Chapter 9: Mechanical Hearts - Part 1
POV: Raven Reyes
Raven spread the salvaged electronics across her makeshift workbench, cataloging components with the methodical precision that had gotten her noticed by Zero Station's engineering department. Radio transmitter housing, cracked but repairable. Signal amplifier, missing key components but potentially functional. Power coupling, completely fried but she'd improvised worse.
The challenge excited her more than it probably should have. Six days since her dramatic arrival via drop pod, and she was finally getting her hands on a real engineering problem. Something complex enough to matter, technical enough to require actual skill rather than just survival instincts.
"Need any help?"
She looked up to find Alec hovering nearby, that combination of genuine interest and nervous energy she was learning to associate with his presence around her workspace. For someone who claimed to be just a farm boy with lucky instincts, he spent a lot of time watching her work with suspiciously informed eyes.
"Sure," she said, gesturing to a collection of wire fragments. "Sort these by gauge and material type. Copper separate from aluminum, thick separate from thin."
He settled beside her with the focused attention of someone who understood the task's importance, his hands moving efficiently through the salvage. Too efficiently for someone whose technical education should have consisted of agricultural equipment maintenance.
"So what's the plan?" he asked, separating strands with practiced ease.
"Contact the Ark," she said, examining a circuit board for heat damage. "Let them know we're alive, get them to send supplies, maybe coordinate rescue efforts."
"Makes sense." He paused in his sorting. "What if you reversed the... thingy?"
"The what?"
"The polarity? On the power coupling?" He gestured vaguely at the component she was examining. "Yeah, that science word! Polarity. What if you reversed it?"
Raven stared at him, her hands stilling on the circuit board. The suggestion was technically sound—reversing polarity on the power coupling might compensate for the signal degradation she'd been fighting all morning. But it wasn't the kind of random suggestion someone made without understanding the underlying electronics.
"Why would you think to reverse polarity?" she asked carefully.
"Lucky guess?" He offered that self-deprecating grin that was becoming his signature deflection. "Just seemed like when things don't work one way, maybe try the opposite?"
The logic was simplistic enough to be believable, but the timing was too perfect. This was the third "random" suggestion he'd made that directly addressed technical problems she'd been wrestling with. Pattern recognition was one of her strengths, and the patterns here didn't support pure coincidence.
"Let me try that," she said, making the adjustment he'd suggested.
The signal strength indicator immediately jumped from barely detectable to clearly readable. Not perfect, but a significant improvement that brought Ark communications within reach.
"How did you—" she started.
"Really boring technical manuals," he said quickly. "Read them in solitary. Lots of time, nothing else to do."
"What manuals specifically?"
"Electronics troubleshooting. Basic circuit theory. Really dry stuff." His deflection was smooth but felt rehearsed, like he'd prepared answers for technical questions he shouldn't have been expecting.
She studied his face, noting the way his eyes tracked over her work with systematic assessment rather than casual interest. Either he was brilliant and hiding it behind farm-boy modesty, or he was the luckiest guesser in human history. Both options intrigued her more than they probably should have.
"You're full of surprises, Farm Boy," she said, returning to her work while cataloging this latest contradiction for future reference.
"I try to keep things interesting," he replied, and there was something in his voice—vulnerability, maybe, or the hope that she'd accept his explanations without pushing too hard for details he clearly couldn't provide.
They worked in comfortable silence for the next hour, her hands moving through familiar repair procedures while her mind processed the growing collection of impossibilities surrounding her workspace companion. Technical knowledge he shouldn't possess. Tactical awareness that saved lives. Healing capabilities that violated basic biology. And underneath it all, a desperate need to deflect attention rather than claim credit.
"What's your story, really?" she asked during a break, setting down her tools and giving him her full attention.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His usual easy deflection faltered, replaced by something more careful and uncertain.
"Farm Station kid," he said, but his voice lacked the automatic confidence of rehearsed lies. "Mom was agricultural specialist, taught me plants and basic technical stuff. She died in the culling. I got arrested for stealing medical supplies for my sick sister. Sister died anyway. Volunteered for the mission because staying on the Ark felt like dying slowly."
The story was delivered with emotional truth that felt genuine despite its suspicious convenience. But as he spoke, Raven caught glimpses of something deeper—real pain about loss, real fear about not belonging, real exhaustion from carrying secrets he couldn't share.
