"What idea?"
"To be exploded into stardust."
Mekkra wants to blow up the damn space station.
"Hell yes," I whisper into his side.
We shuttle Starcroft and the few remaining droids to my ship. Mekkra carried over some of the plants in cloches, especially the more useful and slippery ones. The ship is already loaded with my dowry of weapons and armor and has a fully stocked and droid-attended mess hall.
Mekkra lugs the last of my extensive wardrobe aboard and shoves the oversized gown into the brig, the only spot large enough to hold my silly dresses.
"We really don't need all those, seems like a waste of space," I grumble as I struggle to keep the fabric out of the way of the cell door.
"Nothing for you is ever a waste of space," he tells me simply. Like it doesn't heal something long broken inside me to hear.
I'm not given much time to soak in the feeling though, as Mekkra's got other plans. He grabs my hand and leads me back to the brig.
"Starcroft's almost done laying the charges, I've said my goodbye to Gessik, and there's nothing left to pack." He lingers, his voice catching the edges of the room like he's searching for one final thing to do.
I step into the silence and reach for him.
"It's okay for this to be bittersweet." I take his hand, my fingers slipping neatly between his claws.
His grip tightens in my own, jaw flexing. "It's…long overdue."
He sighs, the station a weight that's seemingly been lifted off him.
"What do you think will happen with the trade route after we leave?" I ask.
Mekkra doesn't answer me right away. Instead, he gently guides me into one of the twin captain’s chairs facing the windshield and the station in front of us. Tiny bits of stars swirl in the view not obscured by our former home’s rusted metal exterior.
“I don’t care,” he says at last, voice low, certain. “We’ll be long gone.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead—soft, almost reverent. “My home is you, Mae. Wherever you go, I follow.”
There’s a beat. Then, quieter—darker: “And I’ll destroy anyone who gets in your way.”
Ah, yes there's some of that warlord I first met.
Before I can respond, Starcroft glides in, utterly unconcerned with the gravity of the moment, and docks himself neatly between us.
“Explosives have been laid per your instructions,” he announces. “I would advise putting approximately seven clicks between us and the station to avoid catastrophic damage.”
He swivels his head toward me, optics bright—unmistakable robotic joy. “This is so exciting!”
Mekkra exhales through his nose and turns back to the controls. The ship hums to life under his hands, thrusters whispering as we ease backward into the void. The station shrinks in the viewport—once imposing, now just a drifting carcass of metal and memory.
Farther.
Reversing the ship into space.
Too far, it almost feels like.
Mekkra’s finger hovers over the trigger.
For a moment—just one—it trembles. Like he might stop it. Like he might turn us around.
Then he inhales, slow and steady, and presses the button.
Silence answers first.
