The hovercar lot smells like burnt coolant and false promises.
I’m not sure what’s worse—the endless loop of the dealership jingle or the fake-smiling manager who keeps telling me to “tone down the battleface” around customers. What the hell does that even mean?
I haven’t punched a client all week. That’s progress.
“Yo, big guy!” One of the cadets from Barrakus calls out across the lot. “You’re Troka, right? From the 7th Dragoon? The Reaper Drop?”
I pause mid-signature, stylus hovering above a purchase pad.
Another kid nudges the first one. “He threw a flaming drone into a Centurion tank, bro! Full kamikaze style! Boom! Whole canyon lit up!”
Now they’re all crowding around, eyes wide, grinning like I’m some kind of holovid hero.
“Can we get a pic?” one says, holding up a glittering compad.
“No.” My voice comes out low, gravel in my throat.
The kid blinks. “Oh. Uh—yeah. Sorry.”
I turn on my heel and walk. I don’t wait for a goodbye.
Later, I find myself back behind the Docking Bay Lounge. The alley’s half-lit and smells like fryer grease and damp air filters. Perfect place for a has-been.
The metal wall’s cold against my back when I slide down it. My knees creak, armor long since replaced with stiff denim and aching bones.
“Hey.”
Her voice cuts through the shadows. Alaina.
I don’t look up.
“You vanished mid-shift,” she says, walking over in boots that click like punctuation. “You never leave early.”
“Didn’t feel like selling lies.”
“You’re not a liar.”
“No?” I bark a humorless laugh. “Then what do you call pretending I’m fine? Pretending this normal life fits?”
She crouches next to me, arms looped over her knees. “I call it surviving.”
I drag in a breath. It tastes like rust and old pain.
“They wanted a picture,” I mutter. “Said I was some kind of legend.”
“And?”
“I’m not.”
Alaina’s quiet for a beat. “Then who are you?”
“Someone who lived. That’s all. The good ones... they didn’t.”
She rests her hand on mine. Small. Warm. Steady.
“I watched my best friend burn,” I say. “He was two meters away. Couldn’t pull him out. Couldn’t even scream loud enough over the shelling.”
Her thumb strokes my knuckles. Gentle, like forgiveness.
