23. Troka
TROKA
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.
“I tore open a Reaper with my bare claws,” I continue, voice raw. “It was already dying. I didn’t care. I wanted to see it bleed. I needed something to hurt as bad as I did.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I snap. Then softer, “Because I never said it out loud. Not once. Not to the brass. Not to my unit. Not even to myself.”
I stare at the oil-stained concrete.
“There’s pieces of me scattered across battlefields no one remembers. And the parts that made it back?” I turn my head. Meet her eyes. “They don’t know what the hell they’re supposed to be now.”
Alaina doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush to comfort.
She just wraps her arms around me like she’s holding the storm itself.
And for a while, I let her.
Because if I say anything else, I might fall apart.
“You ever think,” I whisper into her hair, “that maybe heroes aren’t meant to come home?”
Her grip tightens. “Maybe home is what makes them whole again.”
I don’t deserve this woman.
But stars, I want her.
Not just in bed. Not just in banter.
I want her hope. Her fire. Her quiet strength that won’t let me drown.
“You hungry?” she asks after a long while.
“Not really.”
“Too bad. I made baked zinta. Extra spicy.”
“You trying to kill me with heartburn?”
She stands and holds out her hand. “Call it emotional damage control.”
I take it.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I feel just a little lighter.
Not fixed. Not fine.
But not alone.
And that’s a start.