Page 17 of Nebula Hearts
“No. But it’s all we have right now.”
We sit there. Both exhausted. Both out of ideas. The cargo bay feels smaller somehow. More confined. I’m aware of how close he’s sitting.
Aware of him.
“Tell me about your family,” I say. I need to think about something else. Anything but these impossible problems.
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “My family?”
“Yeah. Your parents. Why you chose engineering. Something normal.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Considering whether to share. Then: “My parents are historians. Both of them. They study pre-Suppression artifacts and cultural practices. Trying to understand what we lost when we chose control over connection.”
“That must make you the rebellious one. Choosing engineering instead.”
“They were disappointed initially. But engineering is practical. Builds things that help people. History just records what already happened.” He finishes his ration pack. “My father writes papers about empathic bonding practices. Academic exercises mostly. No one takes it seriously.”
“Except they were right. The ruins prove empathic abilities were real.”
“Real, yes.” He looks at his hands. The ones that tore creatures apart hours ago. “What I became today wasn’t valuable. It was monstrous.”
“You were defending us.”
“I can’t remember doing it. Can’t remember anything except the need to protect.” His voice is flat. Empty. “That’s not defense. That’s madness.”
I shift slightly. Turn to face him more directly. “You didn’t choose to touch that interface. Didn’t choose to go feral. It happened TO you. You’re dealing with it as best you can.”
“You’re very certain about that.”
“I’m certain you’re not a monster. I’m certain you saved my life today.” I hold his gaze. “Everything else is just details we’ll figure out.”
He’s looking at me. Really looking. His markings brighten slightly. Not chaotic like before. Just brighter. Gold starting to edge out the violet.
His gaze was steady. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For not running. For trying to solve this.”
“Where would I run? We’re stuck on a moon.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost a smile.
We’re sitting close. Closer than I realized. I can see the fine detail of his markings from here. The way they pulse gently now instead of flickering. Can feel the heat radiating from him in the cool cargo bay.
“Tell me something happy,” I say. “From before. When you were a kid.”
He considers this. “There was a garden. On our estate. My mother grew flowering plants that bloomed at night. We’d sit there in the darkness and watch them open.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
“It was. My father would point out the mathematical patterns in the petal arrangements. Golden ratios, Fibonacci sequences.” His voice softens. “I haven’t thought about that garden in years.”
“Why not?”
“Because remembering makes me feel. And feeling is dangerous for my people.” He pauses. “Leads to what happened today.”
“Or maybe suppressing everything is what made today worse. Maybe if you’d had practice dealing with emotions, the amplification wouldn’t have shattered you so completely.”
He’s quiet. Thinking about this. His markings continue to stabilize. The gold is winning over the violet now.
“My parents argue the same thing. That suppression created brittleness. That we should relearn flexibility.” He shifts slightly. Our shoulders almost touching now. “The Zephyrian Council calls them dangerous radicals.”
