"Take your time."
"There are thirty-seven food options."
"I know. It's overwhelming."
"Everything is overwhelming." He says it flat, factual, and the honesty of it is more devastating than any emotional confession. "The corridors. The choices. The absence of anyone telling me where to go. My body keeps waiting for instructions that are not coming."
The disorientation of a nervous system trained for regimentation, trying to operate in a world that doesn't tell it what to do. The vertigo. The shame of finding freedom harder than captivity.
"That's not weakness," I say, because I can feel him thinking it. "That's conditioning. It doesn't undo itself because a tribunal said a word."
"How do you know?"
"Because my parents worked with miners who came off thirty-year corporate contracts. Same thing. They knew what they wanted, but choosing it felt wrong. The freedom was real; the ability touseit took time."
His hand squeezes mine. Not gripping anymore. Holding.
"Start small," I say. "Pick something that looks interesting. If you hate it, pick something else. That's the whole system."
He studies the options for a long moment, then picks a grain bowl with roasted protein. Something plain, unadorned. His shoulders drop a fraction when the tray is in his hands, and the sharp edge of his anxiety softens into something more manageable. By the time we're seated, his markings have warmed to cautious jade, and when Zola waves us over to the OOPS table, the shift continues: still wary, but something lighter underneath.
Zola Cross stands to extend her hand. Dark uniform of an experienced field courier, auburn hair in a practical ponytail, sharp green eyes that miss nothing. The dark fabric against my orange is a visual reminder of exactly where I sit in the hierarchy: bottom. Probationary. The rookie who crashed on her first solo run and is sitting at the senior table because she bonded with a gladiator, not because she earned the seat.
The thought arrives quick and sharp, and Horgox catches it before I can bury it. His hand settles on my lower back. Not the desperate grip of the cafeteria entrance. Steady, deliberate, warm. His certainty reaches me through the connection: the specific conviction of a male who has watched me survive a jungle, dismantle a harness, face down corporate security, andargue a tribunal into freedom, and who has no patience for my imposter syndrome.You earned this seat. I watched you earn it.
Horgox takes Zola's hand carefully, his grip calibrated, and she nods once.
"Heard you kept Baxter alive in a category-five hellscape. That's more than most partners manage."
"She kept herself alive. I provided tactical support."
"Modest." Zola glances at me. "He always like this?"
"Only about himself. About everything else, he's terrifyingly accurate."
Crash doesn't stand. Golden-yellow skin, black geometric markings, the lean predatory build of a Velogian. He grins up at Horgox with vertical amber pupils, and then his expression shifts. Recognition. Not casual, not social. The specific assessment of one fighter reading another.
"Sixty-three consecutive victories," Crash says. "The Hammer. I've heard the name."
Horgox's reaction is complex and immediate: surprise, wariness, the involuntary tension of a male being recognised for the worst years of his life.
"Nexus circuit?" Horgox asks, and the question carries its own recognition. One arena fighter identifying another. "The Golden Viper."
Crash's grin widens. "Retired. Upgraded to mail delivery. The hours are better and my mate disapproves of me getting stabbed for entertainment."
Zola doesn't look up from her scanner. "I disapprove of unnecessary risk to our business assets."
"She means she loves me."
"I mean you're expensive to repair."
Something passes between Horgox and Crash that doesn't need words. The mutual understanding of two males who were trained for violence and chose something else. Crash's handrests on Zola's shoulder with the easy possessiveness of a bonded male, and the gesture is a mirror I recognise: this is what it looks like on the other side. This is what they became after.
The sharp edge of Horgox's wariness softens into something cautious and wondering. Not just me telling him he belongs. A male who walked the same road, sitting at a cafeteria table with a mate and a career and a life that isn't an arena.
Jitters, the small Junglix perched on the table edge, has been watching with sensors that flicker uncertain amber. House-cat sized, gelatinous, opalescent. When we sit close and Horgox's hand finds my knee under the table, Jitters' entire body shifts from amber to warm gold, sensors pulsing with the particular intensity of a being that reads emotional resonance the way Bebo reads data.
Jitters warbles once. Soft, definitive. Then presses closer to Crash and Zola, sensors blazing gold, as if confirming something.