"That sounds terrible," she said, and meant it.
"Could be worse," he replied with forced lightness. "Could be dead in a metal box orbiting a dead planet."
POV: Alec Morgan
The conversation was veering into dangerous territory, but something about Raven's expression—open, interested, non-judgmental—made me want to keep talking. To share truths I couldn't safely reveal but desperately wanted someone to hear.
"What about you?" I asked, deflecting focus away from my fabricated backstory. "What's your real story?"
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the workbench while she considered how much to reveal. "Mechanics apprentice on Mecha Station. Youngest person ever accepted into Zero Station's engineering program. Fought for every opportunity because nobody expected much from a girl with no family connections."
"No family?"
"Mother died when I was young. No father listed on birth records. Had to prove myself constantly—work twice as hard, be twice as good, never show weakness or uncertainty." Her voice carried the weight of years spent battling for respect in environments that didn't want to give it.
I understood that pressure, though my version came from hiding what I was rather than proving what I could be. "Sounds exhausting."
"It was." She looked up at me, and I caught a flash of vulnerability she usually kept hidden behind technical competence and sharp humor. "Still is, sometimes. Always feeling like you have to justify your presence, like one mistake will prove everyone right about not belonging."
"She gets it. She understands what it feels like to not fit, to have to work harder just to exist in spaces other people take for granted."
"I know that feeling," I said quietly, dropping my usual defensive humor for honest connection.
"Do you?" Her gaze sharpened with genuine curiosity rather than suspicion. "What don't you fit into?"
The question hit closer to truth than she realized. I didn't fit into this world because I wasn't from it. Didn't fit into normal human categories because I possessed capabilities that shouldn't exist. Didn't fit into their group because I was built from lies and secrets that would horrify them if revealed.
"Anywhere, really," I said, which was as honest as I could safely be. "Always felt like I was pretending to be something I wasn't, trying to blend in when I was fundamentally different."
"Different how?"
"Careful. Don't reveal too much."
"Just... different." I shrugged, aiming for casual but probably missing. "Like I saw things others didn't, knew things I shouldn't know, wanted to protect people in ways that made me stand out when I needed to blend in."
She nodded slowly, and I could see her processing my words for deeper meaning. "That's why you deflect so much. Why you make jokes when people ask serious questions about your abilities."
"Maybe."
"You're scared of people seeing what you really are," she said, and it wasn't a question.
"Terrified. Because if you saw what I really am, you'd run screaming or demand answers I can't give."
"Something like that," I admitted.
Before she could push deeper, Finn appeared at the edge of our workspace, his expression tight with barely concealed jealousy. He'd been watching us from across camp, and the easy intimacy of our conversation had apparently triggered his territorial instincts.
"Hey Raven," he said, his voice carrying forced casualness. "Thought maybe we could talk. Alone. About... us."
The interruption shattered the moment of connection we'd been building. I saw Raven's expression shift from open vulnerability back to guarded assessment as she looked between us, calculating relationship dynamics and potential complications.
"Hey, I'm just the annoying guy who asks dumb questions," I said quickly, standing and raising my hands in surrender. "You two have... whatever you have. I'll just go find something else to break."
But as I turned to leave, I caught the look Raven gave me—a flash of frustration that the conversation had been interrupted, of regret that we'd been pulled back to surface-level interactions when we'd been approaching something real.
She was choosing to deal with Finn's jealousy because she had to, not because my presence didn't matter. The realization sent warmth through my chest even as I walked away, giving them space to work through whatever history and complications defined their relationship.
From across camp, I watched them talk—saw Finn's earnest explanations and possessive gestures, saw Raven's careful responses that neither encouraged nor completely dismissed him. But every few minutes, her eyes found mine across the distance, holding contact for moments that felt like promises of conversations interrupted but not abandoned.
"This is dangerous," I thought, forcing myself to look away and focus on other tasks. "Getting attached to someone who's starting to see through your lies. Getting invested in relationships that can't survive the truth about what you are."
But as night fell and I caught her watching me from across the fire, neither of us looking away immediately, I realized the danger was already here. The shift had already occurred, and there was no going back to the safety of keeping everyone at arm's length.
Some risks were worth taking, even when they led straight toward heartbreak.
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