“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, glancing toward the dim windows. The hush feels accusatory. “You?”
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. The locker-row lights flicker faintly overhead. “Same. Rumors stirring.”
I drop beside him. “Rumors?”
He exhales. “Dock gangs talking. Workers slinking off early. Some haulers skipping their rounds. I heard from a supplier — middling across from the canyon mines — said crates got 'lost' when they landed. Odd think: security logs clean, manifests signed. But crates empty. Goods gone.”
I crouch so I’m level with him. The crate he’s rifled through smells of oil, dust, the stale scent of stored metal. I run my hand over the rough edge of the plating. “That bad?”
He glances at a locker across the hall before answering, like expecting someone to hear. “Bad enough to hush the laughter in the mess hall. Even the Reapers stay quiet now. Not good when silence outnumbers the noise.”
I swallow. My throat’s dry. A tickle in my chest — tension, nerves, fear. I don’t know. But I taste cold metal and worry all at once.
Jorko reaches out, smooths my shoulder. His belt whines. “Kid — keep your head low. Don’t ask questions. Just… watch.”
I nod. I rise.
“I will.”
The shift arrives soon after. The corridor lights brighten gradually, humming back to full power. I pass through the docking bay entrance — hauling a bucket and rag — feel more eyes than usual watching me. Not overt stares — Far subtler: heads turning faster, shoulders stiffening, whispers cut off when I walk by.
I wipe a bulkhead panel, something I’ve scrubbed a hundred times before. The rag is coarse, dusty; its fibers catch metal shavings. Each swipe across the metal plate produces a faint scrape echoing in the wide bay. That noise usually disappears into the roar of engines or loading clatter — but today the bay is empty. Too empty.
I pause. The smell: coolant, ground-metal dust, stale air. Under that — a trace of sweat, fear, subtle. I swallow the bile of suspicion.
A Reaper soldier walks by — tall, black-skinned, bone-plated. His eyes flick, linger. Not long enough to stare. Just a quick glance. There’s tension in the way the ridge of his hip plate shifts under the strip-light. I meet his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. But I feel the brush of distance between us.
I pull the bucket to the mop station, dump the water. The echo rings. The bay feels hollow, empty. I cringe the kind of way one recoils from cold water — but the cold here is different. It tastes like danger.
Later, in the mess hall, Jorko catches up to me again — over a half-filled tray of steaming stew. The smell of hot broth, stale bread, recycled spices fills the air. But even that doesn’t mask the tension.
“You okay, kid?” he asks softly, sliding his tray onto the bench. The hover-belt whines low. He watches me stir the liquid, struggle not to spill.
“Just tired,” I lie.
He doesn’t push. Instead, he nods at the empty seating near the windows. “Talk more there. Away from prying ears.”
I nod. We eat. Half-words drift over — “shipment delays,” “missing passes,” “quiet orders,” “extra patrol.” Nothing flat-out alarming yet. But I feel the crack in uncertainty widening — a fracture in trust.
I fold my legs under the bench and swallow another spoonful of stew. It tastes like metal and soup — and fear.
After shift, I return to the small quarters where I keep a few of my stuffed animals — tucked into a suitcase beneath the bunk. I roll in, but instead of curling tight under the blanket, I reach down. I un-zip the case with slow fingers. The room is dim, hull hum low. I see them: ragged old stuffed rabbit, a worn teddy with one eye missing, a patchy doll with faded gingham.
The suitcase smells like old cloth, dust, the faint tang of antiseptic from orphanage nights long ago. I pull out the rabbit — “Bunny.” One ear still slightly crooked, threads fraying. I press the soft fur to my cheek. The cotton inside moves almost imperceptibly. The sickness in my chest — cold fear, hollow loneliness — shakes me a little.
I close my eyes.
The memories come — cold metal bunks lit by dim rations bulbs, the echo of footsteps down empty halls, hungry eyes rolling over me, the hush of other orphans crying themselves to sleep. I remember wanting to disappear.
I press the rabbit tighter to my chest. I breathe slow. The fabric smells safe. Familiar.
But this memory — these ghosts — I’m trying to trade them in for something else. Something fierce. Something alive.
I hear the hatch hiss. I freeze.
Footsteps. Soft. Furred boots on metal plating.
He appears in the doorway: Vokar. No armor. Cloak draped over his shoulders. The red-glow panels cast soft firelight overhis bone-studded frame — shadows across scars and ridge plates.
