5. Garokk #2
I clench my jaw, fighting the instinct to crush the console.
My claws twitch against the metal, scraping deep gouges into the side.
The hum of the Hulk answers back—like it feels what I feel.
The ship doesn’t like being trespassed. It reacts, sometimes.
It’s almost… aware. But it needs a guide, a trigger, someone to speak to it in the language of power and pain.
That used to be me.
Now I’m not sure who’s steering whom.
I pull the camera feed tighter. Meyer’s heat signature is unmistakable—lean, tall, moving with purpose.
The Frayvoyan—Bokis—is with him, chattering, nervous, his fur slick with sweat.
The cyborg, Lor, moves like a shadow at their flank, quiet and precise.
Snarl glides behind them, wings tucked tight, eyes always moving.
They’re methodical. They know they’ve lost one of their own, but they’re not retreating.
They want control of the ship, and they’ll kill to get it.
“Idiots,” I mutter. “This place will eat you alive.”
“What was that?” her voice calls from behind me.
I stiffen. I didn’t mean to say that aloud.
She’s standing in the doorway now—bare feet against the cold floor, still wearing the torn remnants of that ridiculous influencer outfit, purple streaks of hair falling into her face. She looks smaller than before. But not weak. Just… real.
“You should be resting,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I can’t sleep in a murder ship,” she answers. “Sue me.”
I turn back to the monitor. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Technically, you shouldn’t either,” she fires back.
I almost smile. Almost.
Then her scent hits me again—faint, electric, maddening—and the thought dies in my throat. My pulse spikes, and for the first time in years, I’m aware of it. Of heat crawling up the back of my neck. Of muscles tightening in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
This is wrong. Dangerous. I survived half a century by shutting out every weakness. And this woman? She is weakness. Wrapped in nerve and warmth and sound.
She steps closer, eyes flicking toward the screens. “That’s them, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Are they looking for me?”
I glance down at her. Her expression is a mix of fear and fury, like she’s daring me to tell her the truth.
“They’re looking for everything, ” I say. “You’re part of that now.”
Her lips press together. “You don’t think they’ll leave?”
“No one leaves the Hulk unless it lets them.”
That shuts her up.
She stares at the screen, and for a second, all the bravado drains away. The influencer mask—the confident, loud, perfect veneer—cracks. Underneath is a young woman who’s realizing how small she really is in the void.
I hate seeing that look. I’ve seen it before—soldiers, civilians, enemies. The look people get when they realize hope is a finite resource.
“Hey,” I say, rougher than I mean to. “You’re not dead yet.”
She blinks, startled. “That’s… encouraging. I think.”
“Stay here. Stay quiet. Don’t make me regret saving you.”
She grins, faint but real. “Too late.”
Then she laughs again, light and easy, and something inside me twists. I don’t remember the last time I heard laughter that wasn’t cruel or manic or dying.
The sound fills the room. Bounces off the walls. Echoes down into the metal bones of the Hulk, and for a heartbeat, it’s almost beautiful. Almost human.
And that’s the problem.
Because the more I listen, the more I feel .
And feeling, in a place like this, gets you killed.
I turn away from her, focusing on the monitors again. The screens jitter, showing the crew splitting into two groups. Meyer and Lor head toward the reactor bay. Snarl and Bokis toward the main storage decks.
They’re spreading thin. Searching for something they’ll never understand.
But they’re getting closer to my section.
Too close.
The Hulk’s power grid hums again, faint pulses running through the walls like veins filling with blood. It’s awake now, fully. It knows there are intruders. It’s… angry.
I can feel the static charge rise through my claws. The old systems want to fight, to protect. But they’re wild, half-feral things. They could kill her as easily as the rest.
I mutter, half to the ship, half to myself. “Not her.”
The lights flicker in response. Like it’s listening.
When I glance back, she’s still watching me. Her head tilted, eyes curious but not afraid. Always curious, this one. Like she can’t stop herself from looking even when it might kill her.
“You talk to the ship?” she asks softly.
“I lived here longer than anyone,” I say. “It listens.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
“It’s how I’m still alive.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Just stands there, chewing on her lip, eyes flicking between me and the glowing monitors. I can almost see her thoughts racing.
Finally, she says, “You could just… leave, you know. If it listens to you. Tell it to open a door. Let us go.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand. It doesn’t obey. It reacts. It’s alive, but not sane.”
She crosses her arms. “Sounds like half the people I’ve dated.”
That pulls a sound from me that might be a laugh. Or maybe a growl. Hard to tell even to my own ears.
But she smiles, proud of herself.
And stars help me, I find myself smiling back.
It feels strange—like the muscles in my face have forgotten how. My scars tug wrong. But she doesn’t flinch from it. She doesn’t even notice the teeth.
She just looks… pleased.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just—you look less terrifying when you do that.”
“I’ll stop.”
She chuckles. “You won’t.”
I should stop this. The banter. The glances. The way my gaze keeps drifting toward the hollow of her throat, the movement of her breathing, the way her voice warms the air.
She’s too much.
Too alive.
Too human.
And I haven’t thought about being human in a very, very long time.
I was made for war. Trained to fight, to kill, to follow orders. The Centuries War ended, but it left me like this—rusted, worn down, filled with ghosts. The word “human” used to mean weak. Now, when she laughs again and my chest tightens, it feels like something else entirely.
A curse. A gift. Both.
The monitor beeps. Meyer’s signal blips closer.
I move to the console, scanning the readouts. “They’re closing in.”
Her expression hardens. “So what do we do?”
We? The word catches me off guard. She says it like we’ve been allies for years.
I should correct her. Should tell her this isn’t her fight. That she’s nothing but cargo now. But the truth is, hearing her say we does something to me I don’t want to name.
“I’ll handle it,” I say instead.
“You’ll handle it? Alone? Against all of them?”
“Yes.”
She stares at me like I’ve just suggested breathing vacuum. “You can’t.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
Her tone. Her fire. Even now, when she’s scared, she argues. I can’t decide if it’s admirable or suicidal.
I step closer without realizing it. She doesn’t back away. Her head tilts back to look at me—eyes defiant, chin lifted. I can see her pulse flutter just beneath the skin of her neck. The scent of adrenaline and warmth fills the air between us.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” I blurt.
She blinks. “Why?”
Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you were supposed to protect.
Because I’ve already failed once.
Because the word jalshagar burns in my head like a brand.
Instead, I say, “Because I don’t repeat mistakes.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
The silence between us stretches thin, humming with static and breath.
Then a distant crash splits the moment—the sound of boots, shouts, gunmetal echoing through the corridors. Meyer’s crew. They’ve reached the outer level.
The Hulk shudders, lights flickering red across the deck.
She jumps. I move without thinking—placing myself between her and the sound.
“Stay behind me,” I growl.
Her voice trembles just once. “You’re going out there, aren’t you?”
“I told you,” I say, drawing my blade from its sheath. “I’ll handle it.”
She hesitates. Then, softer: “Garokk—don’t die.”
I glance back at her one last time.
And for the first time in fifty years, I realize I have something to lose.