MARCO
It could be minutes. Maybe hours. Rachel lets me hold her, and time seems to stretch like the endless sky above us. She cries—soft, quiet sobs—and I rub circles into her back, offering whatever comfort I can.
Neither of us speaks. What could we say, really? The weight of everything is too much for words. Maybe, for once, they don't need to be said. Not yet. Not now. Words can wait until tomorrow.
Eventually, I feel the ship's descent. The hum of the engines shifts, a subtle vibration under me as we land. The massive hatch slowly creaks open, and I glance through the dark night at the thick trees just outside. The world feels so different here—fresh, clean, untouched by the violence we've left behind.
The moment the hatch opens, Rachel doesn't hesitate. Without a glance back, she stands, her body already morphing, her wings unfurling like a storm that's been held back for too long. She takes off into the sky, disappearing into the distance.
I watch her go, knowing she's probably headed home. She needs rest. She needs space. For now.
I think for a split second about following her, but the thought fades almost as soon as it appears. Reality crashes back in. My work isn't done yet. There are things to do. Things that can't be ignored. The weight of them presses down on me, but I move anyway. Away from the open hatch and into the belly of the ship.
Inside, it's a mess.
The scent of blood lingers in the air. The hallway feels cold, sterile, as if nothing can erase the violence that took place here. A dead Hork-Bajir lies on the floor, its body sprawled awkwardly where it fell, a testament to the chaos. Another body. Another life taken.
But not all of them are dead.
Three others are alive. Injured, unconscious, but alive.
I hear movement down the hall and look up to see Jake and Cassie dragging one of the unconscious Hork-Bajir by his ankles toward an empty room. Their faces are set, determined, but there's a tiredness in their eyes—worn from the battle, from everything.
A black bear, Ax, is nearby, his massive form moving through the cramped space, shoving heavy crates and broken panels to block off two other doors. The Hork-Bajir will be imprisoned here until their Yeerks die, leaving them free in the days to come.
Free.
The realization strikes me hard. We're making history here. This isn't just some battle we've survived. This is the beginning of something bigger.
With a grim determination, I morph into gorilla, the shift pulling at my muscles, making them tense and grow as I change.
I turn back at the dead Hork-Bajir.
I pick up the body carefully, cradling it like it's something fragile. It's heavier than I expect. Or maybe it's just the weight of what I'm about to do. It deserves better than to lie here forgotten on the cold metal floor.
I turn around and head out toward the huge hatch door. As I leave, I spot a piece of broken scrap metal and grab it.
It'll do for a shovel.
The forest is silent, as if even the animals and wind are taking a moment of silence for the fallen warrior. The night is is dark, and the air is thick with the scent of moss and damp leaves. I walk for a long while before I find a spot beneath a cluster of tall pines, their trunks forming a natural shelter. The ground is uneven, tangled with roots and scattered with fallen needles. It feels right. Private.
I grab the broken piece of metal I'd salvaged from the ship and begin digging. It's awkward with my bulky gorilla frame, but I'm not giving up. The soil is stubborn, packed with rocks and roots, but I keep at it, driving the makeshift tool into the earth with all the strength my morph gives me. Each strike sends vibrations up my arms, but the physical effort feels good, a distraction from the tightness in my chest.
As the hole deepens, sweat drips down my back despite the cool morning air. My breaths come in heavy, uneven bursts. It's not just the labor—it's everything. The fights, the losses, the constant weight of choices we can never take back.
Finally, the grave is deep enough. I set the tool aside and lower the Hork-Bajir into the earth. Its limbs fall into place awkwardly, and I pause to adjust them, crossing its arms over its chest. For a moment, I just stand there, staring down at it.
[I'm sorry] I whisper. The words feel inadequate, swallowed by the vastness of the valley.
I start pushing the dirt back in, first with the slab of metal, then with my hands. Each handful feels heavier than the last, the damp soil clinging to my fingers. My gorilla strength makes the task faster, but it doesn't make it easier. The mound grows, stark and raw against the forest floor, until finally, it's done.
I kneel there for a moment, my large hands pressing into the freshly turned earth. The weight of everything—the battle, the choices, the losses—presses down on me, harder than any physical strain. I force myself to breathe, slow and steady, but it feels like I can't get enough air.
I glance at my massive, furred hands, clenching them into fists before letting them fall open again. The strength I'd relied on moments ago now feels like a barrier, separating me from what I'm feeling. This isn't me. Not really.
So I let the morph go.
The shift is slow, deliberate. The familiar tension builds in my muscles, pulling at my bones. My thick, powerful arms shrink, fur retracting as my skin returns to its usual tan hue.
Soon, I'm human again. Just Marco. No more walls of muscle to hide behind. No calm gorilla mind. Just me. But it doesn't make the weight of everything any easier to bear.
