Hero? What kind of person truly deserves that word?

  In some old records, I once came across myths about Earth, the blue planet that humanity once called home. In their comic books, there was a being called Superman. Not even human, but fallen from the stars, raised among them, defending them against evil.

  And now—Jack? Jack, the coward. The trembling, heavy mechanic with greedy eyes and fat hands too warm for comfort—he is being called a hero? When he smiles, his cheeks rise and squeeze his eyes into slits. His body is broad, yes, but soft, like some pillow stuffed with the excess of flesh. And yet… he is the one they praise.

  When I first heard the news, my mind froze. My stomach cramped. A deserter. A man who only ever ran from death. That was their “hero.” The Federation’s darkest joke.

  I saw him again. My heart beat faster. Yes, he had saved Meadow and me once, but that doesn’t mean I love him. And yet… something had crept in. A warmth flowed quietly when my eyes found his.

  Then his performance shattered it all. When he saw me and the military police, he collapsed in terror, clutching Nova’s leg like a helpless child. Why not mine? I’m a soldier too. One of the Federation’s best pilots. If he had clung to me, I would not have pushed him away. I would have shielded him.

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  Now they’ve sent him to the front lines, pinned officer’s bars to his chest. A lieutenant. A coward, chosen by heaven? Meanwhile, I still have my flight orders. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.

  A simple mission—or so I thought. Escorting medics and wounded back to the Federation. Meadow was with them. But we were ambushed. Captured. Again.

  This time, Jack might not come.

  I never told him the words that stirred inside me. Maybe—just maybe—I felt more than dependence for him.

  As a prisoner, death looms at every moment. Days blur together. Each morning, some never rise again. Imperial guards drag corpses away like sacks of garbage. The food… if you can call it that… a rotting paste, sour and foul. Every swallow twists my stomach, but I force it down. I must.

  The body is the first to fail. My legs shake when I stand. My frame thins quickly. But worse is the mind. It whispers: let go, stop fighting, sleep. Yet another voice scratches back: endure. Survive, even for one more chance to see him again.

  And here is the strange truth: what keeps me alive is not his strength, but his fear. I remember him clutching Nova’s leg, trembling like a child, and in that trembling, I saw myself. I knew then—I was not alone in my terror. He feared the war as I do, and somehow, that fear gave me strength.

  Maybe I do like him. Just a little. Enough to breathe one more day.

  Next time, if we meet again, I’ll tell you the truth.

  — Nya