6. Isolde
ISOLDE
R eflector’s right arm is lying on the floor. Again.
And he’s whining about it. Again.
“This is absolutely unacceptable,” he buzzes, the light on his lens flickering a frazzled amber. “I am not designed for violent environments, Isolde. I am a camera drone, not a combat drone. A camera drone.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, twisting a loose wire back into place, “you’ve said that about twenty times. Maybe thirty. Try holding still, would you?”
Garokk, over in the corner, makes a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh. The kind of sound that says he’s been watching this circus too long and is two seconds from throwing the tent into the sun.
“You waste time,” he mutters, voice gravelly enough to sand metal smooth. “The toy cannot fight. It slows you.”
I don’t even look up from Reflector’s exposed panel. “He’s not a toy. He’s my assistant. My emotional support sphere.”
Garokk makes a low rumble that could mean ridiculous, or I have no idea what those words mean, or possibly I’m considering yeeting both of you into the nearest airlock.
I grin anyway. “Don’t worry, big guy. You’re doing great at brooding. Really nailing the mysterious-warrior aesthetic.”
“Brooding?” he repeats like the word is an insult.
“Yeah. You know, sitting in the dark corner, muttering ominously while the woman does all the work. Super sexy, by the way.”
That gets me a look. Just a flick of gold eyes, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.
My stomach flips anyway. Because, yeah—this alien might be grumpy and half-feral, but he’s also… well. Built.
Focus, Isolde.
I twist another screw into place and test the arm’s joint. The servo motor hums back to life. “There. Good as new.”
Reflector floats upright, little arms flexing experimentally. “I am not new, Isolde.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
Garokk exhales, long-suffering. “You speak too much.”
“Someone has to,” I shoot back, brushing my hair out of my face. “You ever notice how quiet this ship is? Like it’s holding its breath? I’d go nuts if I didn’t fill the silence.”
He doesn’t answer. Which, to be fair, proves my point.
So I glance over at him. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall panel that looks like it’s one nudge from collapsing.
The dim red light from an emergency fixture glows against his scales, tracing every hard line of him.
He’s got his blade across his knees, cleaning it with the kind of focus I usually reserve for editing filters.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him still. Really still.
His expression isn’t angry now. It’s… haunted.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’ve seen that look before.
Not on him, obviously—I’d remember that —but on people. Soldiers. Veterans. The kind of men they bring onto talk shows with medals and nervous tics, the ones who stare a little too long at nothing and flinch when the lights flash too fast.
He’s one of them.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying not to startle him. “You were in the war, weren’t you?”
He freezes, just slightly. Then goes back to cleaning the blade. “What war?”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “The big one. The Centuries War. Everyone knows about it. Half the holovids out there are about Vakutans. The Scourge of Rynar, the Battle of the Broken Belt…” I trail off. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A Vakutan.”
His jaw tightens.
Gotcha.
I keep my tone light, teasing. “What, you thought I wouldn’t notice? The scales, the horns, the height? You guys were practically mythologized in the media.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Okay, maybe not the right approach.
I pivot. “You’re kind of famous, you know. Well, your species is. There were a few Vakutan defectors on the human side, and some of them became folk heroes. But then there were… others.” I study him carefully. “You’re not wearing insignia. No clan markings, no medals. So which were you?”
Still nothing.
I sigh. “You’re really making me work for this interview.”
He finally looks up, eyes burning like molten gold. “Do not dig into what you do not understand, human.”
“Hey,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m not judging. I just?—”
“War is not a story,” he snaps, voice low and raw. “Not something to broadcast for your people’s entertainment.”
I flinch. Okay. Hit a nerve.
But he’s not wrong.
I take a breath, forcing the edge out of my voice. “You’re right. It’s not. But you’ve been alone here for fifty years, and I can tell it’s eating you alive. So maybe talking about it isn’t the worst thing.”
He goes silent again, eyes dark and distant. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:
“I have talked enough. The ship remembers my voice. That is enough.”
It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
I let it drop—for now.
Instead, I turn to the console I’ve been eyeing since we got here. The panel’s ancient, the kind of thing I could probably auction off for a small fortune if we ever make it out. Which, given our current situation, is laughable optimism. But maybe—just maybe—I can make it do something useful.
