And not just fromme.
Tonight, her pattern breaks completely.
No shift. No listed diagnostics. But she’s in the staff sector after hours, moving like she’s on a mission no one sanctioned.
I track her from the access catwalk, footsteps muffled by padded boots, every inch of my body tuned to stealth. I keep distance, using shadows, air vents, and my knowledge of the facility’s blueprint like second skin.
She doesn’t notice me. She’s focused. Hyper-focused.
She slips into the old maintenance corridor behind the hydroprocessor plant — where security cams are spotty and signal strength drops. The air back here smells like old metal and disuse.
That’s when I see it.
A wall panel. Out of place.
She presses her hand against a barely visible seam, and the panel slides open with a faint hiss. She glances over her shoulder once — not enough to catch me in the dark — then ducks inside.
I count to thirty.
Then follow.
The compartment is small.A retrofitted supply closet maybe, long since written off the station's schematics.
Inside, she’s kneeling next to a crate. A soft solar lantern casts a low amber glow, spilling over her profile. Her hair’s tied back in a quick knot, and her shoulders sag with exhaustion.
But it’s not the medkits she’s sorting through that freeze my blood.
It’s the drawings.
Laid out like they matter more than the gear.
Bright, clumsy sketches. The kind only small hands could make.
One is of a ship — cartoonish, with lasers and stars.
Another is of a three-fingered creature with jagged claws and big smiling eyes.
But it’s the third that stops my breath.
A face. My face. The sharp Vakutan jawline. The scar above the brow. The armored arm.
And beneath it, written in bright uneven script:
“My Daddy”
The paper shakes in her hands.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. Just sits there.
And I realize…
She’s been carrying thisalone.
All this time.
I back away, slow and silent.
The edges of the world blur. My pulse roars in my ears.
