I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My knees feel like they’re wrapped in cotton candy and duct tape.
“You okay?” Reflector asks, surprisingly gentle.
“No,” I say. “But I look fantastic.”
The dock rumbles beneath my boots as our borrowed cruiser begins its approach cycle. Somewhere deeper in the terminal, a subsonic clunk marks the fueling hose release. I tug at myearpiece, then adjust the collar on my jacket so the hidden mic sits right at my throat notch.
The mirror flickers on the far wall—distorted a little by the terminal’s old lighting grids. I step closer and study myself. Eyes wide, sparkling brown. Hair a masterpiece of messy charm. Cheekbones airbrushed to hell. I look fearless.
I lookfake.
I press my palms to the counter, breathing slowly. For once, I don’t rehearse my next line. I don’t plan the shot. I just stand there, letting the thrum of the station seep into my bones, steady and low.
This is it.
The last big plunge.
I’ve done sky dives on volcanic moons. Swum with acidfish under crimson ice. Shot a holodramawhileclimbing the falls on Tathris Prime. And yet... none of it has stuck. Notreally.
But the Hulk?
It’s untouched. Unknown. Full of ancient silence and starside ghosts.
It doesn’t want to be pretty.
It doesn’t want to perform.
And I think maybe... that’s why I need it.
Reflector bobs beside me, breaking the spell. “You have precisely ninety seconds before boarding. Would you like to rehearse your launch line?”
I grin without teeth. “Nah. Let’s make this one real.”
The wall comm hisses. “Isolde Verrix,” comes the cool station voice, “please proceed to Launch Bay 7. Your vessel awaits.”
I sling my custom backpack over one shoulder, adjust the purple-tinted visor on my helmet, and blow myself a kiss in the mirror.
“Let’s go make some bad decisions.”
The docking baystinks of ozone and stale caf. Industrial lights flicker above like they’re trying to quit, and the floor plating under my boots vibrates with the unmistakable thrum of a barely-maintained engine cooling system. It’s not glamorous. Not curated. Not polished. Which means my nose wrinkles instantly.
“This your idea of high-end?” I mutter.
Reflector clicks nervously at my shoulder. “According to our contract, Orion Security Solutions was the highest bidder willing to sign the liability waiver.” It whirs in closer, lowers its optic lens, and zooms toward a puddle on the far side of the floor. “There is also a concerning amount of oil leakage for a facility with Class-2 safety clearance. I recommend not touching any exposed surfaces with unshielded skin.”
“Noted,” I say dryly, stepping over a wrench that looks like it was abandoned mid-fix by someone fleeing for their life. I should’ve worn the boots with the toe spikes.
Ahead of me, the launch crew doesn't even pretend to salute. They barely look up from their consoles. The launch officer—a stick-thin woman with half-shaved hair and the bored expression of someone six hours past their shift—waves me through without ceremony.
And there it is.
TheScallywag.
My ride to glory.
I blink. Slowly.
“She’s... vintage,” I say aloud, struggling for something polite.
