They look at me like I’m already legend.
Not a man. A weapon.
A symbol.
But I know better.
I’m still just fire wrapped in skin. Still the same bastard who threw the only good thing he ever had into a pod and didn’t look back.
They think I lead because I want to.
Truth is, I lead becausethere’s no other way forward.
My days are welding, bleeding, barking orders into comms that barely hold signal. The Hulk needs constant attention, like an old warrior with broken bones who refuses to admit he’s dying.
We scavenge for fuel. Retrofit the oxygen cycles with old mining tech. I’ve got a kid from Targis with half a face and a full brain rigging together pulse rounds from scrap plating and crushed servos.
They call it art.
I call it desperation.
It works either way.
The recruits keep coming.
They bring stories.
Not just of me, but ofher.
They don’t know I know her.
But I hear her name like a wound reopening in secret.
Isolde Verrix. Alive.
Seen.
Whispers of a hybrid child. Half-Vakutan. Gold-eyed.
They think I don’t react.
I listen.
And then I take it to the gym deck and destroy a dummy with my bare fists until there’s nothing left but rags and silence.
Reflector watches me, sometimes.
He’s not whole. Not anymore. Flickers more than he should. Misses timestamps. Loses words.
But he’s still loyal.
Still watching.
Stillhere.
“Captain,” he says once, voice low and crackling, “why allow them to stay?”
I don’t answer right away.