“Reflector, scan for active ports.”
“Scanning,” the droid chirps, floating closer. “One live circuit detected. Power levels are unstable.”
“Good enough.” I pop the panel open, revealing a mess of tangled wires and dust. My fingers itch to start sorting through it.
Behind me, Garokk rumbles. “You touch that, you could trigger defense systems.”
“Yeah, well, sitting here waiting to die doesn’t sound great either,” I say, poking at a wire cluster. “If I can reroute comms, maybe I can ping a satellite. Get a distress signal out.”
“Unlikely.”
“Let me have my delusions, okay?”
He mutters something in his own language. Sounds like a curse.
I grin without looking back. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
The console hums weakly under my fingers. There’s power in there somewhere—I can feel the faint warmth of it through my gloves. I twist two connectors together and a spark jumps. “Ha! See? Not dead yet.”
Then the panel jolts violently, and my hand slips.
“Ah—!”
Before I can fall backward, he’s there.
One huge arm wraps around my waist, pulling me upright like I weigh nothing. My back hits his chest—solid, hot, scales rough against my skin through the torn fabric. The smell of metal and smoke and something sharp, almost sweet, surrounds me.
He’s so close. Too close.
“Careful,” he growls, voice a low vibration against my spine. “This ship bites.”
“I—yeah,” I stammer, suddenly aware of everything—his heartbeat steady against my shoulder blades, the faint rasp of his breath near my ear. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t let go immediately. Just stays there, holding me steady, like he’s afraid if he moves, I’ll break.
“Got it,” I whisper. “I’m fine. Really.”
He releases me, slow and reluctant. My knees feel untrustworthy for a second. I force a laugh, mostly to fill the air. “So, uh… thanks for the save. Again. You’re kind of making a habit of this.”
He grunts. “You are fragile.”
“Rude, but fair.”
I crouch again, pretending to fiddle with the panel so he can’t see the heat rising in my face. “Anyway, if you’re done looming, I’m trying to?—”
A sudden flicker from the screen cuts me off. A distorted image bleeds across the monitor—Meyer’s face, grainy and smug.
“—Isolde,” his voice crackles through the static, cold and smooth. “I know you can hear this. That little rescue act of yours? Cute. But we’re coming. And your monster can’t hide you forever.”
Garokk stiffens behind me. The low hum in his chest becomes something darker, rougher.
I swallow hard. “Well,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Guess that answers whether or not they’re leaving.”
He steps closer to the console, glaring at the flickering image. “He underestimates this place.”
“He underestimates you, ” I say quietly.
Garokk doesn’t answer. He just stares at the dying feed until it fades to black, his claws flexing at his sides. The air feels heavy with static and unsaid things.
“Hey,” I say softly, breaking the tension. “Whatever happened to you out there—before this—it’s not who you are now. You saved me. That counts for something.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and for a heartbeat the walls of the Hulk seem to fade away.
“You should fix your toy,” he says finally, turning toward the corridor. “We will not have long.”
I smile faintly, more to myself than him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get right on it.”
He disappears into the dark.
Reflector hums beside me, one optic swiveling. “Isolde, your heart rate is?—”
“Don’t,” I warn.
He shuts up.
The lights flicker again, and somewhere deep in the Hulk, metal groans like it’s waking from a bad dream.
I reach for the panel, hands trembling—not from fear this time, but from something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
I crouch again, reaching into the panel to adjust the wiring, heart still rattling from Meyer’s little transmission. The conduit sparks under my fingers—nothing major, just a pop—but I flinch back too fast, losing my balance.
My boot catches on the grated floor. I pitch sideways with a yelp.
But I don’t hit the ground.
He’s there. Fast— impossibly fast. One arm wraps around my waist, the other bracing my back, and I’m caught mid-fall like a feather snatched from the wind. I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
His grip is firm but careful, like I might break if he squeezes too hard. His scales are warm against my skin, rough with the faint rasp of old scars. He looks down at me, eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something I can’t quite name.
“You are careless,” he mutters, voice low and close.
“Reflexes like that,” I breathe, half-laughing, “and you’re worried about me being reckless?”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds me a beat longer than he needs to.
Like I’m something fragile.
Like I matter.
The moment stretches, hangs suspended in the thick air of the Hulk like something sacred—or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.