“If I can track your ship, so can anyone else.” Adler put his drink down with a heavy thud. “And as of now there are new threats. I don’t care how clever you think you are with your ‘tactics’ — you’re putting Leta in danger.”

“Well sorry, buddy, but we needed fuel. And this port was the safest bet, all there is to it. Don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“Not leave her wandering alone, for a start.”

“She can take care of herself, y’know. She knows how to use a gun. She doesn’t need me nor want me to babysit her.”

“No one’s doubting her abilities,” Adler snapped, his gaze thinning dangerously.

Fiearius frowned. Well, he couldn’t exactly expect Leta’s father to like him, but even this felt unfair.

“So what’s your deal anyway?” he asked suddenly, veering the conversation away from how incompetent he apparently was. “Last I heard, you were helping bust me out of HQ in Paradiex. Which I suppose I should thank you for, by the way.”

“Don’t fool yourself.” Adler nearly smiled. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I never assumed otherwise,” Fiearius muttered. “Still — that’s an act of high treason. Yet I know there’s a nice thick librera somewhere under that suit that cost more than my ship. So tell me. Whose side are you on anyway?”

Adler glanced at him in annoyance, as if he were a pesky fly. “No one’s side.”

A generic answer, and not one Fiearius found satisfying. “I don’t buy that. If you were at all loyal to them still,” he muttered, “wouldn’t you have just turned around and given me back to the Council again? I’m sure I’d be a nice bargaining chip in getting your daughter out of their minds.”

To Fiearius’ shock, Adler said simply, “Yes, I’ve attempted making that deal. You for her safety. The Council wasn’t interested in the negotiation.”

Somewhat stunned, Fiearius moved his eyes away. “Okay. I stand corrected. I guess you are still with them…”

With a snarl in his voice, Adler said, “I would never work for the Society again. Ever. Not after what they’ve done to my wife and threatened to do to my daughter.”

The comment was so swift and biting, Fiearius almost missed it. Almost. After a moment, he swung his eyes back to him.  “Hang on — your wife?”

But Adler had gone suspiciously quiet. He was holding his glass near his lips — it was shaking slightly in his hand.

Meanwhile, Fiearius was stunned. Leta had told him her mother had died when she was sixteen. Of an accidental overdose. Mixed medications. A mistake. A tragic mistake. But now —

“The Society killed her?” Fiearius breathed, hoping to the gods this was untrue.

But to Fiearius’ horror, Adler muttered, “You can’t tell her,” and downed the rest of his glass and swallowed. It occurred to Fiearius, suddenly, that this man must have had a drinking problem. How else could he bear to keep secrets like this from his daughter?

“Leta doesn’t know,” he muttered darkly. “She doesn’t need to. Don’t tell her a goddamn thing about it — “

“No way. I’m not going to be the one who keeps secrets like that from her.”

“I’m certain you keep plenty from her. Just add this to the list. This is for her own good. Her own well-being — “

Fiearius opened his mouth, angry and prepared to argue, but a voice arrived in his ear. It was Cyrus over the COMM.

“Hey,” said Cyrus, his voice coming in over the static. Fiearius touched the piece in his ear, annoyed by the interruption.

“So. I’m in this store. And this woman came up to me and started talking to me about ships and–”

“Cy, aren’t you a little old to be asking for flirting advice?” Fiearius growled. He could feel Adler watching him closely.

“No no no, it wasn’t that — “ Cyrus went on. “No, she started asking me questions. Weird questions.” He hesitated. “About Leta.”

Fiearius’ eyes widened and at once, he looked to Adler. They met each others’ stares for only a moment, both understanding exactly what needed to be done: find Leta. And quickly.

Adler only paused to slide a stack of credits onto the countertop before he too stalked from his seat and the two of them fled for the door. Without even speaking, they headed their separate ways: they’d cover more ground that way.

As he ran down the hallway, he pushed his COMM. “Cy. What did she look like?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

It wasn’t exactly her favorite errand, but anything to help Amora, Leta thought, as she stood in the aisle of a grocery store, regarding a mammoth-sized wall of canned goods. Hopefully, volunteering for the re-stocking job would prevent Amora from asking more nosey questions about her love life. (“You don’t actually like the captain, do you, dear?” she inquired worriedly that morning over breakfast.)

Just as Leta picked a can from the shelf, a friendly voice chimed in her ear.

“I’d go with the blue label,” said the woman behind her, tilting her head to the side. Her auburn ponytail swung sideways in a friendly kind of way. “Doesn’t spoil as quick.”

“Oh — really?” said Leta warmly. “I don’t know anything about cooking. So thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Leta piled a few cans in her arm, and the woman continued.

“Sure as hell, keeping food stocked is a problem we all face out here, huh? Ain’t easy to make it to port that often.”

“No, it’s really not,” Leta agreed, and she was just leaving the aisle when she sensed the woman following on her heels.

“You been a spacefarer long?”

Leta spared her a short, sideways look. “Not long, no.”

“It  took me a long time to get used to the food,” the woman laughed. “That, more than anything. You miss bein’ on-planet?”

