Chapter 14
TROKA
Being a soldier makes sense. You fight, you win, or you die. The rules are cruel, but they’re clear.
Civilian life? That’s another kind of battlefield. And I’m getting torn to shreds.
“Sir, we don’t yell at the customers,” says my new boss—former boss, now—after I inform a loudmouthed human that his fake credit stick isn’t clever, it’s pathetic. The scammer tried to push past an elderly woman in the checkout lane. I may have shoved him through a floral hologram display.
Not my finest moment. But I was calm.
“You’re a menace, Troka,” the manager hisses as I stand in her over-scented perfume office.
I grin. “That’s accurate.”
She hurls a stylus at the desk and gestures wildly. “Leave. Now.”
So I do.
Two days later, I land another job.
Private security detail. Easy enough. Guard the mall. Walk the floor. Watch for pickpockets. Don’t break things.
Except the thief I caught sprinted through a children’s gravity maze, and I… well, I followed. Fast. Direct. Right through three walls and a synth-snow machine. The kid only stole a handful of credits from a vendor.
“Do you understand how many credits in damages you caused?” the shift captain shrieks, pacing as my armor drips with fake snow and bits of foam stars.
“Half a million,” I say. “Rounded.”
He sputters.
“I’ll see myself out.”
By now, I expect Alaina to block my number. Instead, she pulls up in her sputtering hoverwagon and just laughs. Full-body laugh, clutching the steering stick like it’s a lifeline.
“You threw a scammer through a window, then blew up a kiddie maze?” she says, grinning so hard I think her face might split.
“He resisted,” I mutter, sliding into the passenger seat. My knees barely fit.
“You are the resistance,” she cackles, slapping my arm.
“Glad my career implosion amuses you.”
She wipes a tear from her eye. “Oh, Troka. You’re a menace in retail, but at least you’re consistent.”
I frown. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
She glances over, all humor gone. “You’re trying. That’s more than most people ever do.”
Back at her place, she drags me inside. Caelix is napping. The lights are low. Her couch is too small for my bulk, but I sink into it anyway.
She types something on her datapad, then tosses it on the table.
“Sit up straight,” she commands. “We’re fixing your resume.”
“I have a resume.”
She makes a face. “Yeah, one that lists ‘explosives expert’ and ‘acceptable at following orders’ as your main skills.”
“They are my main skills.”
She ignores me, tapping her fingers. “We’ll highlight ‘leadership,’ ‘quick problem-solving,’ and—oh—‘dedication to customer safety.’”
“Your words,” I grumble. “Not mine.”
“Exactly. Because mine don’t make people flinch.”
She’s close. Shoulder against mine. I can smell her shampoo—something like peach and ozone. The scent wraps around me, dizzying.
She reads off the screen. “What’s your biggest strength?”
I grunt. “Hitting things.”
“Nope.” She points at me. “Try again.”
I stare her down. “Loyalty.”
She softens. “That’ll do.”
The next day, she sends me to an interview. Used hovercar dealership. I hate it on sight.
The manager’s a wiry little creature with iridescent skin and half-melted eyebrows.
“You got experience?” he squawks, chewing on a stimstick.
“I’ve flown tactical cruisers in low-orbit firestorms,” I answer flatly.
The manager blinks. “So no sales experience.”
I nod. “Correct.”
“What would you say to a customer who wants a cheap hover but needs long-haul durability?”
“‘Don’t be cheap. Durability costs.’”
He bursts out laughing. “You’re an ass. I like that. You start Monday.”
Alaina is so proud when I tell her I got it. She even fake-bows in the middle of her kitchen, balancing Caelix on one hip.
I try to ignore the way her eyes light up. The way her cheek dimples when she smiles.
“You did good, Troka,” she says. “I’m proud of you.”
I shift awkwardly. “Didn’t expect to be selling floating tin cans for a living.”
“Life’s full of weird turns,” she says, kissing Caelix’s forehead. “Doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong road.”
Her words settle in my chest like a weight and a balm.
I want to say something. Anything.
Instead, I nod.
She sees too much.
But stars help me—I want her to see everything.