Chapter 8 #2
“It does, for those who actually have a favorite food, like you humans.” I winked. “You should try some lami so I can learn what your favorite food is. Ah, no. I already know.”
Her lips twitched. “Chocolate.”
“Yes. Learned that by accident, but it counts. And now, when I drink lami, it tastes like this.” I gestured at the soup and bread. “Like D’tran cooking. The flavors have become part of me.”
“Interesting.” She drew a spoonful of her own soup to her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted. Relaxed, maybe, just a fraction.
“I’d like to try food from other cultures and species,” I said. “Human food, for instance. I’ve heard you have incredible variety.”
Iris shrugged, her eyes fixed on her bowl. “It’s not as good as this. At least, not where I’ve eaten.”
“Where have you eaten?”
“I haven’t eaten at many restaurants, and I’m no chef,” she said. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve only eaten at institutional cafeterias or group homes. Meals prepared for large groups. Nutrition and volume were more important than taste.”
The words were flat, matter-of-fact, but they were heavy enough to make my chest tighten. I set down my bread and looked at her, really looked, taking in the careful neutrality of her expression and the tension in her shoulders.
“Tell me about your background,” I said quietly. “If you’re willing.”
For a long moment, she didn’t speak, and I thought I’d pushed too far. Then she exhaled slowly, and a bit more rigidity left her posture.
“I’m an orphan,” she said. “From a mining colony on the Outer Rim. Poorly run. Dangerous. The kind of place that chewed people up and didn’t bother spitting them out.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“There was an explosion. Took out most of the workers, including my parents and my two older brothers.” She took another spoonful of soup, the motion mechanical.
“The children who survived were gathered up and returned to their species’ original planet.
Back on Earth, I was evaluated with the rest of the orphans.
It was a long time ago, but I remember psychological and physical assessments.
Then we were sorted into different outcomes. ”
“Sorted?”
“Well, they had to do something with us. And, look—this isn’t that uncommon.
Destructive events happen now and then, and large numbers of orphans need to go somewhere.
The children who were little enough to not be completely traumatized went to adoptive families.
” I didn’t miss the edge to her voice. “The smart ones ones with potential in science, math, or whatever, were sent to schools.”
“And you?”
She met my eyes, and for just a moment, I saw something raw beneath the surface.
“Others, like me, were deemed ideal for military or intelligence training. We were physically able and had the right psychological profiles. Whatever that meant for a six-year-old…” She shook her head.
“We had the right lack of attachments. So we were taken to training facilities and raised to be what we are now.”
“Operatives,” I said.
“With reconnaissance, espionage, and assassination skills.” She said it as calmly as if she were reciting a list of supplies. “We were well educated, too. Math, history, science. You know. All the basics. But I was made to be an operative. It’s what I’ve been for most of my life.”
I absorbed this, feeling the weight of it settle into my understanding of her.
The neutral expressions. The controlled movements.
The walls she kept around herself. They weren’t just personality traits.
They were survival mechanisms, trained into her from childhood by people who saw her as a tool rather than a person.
“Is this the life you would have chosen?” I asked. “If you’d had a choice?”
She was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than before.
“Choice was never going to be part of my life. Even before the training. If the mine hadn’t been destroyed, I would have become a worker there, like my parents.
No one left, because no one knew any other way.
We were trapped by circumstances, not walls. ”
“But if you could choose now?” I pressed, for stars know what reason. “If you could do anything, be anything?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her brow furrowed slightly, the closest thing to visible confusion I’d seen from her. “I can’t say. I’m not good at anything else.”
“I don’t believe that.”
She placed her spoon down with a clunk against the heavy stoneware bowl. “Baleck, I don’t know what else I’d do. I’ve never thought about it. There’s never been a point.”
I wanted to tell her that there was a point. That she was more than what she’d been made to be, that she deserved to want things for herself rather than just executing missions and following orders. But I could see that she wasn’t ready to hear it. Not yet.
