Bad optics.
So they detour.
Novaria.
The planet is one of the crowning jewels of the Trident Alliance, a perfect balance of gleaming metropolises and nature preserves. The war has never touched Novaria, not directly at least. That’s it’s biggest strength and it’s biggest weakness.
Perfect.
They set me up in a private recovery suite in the capital city of Nova-1, with a garden window that shows static-processed waterfalls. The furniture is all soft corners and gentle pressure pads, the walls pulse with low, calming light.
It’s hell.
I don’t unpack.
I sit on the edge of the bed for hours, then curl up in the middle of it and stare at the wall like it owes me answers.
Reflector buzzes around me, quieter now. He knows. He’s learning grief, even if he can’t feel it. The AI in his core’s scrambled, yeah, but his loyalty? That’s still intact.
“You haven’t consumed sustenance in sixteen hours,” he says, nudging a tray toward me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You require fuel to maintain cognitive?—”
“I said no, Reflector.”
He pauses. Bobs once in place.
Then backs off.
The doctors come.
Every day, one by one, rotating like actors on a failing set. Each wears a new face, a new name, a new degree. They ask things like:
“Do you remember the duration of your captivity?”
“Can you describe your emotional state during isolation?”
“Did you fear for your life?”
I want to laugh. Want to scream. Want to tell them I didn’t fear death—I fearedsurvival.
But all I say is: “I don’t remember.”
They take notes. Whisper to each other in clinical tones.
Shock, they murmur again. It’s always shock.
“She’ll come back to herself eventually.”
“Her vitals are strong. But she’s dissociating.”
“She needs time.”
They think I’m a broken doll whose batteries need charging.
They think this is what trauma looks like.
