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The hum of Moya’s engines filled the quiet of the observation deck. Braca sat near the viewport, arms crossed, staring out at the stars with a calm, soldier like intensity. Arryn joined him, holding a small datapad, settling into the seat beside him without a word. For a while, they simply watched the stars, letting silence stretch comfortably between them.
Finally, Arryn broke it. “You know… you’re not like most Peacekeepers,” she said gently, almost conversational, watching him carefully.
Braca’s gaze didn’t move from the stars. “I’m aware.” His voice was calm, neutral, but not closed off.
Arryn leaned back, shrugging slightly. “I mean… socially. You don’t really… mingle, laugh, joke like others. And everyone else tends to keep their distance.”
Braca finally turned to her, his expression steady, almost blank but with there was a hint of something deeper behind his eyes. “I wasn’t raised like other Peacekeepers,” he said quietly. “My… breeding experiment… it meant I grew up without sebacean contact until I was six. I was completely in isolation. I don’t remember much from that time.”
Arryn’s eyebrows lifted, a flicker of surprise passing on her face. “Six years… alone?”
Braca nodded. “After that, I had handlers. Drill sergeants, teachers, peacekeepers who trained me, conditioned me. Nothing else. Every lesson, every interaction… calculated, structured. I was bred to be the perfect second in command. Everything else, friendship, camaraderie, bonding it wasn’t part of the plan.” His voice was steady, calm, almost detached, but a shadow of pain lingered in his eyes.
Arryn considered him for a moment, then gave a small, wry smile. “That’s… intense. I didn’t have parents like most peacekeepers. But I was raised with a unit. Other children, other faces. We were our own family. You learned discipline, sure, but you also learned companionship. You weren’t completely alone.”
Braca tilted his head, observing her. “So… you’re more… adaptable socially? Less… rigid?”
Arryn shrugged, leaning back. “I guess. You learn to rely on each other, survive together. Makes a difference. But you… you never had that chance.”
Braca exhaled softly, almost a whisper. “That’s why I never got along with the other Peacekeepers. Not because I’m… superior, or unwilling, or cold. I just… don’t know how to.” He paused, then added quietly, almost to himself, “Except with the people I trust. And… a few exceptions.”
Arryn’s smile softened. “Exceptions like Scorpius?”
Braca’s eyes flicked to the floor, voice steady but tinged with rare vulnerability. “Yes. Someone who… understands control. And someone who accepts my… limitations. And doesn’t expect me to be… like everyone else.”
Arryn nodded, leaning slightly closer, her expression warm but knowing. “I get that. You’re… strange by most standards, but normal in your own way. And I’d like to think I could come to understand you, too.”
Braca looked up at her, soldier-like composure intact, but a flicker of something soft crossed his eyes. “You… could.”
For the first time in a long while, Braca felt a small measure of… connection, without duty or a mission pressing in. Arryn, in her own way, had given him a glimpse of normalcy he had never known, but also a mirror showing him that survival, discipline, and trust could coexist with companionship.
“You’re… different from what I expected,” Braca admitted quietly.
“Good different?” Arryn asked, teasing lightly, her tone warm.
Braca allowed a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “Yes. Good different.”
Arryn grinned. “I’ll take that. And you’re not as unapproachable as you make everyone think.”
Braca’s eyes softened just slightly, the mask cracking just enough to allow a thread of trust. “Perhaps. With the right people.”
Arryn nudged him gently. “Lucky for you, I’m one of them.”
And for the first time in a long while, Braca allowed himself to simply… exist in the moment, silent, soldier-like, but quietly tethered to someone who understood.