Chapter 19
JILLIAN
The next morning, I wake up early—earlier than usual, before the camp starts buzzing with drills and data checks and Ciampa’s barked demands.
I wrap two nutrient bars in a napkin, fill a water canister, and slip past the perimeter like I’ve done too many times to count. Only now, I’m not just wandering.
I’m going to him.
The storm’s done tearing through the flats, but it’s left behind a world peeled raw—everything scoured and howling, grit embedded in the very bones of the planet.
I tighten my scarf against the wind’s leftover bite, boots crunching through new sanddrifts, and follow the familiar path toward the dome.
The half-buried shelter looms ahead, slumped like a scar on the skin of Purgonis. I duck through the narrow opening. My eyes adjust slowly.
He’s here.
Not standing in full view, but not fully hidden either. A silhouette of coiled muscle and waiting silence, crouched near the far wall, one shoulder half-lit by a shaft of sunlight filtering through a crack in the rock above.
I don’t speak, not right away. I set the food and water down in the space between us, careful, deliberate.
He watches. His eyes glow faintly in the dim light—like embers banked deep in a fire, smoldering but not burning. Not yet.
“I thought you might be hungry,” I say, my voice barely louder than the wind whispering through the cracks. “I wasn’t sure what you eat. I mean, besides sting tails.”
The edge of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything I can name.
He doesn’t take the food. Not at first. I sit. Same place as before, cross-legged, hands resting on my knees, letting the silence wrap around us.
I talk.
Not because I expect answers, but because it feels right. Needed. Like part of some strange balance I don’t understand.
I tell him about Earth. About the overgrown jungles of the equator domes, and how my little brother once dared me to eat a live beetle for two credits. I talk about school, how boring it was, how the stars called louder than any lecture ever could.
I tell him I came here chasing wonder—and instead found grief.
“I thought we were the good guys,” I whisper. “I thought we came to learn. But Ciampa... he doesn’t care. Not really. Carson tried to stop him, and look what happened.”
The silence thickens. Not cold. Not threatening. Just... heavy.
I glance up—and find him watching me. Really watching.
His gaze is sharp but not cruel. Intense but not invasive. It’s the look of someone cataloging every detail, not because he distrusts it, but because he doesn’t want to miss anything.
Then, finally, he shifts.
His hand reaches out—slow, deliberate—and taps two claws against his chest.
“Maug.”
One word.
His voice is gravel and broken thunder. Deep, cracked with disuse, like it’s had to be dug up from somewhere far below his throat.
I blink. “Maug.”
I say it back without thinking, rolling the name over my tongue like a secret I’ve kept too long.
“Maug,” I repeat, softer this time.
He nods, the smallest dip of his head.
And something inside me breaks and reforms all at once.
We sit for a long time after that. No words. Just breathing the same air, the dome a cradle of ancient stone and shared silence.
Eventually, I keep talking.
Not because I have to. But because I want him to know.
“My mom wanted me to be a medic,” I say. “Said I had gentle hands. I think she just didn’t want me on the frontier. Too dangerous. Too unknown.”
He shifts again, not away from me—but closer. His massive form settling lower, more relaxed. Not comfortable. But less guarded.
“I guess I was always stubborn,” I add with a half-smile. “Even now, with everything going to hell... I don’t want to leave. Isn’t that stupid?”
He doesn’t answer. But something flickers in his expression. Something that feels like understanding.
I tell him about the night Carson gave me the compad. About the encrypted files and Ciampa’s buried crimes.
“He’s covering up everything,” I say. “Twisting the data. Faking reports. People are going to die.”
Still, no reply.
But I see it—the tightening of his jaw. The slow blink of his eyes, heavy with memory. I see the way he turns his face slightly, like the words have weight he wasn’t ready to carry.
I shift topics. Lighter things.
“My sister,” I say, “used to collect rocks. Not minerals—just... rocks. Said they were Earth’s forgotten teeth.”
That gets a low, soft sound from him—something like breath through a cracked smile.
I press on. “I used to tease her. Now I keep one in my boot. A dumb little pebble. Makes me feel closer to home.”
Still no full words. But his posture softens more.
When I finally trail off, it’s not because I run out of things to say—it’s because the quiet between us feels just as full. Just as needed.
And I realize something.
His silence isn’t absence.
It’s permission.
It’s trust.
And I’m not scared of it.
Not anymore.
The afternoon sun presses low against the canyon rim, bathing the world in that bruised, gold-washed light that makes everything look half-remembered and half-real. Even the dust seems softer right now, less sharp, as though this planet concedes brief moments of beauty between its fits of fury.
I find him where I left him — at the edge of the dome, crouched in the fractured light like some gargoyle carved into stone. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I see his shoulders shift, a tiny tense ripple in muscle that doesn’t belong to someone asleep. He’s alert, sensing me before he sees me.
I come to him with two water canisters in hand and a pair of nutrient bars — the kind that taste like damp cardboard but nourish like promise. I hesitate a foot away, not because I’m afraid but because I don’t want to startle him.
His eyes flick to the water first, then to me. Something unreadable ripples through those golden irises — curiosity, caution, something softer, almost like longing.
I kneel on the dusty rock, careful not to make a sound that might break whatever fragile moment we’re suspended in.
