I look at him, Nero—the man they call a ticking time bomb. I don’t know if he has a face. He’s always turned away from the tall wall of glass that separates us. Staring at his back is like tracing entire parts of the galaxy with my eyes, it calms me down from this ship without a soul, and I wonder if he knows it too—how lonely it is here in outer space since this lab is all he’ll ever see.

“Sire,” a voice calls, but it’s faint, and I want to tell myself it isn’t for me. I want to keep on losing myself in the intricate patterns before me plastered across Nero’s skin. I want… for time to stop, even if it is for only just a second, like when it is late at night and I entertain the fantasy of what the color of Nero’s eyes are; or if he has any at all

Part of me finds refuge in the fact that I won’t ever have to meet his gaze. It’s childish. I should stop—there’s no point in connecting with someone on the verge of death.

No point in letting him know I am afraid.

He might believe he has the upper hand here, and that could never be a good thing.

“Sire,” a scientist approaches, yet keeps his distance from me all the same. “Sire,” he echoes the word again. “It’s time to go,” he says. “You must continue with your daily rounds.” I wish I knew his name, I wish he knew mine, but most importantly—I wish I could see his eyes, their eyes.

“Of course,” I say. “The bunkers are next, yes?”

He nods. “That’s right, sire. Thank you very much for your hard work, we appreciate all that you are doing for us, sire.” And I think it again, for the hundredth time today, that I hate humans. I hate how they bow down to us without question because in their minds we are stronger. I hate that I can sense the fear on them when they express their gratitude.

I hate that this is my home now.

In the cold and ever so clinical corridors chatter bounces off the walls. Chatter that soon ceases to be once my arrival at the bunkers is made clear.

It’s crowded. It smells of sweat. They are silent as they salute me, as if I were a hero when I am nothing more than a survivor.

There’s a young man beside me. He’s wearing dark glasses that travel across the bridge of his nose. They give him a hollow glare; just like everyone else on this ship. I smile at him. He doesn’t smile back. And I can’t blame him. I don’t know why I tried when I know very well that my face is censored. “Aren’t you tired of those?” I mutter before I realise the words have escaped me.

His arms are trembling now, and I instantly regret what I’ve done. “O-of course not, sire!” he blurts. “I— I’m v-very sorry, did it seem like I w-was? It is an honour to serve you, s-sire! A-and I wouldn’t want it any other way!”

I bite my lip. It’s not a very elegant thing to do, and I’m sure my aunt would have had my head if she were here, but it’s not like either of them can see me anyway.

“Good,” I say before turning my back to them and asking the scientist, “I believe we can continue with our rounds now?”

The scientist recoils beside the doorway in order to let me pass. “Yes, sire, that is correct.”