The town hall was alive with activity, the hum of conversation reverberating through the wide, open space. Leaders of the dozen groups that made up Dusthaven's salvage forces had gathered for their weekly meeting, their voices a blend of anticipation and wary curiosity. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the cracked windows, catching the dust motes that danced in the air, while the faint tang of rust and oil lingered—a constant reminder of their trade.

  Elissa stood at the front of the room, her posture commanding despite the weariness in her eyes. She tapped the map pinned to the board behind her, highlighting a new section marked in bold red. "Let's keep this quick," she began, her voice cutting cleanly through the din. "We're asking you to expand deeper into the Sea for new salvage."

  A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd, skepticism mingling with unease. Elissa raised her hand, and the voices gradually stilled.

  "Yes, I know. Orks." Her tone was flat, but the weight of the word hung heavy in the air. "The deeper you go into the Sea, the more likely you are to run into those green-skinned bastards. That's why we're assigning extra security. Milo and a dozen guards will accompany you as a reaction force. Between your crews and theirs, you should be able to handle most roving groups."

  Her thin smile didn't quite reach her eyes, but it carried a spark of confidence, enough to settle the fidgeting among the crowd. "As always, you've got your breakdowns. If anyone here doesn't want to push deeper, that's fine. Stick to the wrecks along the outer edges. This isn't an order—it's a choice."

  She let her gaze sweep over the gathered leaders, their faces lined with the grime of hard work and the sharp eagerness of those chasing bigger fortunes. Despite the risks, the lure of untouched plunder was hard to resist. Satisfied with the collective nods and murmurs of agreement, Elissa tipped her hat, a gesture of finality. "Alright, then. Get to it. Milo's your contact for operational questions—don't clog my line with them. Good luck out there."

  The leaders began to disperse, their boots thudding against the worn wooden floor as they filed out. Elissa allowed herself a moment to exhale, rolling her stiff shoulders. The Sea was a dangerous place, but it was also their lifeblood, and every risk came with the promise of reward—or ruin.

  Her eyes lifted as a familiar figure approached from the far end of the hall. Koron. His armor was back on, the dull sheen of its plating catching the light, though his helmet hung loosely from his belt. His strides were unhurried, but there was an air of quiet purpose about him.

  "You got a moment?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made her straighten instinctively.

  Elissa hesitated, the memory of their conversations over the past three days flaring to life, stirring an uncomfortable heat in her chest. She bit back the instinct to brush him off, instead taking a deep, steadying breath. "Yeah," she replied evenly, masking her tension. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong," Koron assured her, his expression open but earnest. "I was just wondering if I could help out with the salvage operations."

  Surprise flickered across her face, softening the guarded lines of her features. She blinked, taking a moment to process the unexpected offer. "You want to help?" she asked, skepticism creeping into her tone. "Do you have a particular crew in mind?"

  Koron shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a faint smile. "No. I figure I'd just slow them down. I was thinking I'd start near the edges of their operations, going over stuff that's already been picked through. Get a feel for how it works before I try anything new."

  Elissa studied him, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly. For all his power and enigmatic nature, there was something disarmingly genuine about the way he stood there, offering his help like any other Dusthaven laborer. She found herself nodding almost before she realized it.

  "Alright," she said, her voice carrying a note of cautious approval. "Just don't make a mess of it. And for the record? The deeper stuff isn't exactly beginner-friendly."

  Koron gave a small, wry chuckle, his cybernetic fingers tapping idly against the edge of his belt. "Noted. Don't worry, I'll stay out of everyone's way."

  She nodded again, more firmly this time. "Good. Then get yourself sorted—gear, tools, whatever you need. You can shadow Milo's group to start. He'll set you straight if you veer off course."

  Koron inclined his head in gratitude. "Appreciate it," he said simply before turning to leave, his long strides carrying him toward the exit.

  Elissa watched him go, her thoughts a tangled web of lingering doubts and begrudging respect. Koron was an enigma. She wasn't sure where he fit in Dusthaven's world, but for now, his offer of help was enough.

  For now.

  -

  "For fuck's sake, someone get to the left flank and start shooting!" Milo roared into the vox, his voice raw with urgency. Bullets zipped past with sharp, deafening cracks, each near miss sending a pulse of adrenaline through his veins. The makeshift barricade of battered hull plates groaned and shuddered against his shoulder, a flimsy shield against the storm of fire.