“I got more water,” I say, voice warm beneath the late light. “And food.” I set the bars down beside him and ease open a canister, letting the hiss of cool liquid fill the air between us. “I figured you might be thirsty.”
He doesn’t reach for any of it — not yet — but he watches.
I settle across from him and choose a bar, breaking the wrapper with a quiet snap. I offer him the second one by gesture alone, not pushing, just placing it in the space where his gaze lingers.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
I take a sip of water, and the cool washes over my tongue — metallic, clean, necessary. I close my eyes for just a moment, savoring the relief of it. When I open them again, I see a faint trace of something in his expression — recognition? Approval? I’m never sure with him.
Silence settles, thick in the best possible way. Not awkward. Not tense.
Just... present.
It feels sacred.
I watch his hands — huge, scaled, scarred with lines that aren’t just age, but story. Almost instinctively, I reach out and gently brush a fingertip across one of the scars that rims his forearm — long, raised, the color of dark copper beneath his hair.
He tenses.
Just for a moment.
But doesn’t pull away.
“My arm,” I murmur, touching my own forearm, where a faded scar snakes down near the wrist. “I got this banged up when I fell headfirst into a crevice back on Earth. Teacher thought I was reckless. Dad just shook his head.” I press the pad of my finger over my skin, the old injury a reminder of something foolish and brave all at once.
His eyes follow the motion. There’s a flicker there — pain, maybe? Or understanding? It’s subtle, like light through a prism.
Then, his voice comes — low, rough like stone rubbing against steel.
“I lose more than I win,” he says. It’s not loud. Not a complaint. Just... fact.
It’s the most he’s said — in a sentence — ever.
I blink.
Really blink.
Then I smile.
Not pity. Not sorrow. Just acceptance.
“You’ve fought a lot,” I say quietly. Meaningful, but not chastising. “Everyone has marks. Everyone’s got stories under their skin.”
He watches my hand again, like it’s still lingering in the air where mine was.
I tuck my legs beneath me. The rock here is warm — radiating the day’s sun like memory. I take another drink of water.
“I wasn’t always a scientist,” I say, letting the words settle between us like seeds waiting to sprout. “I wanted to be an artist at first. My sisters used to make fun of me. They’d say I couldn’t even draw a straight line without it looking like a question mark.”
He doesn’t flinch at the soft self-deprecation — he just listens.
So I keep going.
“I raised my hand in every class. Not because I knew the answers… but because I wanted someone to notice me. My teachers smiled at me — polite — but no one really saw me. Until Carson. But now he’s gone.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. It stays with me. And somewhere in the depths of his golden eyes, I see a ripple — as though something in him understands loss, even without words.
“So I guess maybe,” I add, a hint of vulnerability threading through my voice, “I’ve been overlooked a lot.”
No shame in it. No bitterness. Just honesty.
He doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t offer pity. He just looks — and somehow, that means something.
Between us, something shifts.
A gravity forms. Slow. Insistent. Not loud, not dramatic — but undeniable.
The canyon wind thumps against the dome walls, but in here, we both hear something softer: the warmth of shared space, the rhythm of two beings unafraid to exist next to each other.
I tear a small piece from my nutrient bar — crumbly, sweet, and absurdly comforting. I offer it to him sideways, like one does with a shy child or an uncertain friend.
He doesn’t take it.
Not yet.
But he considers it.
That counts.
I pop a bite into my mouth — the texture gritty with sand bits, the taste of sugar and stale grain — and I close my eyes for a moment as the flavor spreads.
It reminds me of picnics with my sisters when we were too young for responsibilities.
Of laughter shared under skies that didn’t swallow you whole.
I open my eyes and find him still watching me.
Finally, he speaks again.
“Maug,” he says. Just his name. But there’s something in the way he says it — a weight, a catch, a meaning that’s more than a label. It’s an acceptance.
“Maug,” I repeat without thinking, savoring the way the consonants feel on my tongue. Solid. Earthy. Like a word shaped by wind and stone and survival.
He doesn’t correct me.
Instead, he shifts. Just a slight motion — barely noticeable — but in it, there’s a willingness to be considered, to be invited into this fragile circle of trust.
I laugh — quiet, almost shy — and tell him another story.
“My sister — the artist in the family — she once painted this crazy, swirling sky over top of a desert scene. Said the colors were the planet breathing. Mom called it ‘impossible.’ But I loved it. Always thought she saw things differently.”
He watches me speak, head tilted, eyes fixed.
There’s curiosity there. Not judgment. Not suspicion.
Curiosity.
I pause when I mention the war — something ancient and terrible flickers in his face, a darkness that doesn’t wash away with light. But I don’t press. I don’t need to know. Not now.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him after a while. Not a demand. Not a plea. Just a quiet truth.
The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s full. You can feel it, like color in the air.
We sit together, not touching, not even quite close — but close enough that the space between us hums with things unheard and unspoken.
The light outside fades toward dusk, brushing the sky with violet and rust and fading gold. The wind whistles through cracks in the stone, but in here, it feels like something contained, not threatening.
I look at Maug again.
Not at the monster he should embody.
Not at the weapon he can be.
But at the being beside me.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something steady — not fear, not thrill, not confusion — but warmth. Not unlike comfort.
Not unlike connection.
Not unlike… peace.
Maybe this place — this broken, jagged world — has formed us into something unlikely.
But maybe that’s exactly what we needed.