ROJA
The air in the industrial yards is thick with memory. I swear, it’s like breathing in ghosts. Coolant, plasma scarring, burnt metal—it clings to your nose hairs and settles in your chest like regret. I take the long path. Boots crunching over gravel that’s seen more spilt oil than rainwater. My footsteps echo against the sides of old hulls, ribbed like the underbellies of beasts, long stripped down for scrap or repurposed.
The yards hum like they’re alive. Buzz of arc welders, clangs of mech arms, distant shouting between deck leads. It used to be home. Kind of. The only place that didn’t ask too many questions. Where I could put my head down, burn metal together, and not have to think about the past—or the future. Just the next weld, the next plate, the next ship.
That was before.
Now? Everything’s louder. Sharper. My thoughts refuse to dull like they used to. I used to bury shit in work. Let the weight of steel drown the weight in my chest. Now, I can’t even fake it.
Ahead, Dock C looms. One of the big freighters is getting loaded—crates stacked on hover sleds, drones weaving between workers like impatient bees. And there it is. That starboardpaneling near the rear engine cluster—my welds. Tight and clean. I remember the burn of the torch in my palm, the sting of sweat sliding under my collar, the ache in my knees from crouching under that wing for hours.
I stop and watch. She’s ready for space, that bird. She’ll survive storms and pirates and system-jumps. Because of my hands.
“Roja?”
I don’t even flinch. The voice is familiar—Supervisor Tran, same clipped tone, same grease-slicked ponytail and permanent squint like she’s seen too many weld lines go sideways.
“Didn’t expect to see your ugly mug,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag as she approaches.
“Didn’t expect to come back,” I reply.
“You here for work?”
I shake my head. “Just… walking.”
Tran studies me, the way she always did—like I’m a machine she hasn’t figured out how to calibrate. “You still chasing shadows?”
I huff. “Nah. Just living with ‘em.”
She makes a sound—almost a chuckle. “Well, we’re behind on crews. Had two greenhorns quit after one shift. Could use someone who doesn’t cry when sparks fly.”
I glance back toward the freighter. “Appreciate it, Tran. Really. But I’m not looking for quiet right now.”
“That what you think this is? Quiet?”
“Quiet enough to forget yourself in.”
She crosses her arms. “You used to like that.”
“I used to like a lot of things that were bad for me.”
Tran nods once. “Fair.”
We stand there. Just two worn-down souls in a place built to wear you down. Wind kicks up dust from under acrane. Someone yells about missing cargo tags. A drone beeps, annoyed, and zips past us.
“Y’know,” she says, voice lower now, “that ship? You put a lot of heart into her. Didn’t have to. You did anyway.”
“She needed to hold.”
“She will. Like hell.”
I nod, staring at the ship. “Then my part’s done.”
Tran sighs. “Offer stands. Anytime. You want to disappear again? We’ve got a spot.”
“That’s the thing,” I say, turning to her. “I’m tired of disappearing. And the person I’m with now? She sees me. Doesn’t let me vanish.”
That gets her to raise her eyebrows. “Someone got through your thick skull?”