  The air hung thick with the acrid tang of burning ozone, mingling with the stench of blood, sweat, and the oily residue of slagged metal. In the distance, the ork rabble surged forward in a chaotic green tide. Thirty of the brutish xenos barreled toward them, howling guttural war cries that reverberated across the wreck-strewn battlefield. Their crude weapons spat lead in every direction, chewing through the shattered remnants of the derelict ship like paper.

  "Riggs! Where the fuck is your team?!" Milo bellowed, thrusting his laspistol blindly over the barricade. He squeezed the trigger, sending a quick volley into the advancing horde. The shots weren't aimed to kill—just to remind the orks that they weren't the only ones with guns. He ducked back down as a cluster of bullets struck the plating above him, showering him with sparks. "We've got maybe a minute before we're—"

  The words froze on his tongue as the ork charge stumbled. Several of the greenskins fell, their bodies broken by beams of crimson light. Milo whipped his head around to see Riggs and his crew perched high on the blown out plating of a nearby wreck. The fifteen-man squad had taken up firing positions, their lasrifles spitting death with ruthless efficiency. Riggs, massive servo arm waving, stood at the center of the group, bellowing a colorful stream of insults at the orks, his voice somehow cutting through the chaos.

  For the orks, the sudden onslaught wasn't a deterrent—it was an invitation. More enemies simply meant more fun. Seven of the hulking brutes broke off from the main horde, their snarling laughter rising above the din as they barreled toward Milo's barricade.

  Lasbolts rained into the charging greenskins, dropping three in quick succession, but the remaining four pressed on undeterred. Their thick, leathery hides and ramshackle armor absorbed glancing blows, and their frenzied momentum carried them forward. Each step was a thunderous drumbeat of impending doom, shaking the ground beneath them.

  Leading the charge was a towering ork, easily twice the size of a man and covered in a patchwork of crude metal plates that served as armor. His right arm ended in a vicious, three-pronged claw, its rusted edges jagged and deadly. He roared as he veered toward an opening in the ship's hull, a gap that left Milo's right flank dangerously exposed. Drool flew from his tusked maw as he lunged through the breach.

  The roar died in his throat as he was yanked backward mid-charge, his massive frame slamming into the ground with a bone-jarring crash. Dust and debris kicked up around him as he snarled in confusion, scrambling to his feet.

  The next ork behind him bellowed with laughter at his leader's fall, only to meet the same fate. An unseen force clotheslined the greenskin, flipping him backward to land in a heap beside his leader.

  The guardsmen didn't waste the opening. The four stationed on either side of the barricade unleashed a barrage of full-auto fire, their lasrifles turning the two prone orks into smoldering heaps. The remaining pair of greenskins hesitated for a moment, then broke into a panicked retreat. They didn't make it far. Concentrated lasfire from the barricade cut them down, their corpses crumpling into the sand.

  The rest of the ork mob surged into the ruins of the wreck that Riggs's team had been exploring. Their war cries echoed through the metal halls, a cacophony of rage and bloodlust. After a full minute of relentless running, the orks emerged onto the ad-hoc balcony of broken hull plating that overlooked the battlefield—only to find it empty.

  Riggs's team had vanished.

  The salvagers had descended using drop harnesses as soon as the orks committed to the climb, spreading out in the wreck's shadowy lower levels. When the first dozen greenskins stumbled out onto the wreck's lower floors, confused by the lack of a fight, they were met with an ambush. Nearly thirty lasrifles opened fire in unison, the combined firepower cutting the xenos down in a merciless hail of energy bolts.

  The last orks, realizing the futility of the fight, turned tail and vanished into the wreckage. Their retreating red dots faded from the auspex display, leaving only the eerie quiet of the battlefield in their wake.

  Milo leaned back against the barricade, his chest heaving as he took a steadying breath. His voice was low and gruff as he keyed the vox. "Alright. Who's hurt and who's dead?"

  "Emrick and Tyson are dead," came Jacob's reply, his voice trembling as he struggled to stay composed. "Hicks, Anders, Wilson, and Val are injured. Val… he lost his left arm. Other than that, we're okay."

  Milo nodded to himself, his face grim. "Alright. Get everyone on the trucks. We're pulling out in five. Recall the salvage teams—I'm not leaving them out here to dry."

  "Got it, boss."

  "And Jacob?"

  "Yeah?"

  "That grapple line idea with the winch? Worked great, kid."

