Meld surge during the crash—traces indicate an intelligence. Not just beast.”
My gut tightens.
“Are you saying… Spectra?”
Cowley nods. “We’re investigating. But in the meantime—you two are out until we make sense of it.”
Betrayal and relief circle me. I want to curse. I want to blame. But mostly I want to be with her.
“I want to go to London,” I say.
Cowley sighs. “Not yet. Base orders.”
I nod. “Then I’ll recover.”
He looks at me. “You and Sanchez—whatever happened in that cockpit—it changed you both.”
I don’t respond.
After he leaves, I lie back. The hum softens. I dredge memories.
I taste dust. I feel molten metal spray. I smell methane and ozone. I see her face—her fear and her fierceness—moments before the blast.
I want to lighten the tension. I whisper: “Aria… if you’re hearing me—know this: I’m not done.”
And that’s the truth.
Because I survived.
Because the Meld didn’t die.
Because somewhere—under the ash and the scorched metal—I found something deeper. And I won’t let it go.
I tear the restraints off before the med-techs know I’m conscious.
The tubes rip from my arms with a wet snap. Blood beads and trails, but I don’t care. The hiss of the pressure-sealruptures. I lurch off the table, bare feet slapping the cold tile, breath ragged like a saw.
The pain’s back, sure—but pain’s old news. It’s not pain that fuels me now.
