Still nothing.
I sigh. “You’re really making me work for this interview.”
He finally looks up, eyes burning like molten gold. “Do not dig into what you do not understand, human.”
“Hey,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m not judging. I just?—”
“War is not a story,” he snaps, voice low and raw. “Not something to broadcast for your people’s entertainment.”
I flinch. Okay. Hit a nerve.
But he’s not wrong.
I take a breath, forcing the edge out of my voice. “You’re right. It’s not. But you’ve been alone here for fifty years, and I can tell it’s eating you alive. So maybe talking about it isn’t the worst thing.”
He goes silent again, eyes dark and distant. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:
“I have talked enough. The ship remembers my voice. That is enough.”
It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
I let it drop—for now.
Instead, I turn to the console I’ve been eyeing since we got here. The panel’s ancient, the kind of thing I could probably auction off for a small fortune if we ever make it out. Which, given our current situation, is laughable optimism. But maybe—just maybe—I can make it do something useful.
“Reflector, scan for active ports.”
“Scanning,” the droid chirps, floating closer. “One live circuit detected. Power levels are unstable.”
“Good enough.” I pop the panel open, revealing a mess of tangled wires and dust. My fingers itch to start sorting through it.
Behind me, Garokk rumbles. “You touch that, you could trigger defense systems.”
“Yeah, well, sitting here waiting to die doesn’t sound great either,” I say, poking at a wire cluster. “If I can reroute comms, maybe I can ping a satellite. Get a distress signal out.”
“Unlikely.”
“Let me have my delusions, okay?”
He mutters something in his own language. Sounds like a curse.
I grin without looking back. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
The console hums weakly under my fingers. There’s power in there somewhere—I can feel the faint warmth of it through my gloves. I twist two connectors together and a spark jumps. “Ha! See? Not dead yet.”
Then the panel jolts violently, and my hand slips.
“Ah—!”
Before I can fall backward, he’s there.
One huge arm wraps around my waist, pulling me upright like I weigh nothing. My back hits his chest—solid, hot, scales rough against my skin through the torn fabric. The smell of metal and smoke and something sharp, almost sweet, surrounds me.
He’s so close. Too close.
“Careful,” he growls, voice a low vibration against my spine. “This ship bites.”
