The wind rattles through the depot’s broken ceiling, sending loose wires ticking against metal beams like a half-forgotten lullaby. I lean back on a crate, arms behind my head. My spine pops. My hips ache. My skin itches from grit and sweat. I’ve never been filthier in my life, and I kind of don’t care.
Darun shifts beside me. Not a lot. Just enough for the air to feel warmer.
“So,” I say, “do we rate this as ‘miserable’ or ‘truly fucked’ on the official survival scale?”
“Is that an Earth thing?”
“It’s an Amy thing.”
“Hm.”
“Not helpful.”
He actually snorts. It’s not a laugh. Not yet. But it’s close.
I grin. “C’mon. Live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I’ve seen the worst.”
The way he says it—flat, unblinking—it should shut me up. But I’m not wired for quiet. Not now. Not when everything outside wants us dead.
“Okay,” I say. “Then this must be the second-worst. Lucky us.”
He shifts again. I think he’s trying not to smile.
I press on. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t, you know, a walking tank with a tragic past?”
He gives me a sideways look. “No.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t have time for that shit.”
“Everybody has time for fantasy careers. It’s the universal coping mechanism.”
He sighs. Long-suffering. “Fine. I’d… build ships.”
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “Starcraft. Ground vehicles. Whatever. I liked machines. When I was a kid.”
There’s a softness there. Underneath the gravel and growl. I feel it. And it throws me a little.
“That’s…” I hesitate. “Actually kind of perfect.”
He huffs again, but there’s something else behind it this time. Something low and real.
“What about you?” he asks. “Let me guess. News anchor on a glowy desk spouting Alliance talking points?”
I make a gagging noise. “Gods, no. I wanted to be a singer.”
He stares.
“No, seriously,” I say. “Jazz. Old Earth blues. The kind of stuff that makes your chest ache.”
“You?” he says. “Jazz?”
“I had a voice once. Before all this.”
