19. Isolde
ISOLDE
I hate this already.
The minute the dressing room door whooshes shut behind me and the stylists descend like jeweled vultures, I know I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve sent a holo. Or faked a flu. Or fled to the moons of Tavris Prime and raised goats under a fake name.
But here I am. Back in the lights. Back in the frame. Back in the skin I thought I’d shed.
And this dress? This dress is actively trying to kill me.
“No, no, no—she can’t go out in that neckline,” the lead stylist chirps, clapping her hands. “This is a ribbon-cutting, not a bachelor auction.”
“She asked for something simple,” another offers feebly, adjusting the hem.
“Simple?” The first scoffs. “She’s a brand. She’s a legacy. She survived a ghost ship and gave birth to a galactic icon. She can’t wear simple. ”
I close my eyes.
“Can I just... wear pants?” I mutter.
Three people gasp like I kicked a baby.
Apparently not.
Across the room, Pyramus is sitting on the edge of a holo-crate, fidgeting with the collar of his tiny formal jacket. The poor thing’s been tugging at it for five minutes, his little face screwed up in frustration.
“It’s choking me,” he whines, pawing at the fastener. “It’s itchy and mean and it hates me.”
“It’s not choking you, baby,” I say, gently prying his fingers off the clasp. “It’s just stiff because it’s new.”
“I want the dinosaur hoodie.”
“You can’t wear the dinosaur hoodie to a ribbon-cutting on a floating luxury mall.”
“Why not?”
“Because... reasons.”
He folds his arms and gives me a look. That look. The Garokk look. Chin lifted. Eyes narrowed. Like the laws of the universe are optional if he’s annoyed enough.
I sigh. “We’ll compromise. Keep the jacket, lose the neck bit.”
“Deal.”
He grins like he just brokered peace in the Badlands.
While one stylist starts refitting my bodice for the third time and another fusses with my lashes— “they must be dramatic, darling, but not tragic” —I sneak a glance at the reflection in the dressing mirror.
I don’t recognize her.
The woman in the mirror is flawless. Gown smooth as starlight. Hair coiled in gleaming loops. Lips painted a shade of victory. She looks composed. Polished. Powerful.
She looks fake.
The real me? She’s somewhere under the foundation. Somewhere behind the mascara. Somewhere chewing the inside of her cheek and wishing she could skip the next thirty minutes of her life.
This is my first big event since the Hulk. Since the escape pod. Since the nausea turned into a heartbeat.
Since Garokk.
The name is a knife. It slices through my thoughts whether I want it or not. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and try to push it away. Not today. Not now.
Not when the cameras are waiting.
“Three minutes to escort arrival,” says the aide near the door, checking her compad. “Final fixes, please.”
The stylists step back for a final once-over.
“Goddess,” one of them breathes.
I feel like a lie wrapped in silk.
But I smile.
Because that’s the job.
“Okay,” I say to Pyramus, holding out my hand. “You ready?”
He slips off the crate and takes my hand without hesitation, his little fingers warm and sticky with whatever snack he managed to sneak past Mila this morning.
“Do I have to talk?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“Nope. Just smile and wave. Like royalty.”
“Like pirates?”
“Sure. Fancy pirates.”
He beams. “I’m good at that.”
I squeeze his hand. “Me too.”
That’s the plan.
Smile.
Wave.
Cut.
Leave.
I don’t know why I’m anxious. Security is everywhere.
Big, beefy types with mirror-shield visors and enough tactical padding to survive a small moon implosion.
I count at least a dozen just from my walk to the podium alone, all stationed at the perimeter of the promenade, hands on their sidearms like they expect a terrorist to burst out of the frozen yogurt kiosk.
Which, to be fair, isn’t impossible.
The last time I was at a public event like this, I had just come back from the Hulk and someone tried to throw a shoe at me on live feed. Said I faked the whole thing. That it was “AI-generated space trauma.”
God, people suck.
“Straight ahead, ma’am,” one of the guards murmurs as I pass. His voice is flat. Neutral. Too neutral.
They’re all like that.
Blank stares. Controlled movements. All of it choreographed. Not for my safety—though that’s the excuse—but for optics. Orbimall One: a beacon of order and opulence. No risks. No surprises.
