Page 14 of New World

“You don’t,” she had whispered, turning away from him.

He had gently cupped her chin, turning her back to face him. His eyes were serious, somber. She held her breath as they looked at each other.

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t remind me of home.”

“What do I remind you of then, pandochka?”

She remembered throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him. He had held her close, his warmth sinking into her.

“Safe. You make me feel… safe. My home was never that, but here, with you and the others, it is,” she had confessed, pressing her face against his neck.

“Oh, pandochka. That is what a real home feels like. It is your fortress, your castle, against the world.”

Mei released a shuddering breath and closed the notebook slowly, her hands tightening around it.

They had been her family. They had shown her what a home felt like. And, for a brief, impossible moment, what it meant to be truly free.

Mei breathed in deeply, steadying herself. She tucked the notebook back into her pocket. Perhaps she hadn’t been as ready for the memories as she’d thought. She brushed another tear from her cheek and was wiping her hands on her trousers when she heard a noise outside in the corridor.

She stiffened, every nerve in her body going on high alert. Rolling silently off the crate, she grabbed her katana from where it had been lying beside her, and retreated to a shadowy spot behind a line of crates stacked by the door. Her fingers tightened around the katana when she recognized the staggering shuffle of heavy boots. The door hissed open, and the greenish tint of a large man with thick arms covered in spikes stood out against the ghastly, dim glow.

Grak.

Mei stilled, sinking deeper into the shadows behind the crates as the door closed behind Grak. The smell of alcohol hit her before she saw him. Acrid. Sharp. Fermented. It clung to the surrounding air, mixing with the already thick scent of ozone, rust, and burnt metal.

She had learned his stumbling, heavy gait over the last three weeks—a lumbering beast of a man who moved like gravity was his to command, a mantle of it cascading over his shoulders and thundering from his feet.

Tonight, he appeared drunker than usual.

His boots scraped against the floor as he staggered forward, muttering under his breath. Then, with fumbling fingers, he yanked a small communicator from his belt and activated it.

A sharp buzz of static filled the storage bay before a low, mechanical voice answered in his native tongue.

Grak’s words slurred, thick and guttural, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.

“Raash’ten vek Tor’Rag—vash ka’Lek turissh nash’tak vah.”

The voice on the other end responded, garbled but questioning.

Grak grinned, a wet, drunken chuckle rattling his chest.

“Zash’Tor ka’vak draal—ten vash’mek!” he crowed.

His words blurred together, voice thick with greed and liquor. He swung an arm wildly, nearly toppling a pile of discarded metal casings before bracing himself against the wall.

The voice crackled again, urgent.

Grak snorted, waving a hand at the air as if swatting away concerns.

“Tirash ka’nor ur’vak Cryon II. Draal tur’resh ka vash.”

He chuckled, tapping the communicator against his thick, ridged forehead before shoving it into his pocket.

Then he turned and his heavy-lidded eyes scanned the room, barely able to focus as he swayed on his feet.

Mei watched through a gap between the crates, her breath measured, controlled. Grak’s gaze landed on the escape pod. Mei’s pulse steadied.

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