  There was a pause before Jacob's voice came back, tinged with regret. "Thanks, boss. Just wish it had worked a bit better is all."

  Milo closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. "Yeah," he muttered to himself, before pushing off the barricade to oversee the retreat. "Me too."

  -

  The convoy rumbled across the wasteland, the salvaged scraps lashed tightly to every available surface of the battered trucks. Dust clouds billowed in their wake as the edge of the Rust Sea loomed closer on the horizon, Dusthaven's safety tantalizingly within reach.

  Milo's vox chimed, the static crackling briefly before the vanguard's voice came through.

  "Boss, we've got greenskins on the auspex. Looks like bullets are flying up ahead, near where that new guy was searching."

  Milo spat out his cigarette, crushing the smoldering butt underfoot as he grabbed his rifle and barked orders into the vox.

  "Shit. Slow down and hold position. Let the convoy keep moving—get 'em back to town. My team will handle this."

  "Affirmative," came the curt reply.

  The trucks roared ahead, engines sputtering under their salvaged weight, while Milo's team veered off. Their tires churned up sand, spitting grit as the engines growled in protest. The harsh symphony of battle grew louder as they closed the distance: the rattling brap of ork shootas mingled with a distinct, sharp crack—something cleaner, more precise.

  As they rounded a bend, the source of the carnage came into view. Koron's strange, hovering bike sat abandoned in the sand, a headless ork corpse sprawled nearby. The stump of its neck sizzled black, the stench of burned flesh still lingering. A few meters ahead lay another ork, this one felled by its own choppa lodged deep in its skull, its twisted arm bent grotesquely behind it. A third corpse was slumped against a hull fragment, its armored chest molten and warped, frozen rivulets of slag trailing down its body.

  The trail of bodies led them to the source of the fight. Cresting a small rise, they came upon the scene. Three orks were howling with manic laughter as they swung their crude choppas in wide, clumsy arcs. Their shootas lay discarded in the sand, forgotten in the heat of their brutal melee. Their target was unmistakable—Koron stood alone, his form fluid and precise amidst the chaos, his every movement a stark contrast to the ork's brutish swings.

  Milo raised his rifle, the crosshairs finding a target, but his finger hesitated on the trigger as he watched Koron move. The way the man fought was, for lack of a better word, inhuman.

  The ork to Koron's left brought down its choppa in a heavy, overhand strike. Koron slid effortlessly to the side, the blade slamming harmlessly into the sand. His left knee bent low, his right leg sweeping into an arc, at the same time activating its anti-grav coils, that sent a spray of sand into the ork's leering face. The greenskin staggered, momentarily blinded.

  The second ork's horizontal swing whistled through the air, missing Koron by a hair as he crouched even lower under the blade. The wild strike didn't go to waste, however—it carved deep into the first ork's shoulder, eliciting a guttural snarl of surprise.

  Using the momentum of his crouch, Koron pushed off with his left leg, engaging his grav-plating in a focused burst. The surge of energy launched him into the air, spinning his body into a half-moon arc. His right leg extended, connecting with the injured ork's neck in a strike amplified by another pulse from his plating.

  The impact was devastating. A sharp crack rang out, followed by a crackling hum as arcs of electricity danced across the ork's body. The greenskin convulsed violently before collapsing in a twitching heap, its skull hanging limp as it sank to the sand.

  The third ork roared, charging with a relentless fury. Koron didn't land on his feet but instead let his body fall, a controlled descent that ended with him hovering inches above the sand. The ork, caught off guard by the sudden maneuver, barreled forward with no time to adjust.

  Koron's leg shot out, planting firmly on the ork's hip. Using the momentum, he launched the ork, sending the greenskin sprawling headlong into the dirt.

  "Shoot 'em!" Milo shouted, snapping out of his daze.

  The cramped truck behind him erupted in fire, lasrifles unloading a deadly volley. Crimson bolts seared through the remaining two orks, their leather-clad bodies jerking violently as they were torn apart by concentrated firepower.

  The battle was over in seconds. The acrid stench of burned flesh and ozone filled the air, mingling with the dust that had been kicked up in the fray.

  Milo lowered his rifle, sparing a glance toward Koron as the younger man rose to his feet. The carnage around him seemed to phase him not at all, his movements calm and deliberate, as though dispatching three Orks in hand-to-hand combat was merely another task on his list.

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  Taking a steadying breath, Milo turned to his team. "Alright, keep your eyes peeled. There might be more of 'em lurking around."