The woman was still following at her side. Her warning instincts were kicking in, so Leta purposely veered toward the front, the busier part of the store.

In an indifferent voice, she said, “Sometimes.”

“I miss it every day,” the woman went on, unphased. “The food, the stability, all of it … “ Suddenly, she stepped forward and cut in front of Leta, her eyes gazing hard onto her face. “But — duty calls.”

Leta stopped short, suddenly on guard.

The woman’s hand moved to her hip — to retrieve a weapon? —  but then, a tremendous crash filled the store. In a flash, a bottle of liquor had slammed against the back of the woman’s head, her eyes slid out of focus, and she dropped to the ground at Leta’s feet. Patrons screamed around them and the cans dropped out of Leta’s arm in shock.

It was Fiearius. Of course. He stood there with the unbroken neck of the bottle in his hand over his head, and his expression looked, actually, somewhat guilty.

“My mother always said not to hit people smaller than me,” he muttered, his eyes on the woman. But then he looked up at Leta. “We need to get out of here, c’mon.”

He dropped the bottle’s handle, seized her wrist and turned for the door, yelling “Sorry about that!” over his shoulder to the owner. Patrons rushed out of their way as Leta darted after him, shocked but somehow still unsurprised by what had just occurred.

She knew she was being closely followed. This simply confirmed it.

“That woman,” Leta called, “was she a — “

“Yep!” called Fiearius.

“Here?”

“Looks that way.”

“Are there more?”

“Probably!”

One hand still circled around her wrist, Fiearius stalked through the sea of people, parting the crowd for them. His other hand jumped to the device in his ear. “Attention Dionysian crew. Code green. Get back to the ship for immediate take-off!”

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” said Leta darkly, throwing Fiearius a haughty look, which he returned with a small, wry grin.

Together they crested a flight of stairs to get to the docking area. It was only when they’d made it to the Dionysian’s ramp that Fiearius finally let go of her hand.

Confused crew members filled the cargo bay, readying for take-off, including Cyrus, who looked pale and tremendously relieved to see them.

“Seal her up,” Fiearius ordered as he marched past toward the bridge. Cyrus quickly went to the door controls, and Leta crossed over the room to help him — but something over her shoulder caught her attention, and she wheeled around.

Far away in the bustling sea of people Leta saw a flash of gray hair, a stiff black suit, and an aged, familiar face gazing straight at her. His expression was sullen. She only had a few seconds to see him before the ramp doors closed, sealing them inside.

Her heart was beating hard. Shock electrified her veins. Her father?

“Look, you seem like a nice guy, as far as guys who sit in bars and commiserate about relationships with strangers go,” he said sharply. “But that? That’s none of your godsdamned business.” He raised his brows at the man, indicating this conversation was over and turned back to his drink.

And for a moment, Fiearius thought it was. Silence fell between them, until —

“But she’s right,” said the man after a moment. “Bounty hunters flood this port.”

The hair on the back of Fiearius’ neck was tingling. He felt himself straighten up, ready for wherever this was going.  “If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it.”

“But you’re willing to put her in danger, aren’t you?”

“Don’t think for one second I can’t protect my crew.”

“While you sit here at a bar?” he pressed. “Don’t you know how easy it would be for someone to just take her away from — “

Fiearius shot up to his feet, suddenly flooded with adrenaline. He seized the man’s collar and dragged him closer until they were face to face.

“Is that a fucking threat?” he breathed. “Listen you son of a bitch, I don’t know what he’s paying you, but I guarantee it’s not worth crossing me. You go anywhere near her, I will happily rip you to shreds, dump the pieces off that balcony and watch the blood splatter eight decks down.” He shoved the man back toward his seat, breathing hard. “And you can tell those other bounty hunting shits the same,” he added, stepping back toward the door.  He had to go find Leta. Now.

The man did not look shocked. He did not look scared or even alarmed. He pushed himself back up to his feet, his eyes sharp, expression darkened with anger.

“I’m not a goddamn bounty hunter,” he growled, and suddenly Fiearius realized what was so familiar about him. “I’m her father.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

As he lingered in the back of the shop, Cyrus turned the hefty metal casing over in his hand to look at the price tag. What he saw made him grimace. That much? For such an innocuous little device? It almost didn’t seem worth it. But it would fix that clattering problem the Beacon was having.

And after all Addy had been doing for him lately, helping with the huge influx of consulting work he had coming his way, it only seemed right he could do her such a simple favor. She deserved it. And he had sought out this particular machine shop at the very top of the port specifically to buy it for her. He had to get it, no matter the cost.

But before he could make a final decision, suddenly there was a voice behind him. He jumped in surprise. He hadn’t even thought there was anyone else in here.

“You got a 500V?”

He turned around. The young woman was about an inch taller than him, with thick auburn hair pulled into a ponytail high on her head. She smiled at him kindly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya. I was just lookin’ at that part in your hand and assumed you must have one. That thing only works in the 500’s.”