And yet.
I feel it.
Before the air shifts. Before the static hum in my teeth starts. Before Reflector lets out that uneasy ping in my ear.
I feel it.
Something is wrong.
“Hold still,” Reflector whispers beside my cheek, barely audible above the event music. “I’m recalibrating.”
I glance at him. He’s hovering off-axis. Twitching slightly. His sensor array is spiked with blue warning code. That’s not normal.
“What is it?”
“Could be feedback from the upper signal repeaters,” he says, voice a little too quick. “Or... maybe not. There’s... a fluctuation. A blip.”
My stomach tightens.
“A blip,” I echo.
“I can’t pin it. It’s faint. Mobile. But it’s not tagged—doesn’t match any of the registered signatures on the guest manifest.”
I scan the crowd.
Rows of well-dressed officials. Holonet reporters jockeying for better angles. Mall execs looking like they’ve eaten too many sedatives. All very... normal.
But I know.
Not in my head. Not with logic.
I know it in my skin. In the way the fine hairs on the back of my neck lift like caught in a breeze that isn’t there. In the way the weight of the stage suddenly triples under my heels. Like gravity itself is leaning toward me.
Like something... someone ... just entered the room.
And I don’t need Reflector to name it.
Because I already know.
Garokk.
He’s here.
Somewhere.
My hands go clammy. The scissors slip in my grip.
“Isolde?” Reflector hisses. “You’re pale. Sit. Let me call security for a sweep?—”
“No.”
The word burns my throat.
“No,” I say again, quieter. “No scene. No drama. We finish this.”
“But—”
“It’s probably nothing.”
A lie.
A lie with teeth.
But I can’t afford panic. Not now. Not with half the galaxy watching.
I square my shoulders. Step into the spotlight.
The crowd erupts. Applause rains down like polite hail. The holo-cameras whirr into position. A thousand lenses blink red.
The master of ceremonies—some media-trained bot in a tuxedo-shaped exosuit—gives me a flawless introduction, heavy on adjectives and light on accuracy. I nod along like it doesn’t make my skin crawl.
When the mic is finally passed to me, I smile.
I raise my hands.
And I begin.
“Citizens of the Alliance... honored guests... partners, dreamers, and doers…”
My voice is clear. Strong. Practiced.
And utterly false.
This speech was written by a PR firm in quadrant seven. I’ve had it memorized for weeks. Every line is a glitter-dusted, family-safe platitude designed to sound inspiring while saying absolutely nothing.
“Orbimall One is more than a shopping destination. It is a promise. A symbol of unity in a fractured galaxy…”
I feel my throat tighten.
“...a beacon of commerce and cooperation, where species from every sector can come together—not just to trade, but to thrive…”
He's here.
He's here.
He’s here.
I can’t see him, and that’s somehow worse. Because my body knows. It remembers. The way the air thickens when he enters it. The way his presence folds the atmosphere like a stormfront rolling in.
“...a future where prosperity and peace are not just possible—they are inevitable…”
My hand shakes. Just slightly. Just enough to make the golden ceremonial scissors click against each other. I grip them harder. My knuckles whiten.
Don’t look.
Don’t search the crowd.
Don’t let it show.
“Today, as we cut the ribbon on a new chapter for this station, for this sector ? —”
I suck in a breath.
“—we also cut away the shadows of the past.”
The words catch.
Too close.
Too loaded.
Reflector buzzes once. A low tone only I can hear. He’s scanning. Still scanning. But the blip’s gone. Either masked or moved.
He’s hiding.
Of course he is.
Garokk doesn’t make entrances.
He waits. He watches. He hunts.
I power through the last paragraph, voice tight, smile brittle. The scissors lift in my hand.
My fingers ache.
I feel every thread of pressure. Every beam of light. Every distant hum of the station's power grid. The weight of a thousand expectations. The hush of a million eyes.
I feel my heart beating like it’s trying to punch through my ribs.
I hear myself say the final line:
“With this cut, we open the future.”
The ribbon is just silk. But it feels like a tether.
I snip it.
The blades close.
The crowd cheers.
And I...
...I don’t breathe. I forget how. The only thing that pulses in my brain is a word/sound/concept/ name I have held close and silently to my heart for two years.
Garokk