  Koron hustled back to his hovering bike, offering the team a quick wave of thanks. As Milo watched him with a mix of relief and curiosity, he reached for his vox. "You good, kid?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Bastards showed up just as I was hauling in the salvage," Koron replied, his voice steady despite what he'd just endured.

  Milo frowned. "Likely drawn in by the firefight. You hurt?"

  "No injuries," Koron assured him. "Just gonna grab the part and be on my way—two minutes tops."

  "Alright, hurry it up. We'll cover you."

  True to his word, Koron reappeared a few moments later, emerging from the ruined hull of the ancient ship. Slung over his shoulder was a massive cylinder, easily twice his height and so wide that both of his arms were fully engaged in carrying it. Four articulated arms folded along its sides, each adorned with rows of delicate, gleaming metal fins.

  Milo's eyes narrowed as he took in the object, the scavenger in him instantly assessing its value. He had no idea what it was, but it looked important.

  "What the hell is that, kid?" he called as Koron carefully lashed the cylinder to the side of his bike, the grav-plating's hum growing as it compensated.

  "FTL engine stabilizer," Koron replied with a grin. "It keeps the transition between realspace and subspace stable. Fairly valuable piece of tech, though it'll need a good cleaning—it was buried under a foot of sand."

  Milo blinked, the explanation barely registering. "You're hauling that thing around like it's a bag of groceries. It weighs what, a ton?"

  "About eight hundred kilos," Koron said casually, patting the stabilizer affectionately. "The grav-plates help distribute the weight. Makes it manageable."

  Milo snorted, climbing back into the passenger seat of the truck. "You're way too chipper for someone who just got jumped by Orks, you know that?"

  "Hey," Koron shot back, straddling his bike with a smile. "I found a piece of tech I never got to work with much. I'm excited."

  Milo rolled his eyes with a laugh and waved his team forward. "Kids," he muttered, half to himself.

  The convoy began to move again, engines rumbling as they trundled toward the distant safety of Dusthaven, the prize of the day strapped securely to Koron's bike.

  -

  The mountain's shadow, under which they all lived, shielded them from the twin suns' searing heat, but even that natural barrier couldn't keep the air within their sheltered cave from turning oppressive at noon. The heat clawed at throats, dry and relentless, like a beast eager for a feast.

  Milo took a slow swig from his canteen, savoring the brief relief the water provided, and let his eyes drift toward the firing range. The space echoed with the sharp, familiar crackle of lasgun fire—comforting in its regularity. The drills, a rigorous regimen of combat scenarios, weapon practice, and meticulous maintenance, had been Milo and Doc's brainchild more than two decades ago.

  Across the other side of the field, Doc snapped at the students as they went through the basics of first aid care, what tools did what, basic medication routines. It wasn't nearly enough, but some training was better than none.

  On Morrak Two, unpreparedness was a death sentence, and they'd learned that hard lesson early.

  Today, though, Milo's focus wasn't on the drills themselves but on the peculiar young man waiting in line to receive his rifle. Were it not for those advanced prosthetics, Koron could have easily passed for one of the younger recruits shuffling impatiently in line.

  It hadn't been easy to drag Koron out here. The kid had been perfectly content to spend the next three days holed up in the vehicle bay, obsessively cleaning the stabilizer he'd scavenged. Milo had found him there, grease-smeared and muttering under his breath, and had all but hauled him out by the scruff of his neck. Part of Milo's insistence was practical; Milo needed to know if the kid knew how to shoot straight. But if he were honest, his curiosity about the boy's past played a larger role. Koron had taken down a group of orks before Milo's arrival, and the mystery of how he'd done it gnawed at the older man's mind.

  As Koron stepped up to the counter and accepted a rifle, Milo's curiosity sharpened into a keen edge. What would the kid do? How would he handle the weapon?

  The answer came almost immediately, though not in the way Milo had expected. As Koron's hands wrapped around the rifle, his expression contorted. His face went stark white, and an audible gasp escaped his lips.

  Then, with a startled cry, he dropped the weapon onto the counter as if it had burned him. His cybernetic hands trembled as he stared down at it, eyes wide.

  "…You okay kid?" Milo asked, watching him.

  "…Yeah. Just uh…hot. It surprised me."

  Milos brown eyes flicked down towards the metal hands. "…Hot huh?"

