When Jorla asks me how I feel, I tell her, “Fine.” And I almost believe it.
Because heartbreak is a luxury I can't afford. Every beat of this kid’s heart reminds me there’s work to do. That love is more than waiting. It’s showing up—even when it hurts.
CHAPTER 10
TROKA
Istep off the transport, boots echoing on the docking bay floor. The roar of the crowd hits me first—the cheers, the clang of helmets, the voices calling my name. I blink against it. Barrakus. It’s home—but I feel like a stranger.
“Troka! Over here!”
I turn. Old squadmates wave. They slap my back with more force than memory allows. Armor clangs. They laugh, voices raw: “You survived! We almost thought?—”
I lift a hand. “Didn’t think you’d let me off that easy, did you?”
They grin. But inside, I wince—the ribs on my left hurt like hell. A blow from the front lines I couldn’t outrun.
Later, in the debriefing hall, a drone reports. Commander's drone. Casualties, supply lines, ceasefire talks. My uniform’s too tight. My thoughts are everywhere.
I slip out into a hallway, lean against the bulkhead, listen to the hum of life behind closed doors. The corridor smells of antiseptic and stale sweat. A med-tech passes, wipes her hands. Her eyes flick to me and away, like she’s cataloging or confusing me for someone else.
I pull out my compad under dim lights. Nothing new. The message from her—still unread. My pulse hammers. My thumb hovers near the icon.
“Oi! You in that corridor or ghosting us?”
Sergeant Korr slinks around the corner. Ragged grin, hair in a mess. She tosses me a water ration.
“Thanks.” I take it, throat dry.
“You look worse than I do after an acid shower,” she says. She’s always straight talk. No fluff. “Battle scars or those new blades messing with your DNA?”
I manage a half-smirk. “The job.”
She leans in, voice soft: “You’ll find what you’re looking for back here, Troka. Don’t wait beyond your welcome.”
I nod, swallow hard.
I wander Barrakus streets. Neon signs buzz. Hovercars hiss past. Scent of fried krelln and spice sticks perfuming alleyways. Lights flicker. Everything feels too bright. Too loud.
I reach the lounge—the bar from before. The Docking Bay. The name cuts my gut.
The door hisses open. I step in. The smell: liquor, stale sweat, polished wood, lingering smoke. It’s a place that doesn’t forgive absence.
Servers glance over. Patron chatter threads quiet. Music hums in the back. Bar stools scrape.
I walk up to the bar.
“Still serving burns?” I ask, clearing my throat.
She’s there—behind the bar. Hair darker. Face sharper. Brown eyes burning. She lifts a glass, sets it down hard.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me.
“Troka,” I say again. Louder. Demand.
She turns. “What took you so long?”
I taste blood in my mouth. I didn’t expect that. “War. Cost. Space between words.”
