“I… I’m okay.”
She lies.
I crouch and place a finger on a loose wire. My scale-red forearm catches the light. She stares.
“You sure?”
She nods. I reach in.
I fix the drone’s wire. The panel clicks. The drone hums faintly.
Her face lights.
“Thanks, Mr.?Blastaar.”
That stops me.
My voice sticks.
I’m a professional gladiator. I’ve faced mountain beasts. Black-ops retrieval missions. I’ve watched friends die. But this… this broke me in two.
“Not… not ‘Mr.?Blastaar’,” I manage. “Call me Valtron.”
She looks at me. I tilt my head. She hesitates.
“Valtron.”
She nods. “Okay, Valtron.” Then she smiles.
And the smile folds the world.
“Thanks, Valtron.”
She scampers off with the drone.
I stand in the corridor, heart pounding like a war-drum. The lights flicker.
Pain rattles down my spine.
Because I saw her.
The kid that looks just like I did at that age.
Later,the arena medic—old man Sahlun—catches me after training. My muscles ache differently tonight. Exhaustion is laced with something else: dread, hope, fear.
He tucks me into the recovery bay.
Curtains drawn.
Soft biolumin-light bathing my torso in violet glow.
He checks my vitals, smirks.
“You look shook.”
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