  His jaw tightened, Koron picked the lasgun back up with all the care of a explosives expert holding a particularly badly made bomb before making his way down to the range.

  Shaking his head, Milo marked down Korons name and the serial number of the weapon given out. "Weird."

  -

  Pushing another stack of completed paperwork to the side, Elissa didn't even glance up when there was a knock on her office door. "Come in."

  Koron stepped inside, his lasgun hanging from his hand by the strap. "Afternoon. I'll keep it brief since I know you're busy, but can I get into the armory?"

  She raised an eyebrow, her attention snapping to him for the first time. "Why?"

  He held out the rifle. "This? This is your settlement's primary weapon, right?"

  "…Yes…?" Her tone carrying an edge of 'get to the point please'.

  "Okay." Koron nodded, his expression serious. "You're in dire need of an upgrade. Same goes for your armor. I'm gonna take care of that. If I'm not done by the time the caravan gets here, the part I salvaged is in the vehicle bay. Feel free to sell it."

  Elissa blinked, her mouth hanging slightly open as her tired mind tried to catch up with his words. The mountain of paperwork still weighed on her thoughts, leaving her more than a little frazzled. "Okay? Have fun I guess."

  Koron gave a short nod, then turned and left without another word.

  It wasn't until the evening, as she made her way home, that Elissa realized something nagging at the back of her mind. Maybe someone should go check on him.

  Someone other than her, for her mattress was calling her name in a sweet, sweet sirens song.

  -

  The armory was a cavernous room carved into the natural rock of the mountain. Overhead, crude but effective lighting cast a pale, uneven glow, highlighting rows of weapons mounted on racks along the walls. Crates of ammunition and spare parts were stacked in organized chaos, their labels scrawled in faded marker or etched into the metal. The air smelled of oil, heated metal, and the faint ozone tang of lasgun discharge. A battered workbench took up the center of the room, its surface littered with tools, half-assembled components, and a few grease-stained manuals. A vent overhead hummed faintly, attempting—unsuccessfully—to circulate the stuffy air.

  Koron was perched on a stool at the workbench, his posture slightly hunched as he worked on the guts of a disassembled lasgun. His cybernetic hands moved with quiet precision, the metallic joints gleaming faintly under the dim lights. The parts were laid out in meticulous order, each within easy reach—a stark contrast to the clutter around him. His muttering, an ongoing dialogue with himself, added a strange kind of life to the otherwise sterile atmosphere.

  Tara stepped inside, her boots crunching softly against the gritty floor. She glanced around, taking in the meticulously organized chaos. Her eyes lingered on the pile of modified lasguns stacked neatly to one side of the bench.

  "Mom sent me to check on you," she announced, leaning against the doorframe.

  Koron didn't look up, his focus locked on the weapon's focusing coil. "Didn't realize I was on anyone's priority list."

  "You're not," Tara shot back, smirking. "But she figured you'd probably forget to eat or sleep, and apparently that's a bad thing."

  He snorted softly. "I'm fine. Almost done with this one." He gestured toward the pile of weapons. "Your settlement's gear needs some serious TLC."

  "Yeah, you've mentioned that," Tara said as she approached the workbench. She tilted her head, inspecting the half-disassembled lasgun. "But, why? What's so bad about them?"

  Koron finally glanced up, giving her a fleeting but pointed look. "Power efficiency's terrible, and your energy source"—he held up the lasgun's power pack, wiggling it a bit—"is a joke. Why someone's using a basic battery for a weapon is beyond me. Why they decided to use its lowest setting is right up there too." Tapping the opened-up barrel, its focusing lenses neatly aligned, he continued. "Your focusing lenses are misaligned. Your heat sinks don't properly dissipate heat when they're covered. These things are surprisingly reliable for their faults, but they could be a lot better."

  "Okay," Tara said, her curiosity piqued, "but how do you fix it? Milo just swaps out parts when they break. He doesn't do... this." She gestured to the precise array of tools and components.

  "That's the difference between patching and actual repair," Koron said. He held up a tiny capacitor, its surface charred. "Like this. Your capacitors are old, overworked, and probably not even rated for the higher power settings I see most of these guns set to. I'm re-tuning them to balance the power load."

  Tara squinted at the capacitor, then at the lasgun. "You're telling me a little thing like that can make the whole gun work better?"

  "Exactly," Koron said, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's like... if your heart's beating out of sync, it messes everything up. Fix the rhythm, and everything runs smoother."