That's when it hits me. The tears start slow, just a sting in my eyes, but then they come faster, hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks. I bow my head, my palms pressing into the dirt, and let the sobs come. They're quiet, but they shake me to my core, every breath trembling as I try to hold myself together.
It's not just for the Hork-Bajir buried beneath me. It's not just for nearly dying today. Again. It's not even just for Rachel this time. It's for everything. For all the lives we've taken, for the people we couldn't save, for the endless fight that's worn us all down to the bone.
For the fact that I don't know how much more of this I can take. How much more any of us can take.
I rub my face with dirt-streaked hands, smearing soil across my skin but not caring. The cool early morning air feels sharper now against my human body, grounding me in its chill. I press my hands to the earth again, as if it can absorb some of the weight I'm carrying.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice breaking. I don't even know who I'm apologizing to anymore. The Hork-Bajir. My mom. The team. Myself. Everyone.
I sit back on my heels, wiping at my face again, trying to pull myself together. I look at the grave, the simple mound of dirt marking the spot where the Hork-Bajir lies. Who was it before the Yeerks took over? Did it have a family? Dreams? Did it ever know peace?
The thought makes my chest tighten, but I force myself to stand. My knees feel shaky as I rise, brushing dirt from my shorts. A rustling sound in the trees makes me pause, but it's probably just the wind, weaving through the branches. Still, it's a reminder: I can't stay here.
Before I turn away, I grab a large, flat stone from the ground and place it upright at the head of the grave. It's crude, but it's something. A marker.
A way to say you mattered.
With one last glance at the grave, I turn and walk back toward the ship. My steps feel heavier now, but I keep moving.
The weight in my chest hasn't lifted, but at least now it feels like something I can carry. For now.
/
The air is cool and heavy with the last remnants of night as I fly home. Below me, the world stretches out in muted blues and purples, with the first blush of dawn staining the horizon. My wings slice through the quiet, each beat carrying me further from the grave I left behind.
I should be heading straight home, back to my own bed, but something pulls at me, an invisible thread that tugs at my chest. As I glide closer to home, I can't help but glance down at Rachel's house.
Her window is open. A soft, golden glow spills from her lamp, cutting through the dim morning light.
I slow my flight, hovering for a moment. She should be asleep. After everything, she needs rest. We all do.
For a second, I almost turn away, make the responsible choice, and head to my own window. Just crawl into bed, forget about everything at least for a few hours, and shut my eyes until the weight of it all finally lets me sleep.
But… a selfish part of me doesn't want to be alone.
A hollow ache settles deep in my chest. I think about Rachel, alone in her room, and something shifts inside me. A quiet hope, fragile and unexpected, blooms.
Maybe… maybe the open window is a sign. Maybe she doesn't want to be alone either.
I can't shake the thought. It pulls at me, guides my wings down toward her house.
I drift down, landing softly on the edge of her roof. For a moment, I hesitate. This feels… intrusive. Stupid, even. But something about the way the light spills out, warm and quiet, pulls me in.
I slip through the window and hop awkwardly to the floor, talons brushing against the carpet.
She's there, sitting up in bed, the blanket pooled around her waist. A forgotten book lies beside her. Her eyes are wide, locked on me, like she's been waiting. It's as if she's been holding her breath, just hoping I will show up.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. She doesn't say anything, just looks at me. I think—I hope—I know what she needs.
It's what I need, too.
I demorph slowly, feeling the shift in my bones and muscles as I return to human. The light casts shadows across her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw, the exhaustion in her eyes.
She doesn't tell me to leave.
I don't say anything. I don't have the words.
Instead, I walk to her bedside lamp, my fingers brushing the warm light as I turn it off. The room falls into quiet darkness, but the pale light of early morning seeps through the open window, casting a soft glow across the room.
Without another word, I crawl onto the bed beside her—not too close, just enough to be near her, to let her know I'm here. I lie down, the tension in my body unwinding, as if just being near her is enough.
For a moment, we're suspended in this strange, fragile quiet.
She doesn't say anything. But after a long moment, she shifts, laying down close and turning to face me. It's not much, but it's something. It's enough.
We watch each other in the stillness. Her breath is shallow, uncertain. Her eyes hold questions I don't have answers to.
I reach out, hesitant, unsure if I'm crossing a line. I take her hand, rubbing my thumb over her smooth skin.
She doesn't pull away.
We stay like that, side by side, her hand warm in mine, our breathing falling into sync.
Outside, the sky slowly brightens, soft gold chasing away the shadows. But here, in this quiet space, we exist in the in-between. Not warriors. Not killers. Just two people too broken to face the world alone.
The war will still be there when we wake. The questions, the uncertainty, the fear. The weight of everything we've done and everything we have yet to do won't just disappear.
But right now, in this small, stolen moment, none of that matters.
Right now, we're just here. Just breathing. Just holding on.
Together.