“Enough about me,” she said, her voice firming as she regained her composure. “What about you? Your past. You fought in the Brakken war. Did you lose family?”
I shook my head, and something flickered across her face. Surprise, maybe.
“My entire family survived,” I said. “We were fortunate. Many weren’t.”
“All of them? Parents? Siblings?”
“My mother and father live on Lord Savair’s Sola.
My sister and her mate are on Lord Scaron’s.
We were separated during some of the worst fighting, but we found each other again when it was over.
” I smiled at the memory of that reunion, the colors that had blazed across all our skins when we finally held each other again.
“We’re a stubborn family. Too stubborn to die, my mother likes to say. ”
Iris stared at me, and I realized that this was genuinely surprising to her. That she had expected tragedy, expected wounds that mirrored her own, and instead found someone who had emerged from horror relatively whole.
“You’re lucky,” she said softly. There was a wistfulness in her voice that cut at something in my chest. “To come out of something so terrible and still be…happy. Balanced. Not lost in trauma.”
“I am lucky,” I agreed. “But it’s not just luck. My people support each other. We share our burdens, process our pain together. And our Solas are safe, warm places to live. All needs are met. Everyone is respected. It’s easier to heal when you’re surrounded by people who care about you.”
She looked down at her bowl, now nearly empty. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
The words were quiet, almost inaudible, and I don’t think she meant for me to hear them. But I did. And they broke something in me, even as they strengthened my resolve.
This female had never known safety. Never known unconditional support. Never known what it felt like to be surrounded by people who cared about her wellbeing rather than her usefulness. She had been shaped into a weapon and deployed without regard for the person inside.
I wanted to change that. Wanted to show her what it felt like to be valued for who she was, not what she could do.
We finished our meal after chatting more. I’d changed the subject to lighter things, and watched her relax and even smile.
“This was nice,” she said, surprising me. “The food. The…” She gestured vaguely. “All of it.”
“We can do this anytime. Standing invitation.”
“I might take you up on that.”
“Good.” I smiled at her, and my skin shifted to pleasant shades of gold.
There were times when I wished my Destran skin didn’t reveal how I felt, and times when I actively worked to keep my colors neutral, to varying success.
But this time, I wanted her to see that she affected me, that her presence made me happy.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. Her gaze tracked over my forearms where the colors were most visible, and something in her expression softened just slightly.
We left the communal hall and stepped into the cool evening air.
The sky had darkened, stars beginning to emerge overhead in numbers I still found breathtaking.
On the Solas, we rarely saw stars like this.
The living ships had viewports, of course, but there was something different about standing on solid ground and looking up at an infinite expanse of light.
“I’ll walk you back to your quarters,” I said.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
The path was lit by bioluminescent panels that gave off a soft blue glow.
Our arms brushed occasionally as we walked, and I was hyperaware of every accidental point of contact.
We walked in silence through the winding streets, past buildings that had gone quiet for the night, past guard posts where D’tran sentries nodded as we passed.
The guest quarters came into view ahead, the stone structure where Iris and the diplomats had been assigned rooms.
She stopped before we reached the door. “This was nice.”
“It was.” I meant it. “We make a good team, you know.”
“As cultural liaison and operative?”
“As whatever we are.” I held her gaze, letting her see my sincerity. “I’m glad you’re here, Iris. Even if the circumstances aren’t ideal.”
“Thank you,” she replied, except I sensed a big but about to be dropped on me.
“But I should warn you I’m not relationship material.” Her voice was careful, measured. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
I turned to face her. “What makes you say that?”
“Soft feelings have been trained out of me.” She met my eyes, her gaze steady but somehow fragile underneath. “There’s no room for anything but duty. I don’t know how to be what you’d need me to be.”
I considered her words carefully before responding. “And how would you know what I’d need you to be?”
She blinked, thrown off balance by the question. “You’d want a warm partner who likes to cuddle. You look like a cuddler.”
She wasn’t wrong about that. Nothing wrong with cuddling.