  Her eyebrows rose, and she leaned closer, her curiosity deepening. "How do you even know all this? You're, what, my age? Did you train with the Mechanicus or something?"

  Koron laughed, though the sound was dry. "No, no Mechanicus. They—" He stopped short, shaking his head. "Anyway, no, I didn't learn from them. Just… lots of practice. Out there"—he nodded toward the cave entrance—"you either learn to fix what breaks or you die when it does."

  Tara's face softened as she absorbed the words. "So, you've been alone out there... completely?"

  He hesitated, his hands pausing briefly. He answered a moment later, voice soft. "Yeah. For a while."

  "That's insane," she said, "The storms, the Orks... How did you survive?"

  Koron shrugged, returning his attention to the rifle. "I'm very fast."

  Her eyes drifted to his cybernetic arms. "Even the arms... Did you build those?"

  "Some of it," he said, voice carefully neutral. "The rest came from scavenged tech. A lot of trial and error."

  Before Tara could respond, the door creaked open, and Kala stepped in, her presence immediately filling the room with energy. She grinned at Koron, then at Tara, and sauntered over to the workbench, leaning casually against its edge.

  "Well, if it isn't our resident magic man," Kala said, her voice light and teasing. "How's the tinkering going? Saving Dusthaven one lasgun at a time?"

  Koron glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable. "It's going."

  Kala's grin widened as she leaned in a little closer. "You know, Koron, if you're this good with machines, I bet you're a great cook too. You should join us for dinner sometime."

  Tara groaned audibly. "Kala. Really?"

  "What?" Kala said innocently, though her smirk betrayed her. "It's called being polite, Tara. You should try it."

  "I appreciate the offer-" Koron began, only to be cut off as Tara spoke.

  "Don't worry about it. I'm sure someone here didn't even think to check with mom if she would be okay with it before asking."

  Kala gasped in mock offense. "You wound me. I just thought he might like a hot meal."

  Koron raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure whether to laugh or intervene. Tara shook her head, grabbing Kala by the arm. "Come on, lets go before you give him a flower."

  As the door shut behind them, leaving Koron alone surrounded by weaponry, he quietly uttered "Flowers?"

  -

  Kala swung her arms loosely at her sides, her long braid bouncing against her back. "So," she began, shooting a glance at Tara, "what do you think Koron would do if I asked him to dinner?"

  Tara stopped mid-step, her face twisting in disbelief. "Oh for-what are you doing?"

  "You know," Kala continued, undeterred, "dinner. Food. Two people sitting together, eating, talking—maybe smiling. You've heard of it, right?"

  Tara rolled her eyes and started walking again. "You're ridiculous."

  "Am I?" Kala jogged to catch up, falling into step beside her sister. "I mean, don't you think he could use a good meal? He's always tinkering or wandering around like he's got some grand plan, but has anyone actually seen him eat? Maybe he needs someone to take care of him."

  "Right," Tara said dryly. "Because you're so great at taking care of people."

  Kala gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "Wow, Tara. Way to undermine my nurturing side. That hurt."

  "I'm sure you'll survive."

  They walked in silence for a moment, the dry breeze kicking up dust around their boots. Tara glanced sideways at her sister, her expression softening. "You're not serious, though… are you?"

  Kala shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. He's interesting."

  Tara let out a short laugh. "I admit that, but he's also weird. He's all calculations and half-answers. He barely talks to anyone unless he has to."

  "That's what makes him interesting!" Kala shot back, grinning. "He's like some puzzle. You have to figure him out. Doesn't that make you curious?"

  Tara frowned. "Curious, sure. But not enough to… you know." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Besides, I don't think he's the type to… I mean, can someone like him even—" Her face flushed as she tried to find the right words.

  "Feel anything?" Kala finished for her. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But he's still… I don't know, kind of fascinating, don't you think?"

  Tara stopped again, turning to face Kala fully this time. "He's not some local boy you can tease. He's… different."

  "I know that," Kala said, her tone softening. "But different doesn't mean bad, Tara. It just means different."

  Tara crossed her arms, her voice dropping. "And what if you're wrong? What if he's more dangerous than he looks?"

  Kala met her gaze, the teasing gone from her expression. "And what if he's not?"

  The question hung between them, heavy in the quiet street. Tara opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, shaking her head.

  "You're impossible," she muttered, walking ahead.

  Kala smiled faintly as she followed. "And you worry too much."