7. Ursa #2
The fountain comes into view, surrounded by the usual morning chaos.
Children crowd one side of it with learning slates.
A gray-skinned teacher counts heads while threatening to assign extra glyph practice to anyone who climbs the engine housing again.
A Grolgath aide passes by, sees Vesk speaking with me, and immediately looks away with theatrical disinterest.
Vesk notices. “You are being watched.”
“I know.”
“You do not look worried.”
“I am too busy being mocked.”
“That should worry you.”
“Mockery is familiar territory.”
He studies me, then gestures toward an alcove beside a shuttered parts stall. “Show me your notes.”
I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, reporter. If you are going to embarrass yourself in front of my people, I prefer the embarrassment to be difficult.”
“That almost sounded helpful.”
“Do not tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
I hand him the compad. His enormous fingers handle it with surprising delicacy as he scrolls through my notes. Every few seconds, he grunts. Once, he frowns hard enough that I lean closer despite myself.
“What?” I ask.
“This note says eye contact during a toast is respectful.”
“Professor Lorr said?—”
“Professor Lorr is Kiphian.”
“She studies Reapers.”
“She studies dead Reapers and old songs. Living Reapers vary. Eye contact with the host is respectful if the host offers it. Holding a stare too long with a warrior at your side of the table may become challenge.”
I take the compad back and edit the note. “How long is too long?”
“If you wonder whether it is too long, it has become too long.”
“That is unhelpfully poetic.”
“That is Reaper etiquette.”
We spend the next hour in the alcove while traffic moves around us.
Vesk corrects several points, adds practical notes, and refuses to explain three gestures because, according to him, “no sane outsider should attempt them without medical staff present.” He teaches me how to accept a shared blade without letting the handle turn wrong, how to decline a portion if my biology genuinely cannot tolerate it, and how to recognize when laughter means approval rather than mockery.
The distinction seems subtle until he demonstrates three kinds of Reaper laughter, and then it becomes obvious in the way thunder, engines, and collapsing walls are technically all loud but not at all the same.
By the time we finish, my notes are messier and infinitely more useful.
“You should eat before attending,” he says.
“I thought arriving hungry might be better.”
“No. Arriving starving makes humans foolish. You will need judgment.”
“That is ominous.”
“It is dinner.”
“Your dinner requires strategy.”
“All important things do.”
A voice behind us says, “Oh, this is precious.”
I turn to find a cluster of visiting correspondents and junior diplomatic staff lingering near the parts stall.
I recognize two of them from the press office: Cal Renner from LeagueWire, glossy-haired and professionally smug, and Niva Stane from Nebula Nine, whose last segment described Guyver Station as “a den of cultivated savagery” while standing in front of a visibly annoyed traffic controller.
Cal smiles at my compad. “Studying for supper, Ramone?”
“I like knowing where I am.”
“You are at a Reaper freak show with better docking control than expected.”
Vesk’s face goes very still.
I close my compad slowly. “That was stupid.”
Cal’s smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Niva folds her arms. “Come on, Ursa. Everyone knows what this feast is. They’re going to serve half-dead animals and watch the rest of us squirm. You don’t have to pretend it’s some sacred cultural exchange.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“Really? Because from here it looks like you’re trying to win points with station security by taking notes on which fork to use when something screams.”
A couple of the junior aides laugh. One looks toward Vesk and immediately regrets it.
I step away from the alcove wall. “Do you know why they serve live courses?”
Cal rolls his eyes. “Because they’re Reapers.”
“Because some of the ritual developed around scarcity, battle readiness, and proving a guest could remain controlled while confronted with fear and blood. Because public appetite carries social meaning here. Because refusing to understand something is easier than admitting the people you came to mock have a history.”
Niva’s expression hardens. “That is adorable. You’ve been here four days and now you’re an expert on spike etiquette.”
“No. I’ve been here four days, so I know enough to shut up and learn from people who understand it better.”
Cal looks past me toward Vesk. “Careful, Ramone. Keep defending them like that and maybe the warlord will reward you with a souvenir collar.”
Vesk moves so quickly the air seems to snap around him.
He does not touch Cal. He does not need to. One moment he stands beside me, and the next he looms over the reporter with his bone spurs catching the market light and his voice low enough to force everyone nearby to listen.
“Say that again,” Vesk says.
Cal’s face drains of color. “It was a joke.”
“It was ugly. Jokes should have craft.”
I put one hand lightly against Vesk’s forearm, not to restrain him because that would be ridiculous, but to remind the scene there are witnesses and a point beyond fear. His skin is hot beneath my palm, hard as warmed stone where no spur interrupts it. He looks down at my hand, then at me.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
He steps back a fraction.
I face Cal. “You want to embarrass yourself tonight, go ahead. Sneer at the food. Insult the hosts. File your dramatic little piece about barbarism and pretend you were brave because dinner made you sweat. But don’t confuse contempt with intelligence. It’s lazy, and worse, it’s boring.”
Niva’s mouth twists. “You think participating will get you Gnash.”
“I think participating correctly may get me a better story than standing in the corner gagging for views.”
“So that’s what this is.”
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “That is exactly what this is. I am here to report, and I cannot report on a culture I refuse to take seriously.”
Cal recovers enough to sneer again, though he keeps a careful distance from Vesk. “You are going to make a fool of yourself.”
“Probably at some point. Most people do. The trick is choosing a better reason than arrogance.”
One of the junior aides laughs under her breath before Niva glares her into silence.
Cal adjusts his jacket with offended dignity. “Have fun with your blood homework.”
“Have fun with your obituary draft for nuance.”
Vesk makes a sound that might be suppressed laughter, and the cluster disperses with less confidence than it arrived.
I wait until they are out of earshot before exhaling. “That was satisfying.”
“You touched my arm,” Vesk says.
“I did.”
“Most humans would not.”
“Most humans didn’t spend an hour getting etiquette advice from you.”
He considers that. “Acceptable.”
“Good to know.”
“You also insulted him well.”
“That means a lot coming from station security.”
“I am not complimenting you. I am assessing your chances of surviving dinner without damaging my patience.”
“And?”
He looks toward the far end of the market, where workers are hanging fresh banners that point toward the Blood Hall. “Improved.”