“Oh,” said Cyrus blankly. Awkwardness washed over him. He’d never been good at talking to pretty girls, let alone pretty girls he didn’t know. Hurriedly, he looked away from her and down at the part in his hand. “Yeah. It does. But oh. No. I don’t have one.” He laughed once. “It’s for a friend.”

The woman nodded. Her eyes moved away, her attention started to drift and though he didn’t know why (seriously, why did he care?), he found himself suddenly striving to get it back.

“I wish I had a 500 though,” he blurted, internally kicking himself for being so pathetic. Are you really that starved for female attention? he asked himself. “My friend’s is–well, working on it is a dream, specially compared to my own ship.”

“Oh yeah?” She actually looked interested. “What do you have?”

“It’s a–uh–TRC 203?” She tilted her head in confusion. “Yeah, I know, it’s kind of obscure. No one really flies them anymore. For good reason. You’d know it if you saw it though. Big old rusty thing parked up on deck 42? Can’t miss it, it’s an eyesore.”

She nodded thoughtfully, but now she was eying him with a certain intensity Cyrus couldn’t quite place.

“Big crew?” she asked.

“Eh, not really. A captain, an engineer, a doctor, cook, some six or seven hands.”

“And they’re not here with you?”

Cyrus frowned. What a strange question. “Mm, nope. They’re all out doing their own errands I think. We were running low on rations.”

And then things just got stranger. “See, I ask ‘cause I could really use a doctor. You said you had one right? D’ya know where she is? I’d love to talk to her.”

A frown creased Cyrus’ brow. He had never mentioned that the Dionysian’s doctor was a ‘she.’ A spark of panic started to rise in him but he somehow managed to suppress it as he answered, “I don’t know, I’m afraid.”

“Shopping for groceries you said?” she pressed on. “Or do you think she’s back at the ship by now? Deck 42?”

Now that panic was raging like a fire. Still, he just shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, I really have no idea.” And then a seed of bravery. “But I know the port has a med station. Maybe you could check that out. Deck 20.”

The woman eyed him one moment longer, her eyes growing cold.

Finally, she muttered, “Hmm yeah. Maybe I’ll head there.” She looked him up and down once before remarking, “Thanks,” and sauntering from the shop.

Which was the precise moment when Cyrus gave way to his panic. He dropped the part onto the shelf, rushed towards the backroom, as far away from the woman as he could get, and pressed the button on his COMM.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Does your daughter know you’re here?” asked Fiearius, his voice strained with desperation. He dropped his forehead into his palm and stared at the man to his side. Now that he knew, he noticed all the resemblances: the man had a thick Vescentian accent. Leaf-green eyes like Leta’s, though his lacked the usual brightness. And an even icier demeanor than his daughter.

Adler raised a finger to the bartender to refresh his drink. Then he said coldly, “Of course she doesn’t. I reach out to her only when absolutely necessary. Anything else will put her in needless danger.” He shot him a rather pointed look, rather like Fiearius was the definition of needless danger.

“And you found us…how exactly?” Fiearius prompted slowly.

Adler snorted into his drink, full of bitterness. “You really think I don’t keep close tabs on her? I’ve been tracking you since Archeti. Which was one of the most foolish moves I’ve ever witnessed. Even from you.”

Fiearius’ mouth inched toward a humorless smile. “Again with the unwanted opinions. So are you here just to ream me for everything you think I’m doing wrong, or what?”

“I didn’t intend to speak with you now, or ever, if possible,” he said in a clipped tone, tilting his glass toward his mouth. “But now that you’re here, I can ask you exactly why the hell you thought it would be safe to dock your ship at one of the busiest ports on this side of the span.”

“Because I’d much rather the Dionysian be one of a thousand docked ships than one of eight,” said Fiearius darkly, not particularly in the mood to explain himself to this man. “We fly under a false flag and hide in plain sight. It’s what we’ve always done. It’s what we’ll keep doing. Worked so far.”

Leta sat up, suddenly wide-awake. “Did Cyrus break the lock-down?”

“Sure did. But there’s some, ah, bad news,” he said, and Leta’s eyes narrowed. “We still can’t dock the Dionysian and the Mariah together without risking a permanent attachment.”

“So … what does that mean?”

“Just get to the airlock, I’ll meet you there.”

Leta quickly pushed herself to her feet and hurried toward the airlock doors. Dez followed, but Leta altogether ignored him as she pressed her hands to the glass and gazed out.

What she saw made her stomach practically fall through the floor. Separating the Mariah from the Dionysian was at least six feet of open air — open space. Endless darkness, like a blackhole ready to swallow her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Across the emptiness, Fiearius was visible in the doorway of the Dionysian’s airlock, suited up once more. She saw his mouth move before his words reached the speaker in her ear.

“C’mon, it’s just a little jump.”

“Through empty space!” she cried, her voice shriller than usual.

“I can’t get her any closer,” said Cyrus over the speaker. “Not without possible hull damage.”

At her side, Dez hit the dial, and the airlock doors opened before her. She was a foot away from the edge when she felt the air around her evacuate the room, and her breathing became rather sharp and nauseated: she had never liked heights.

“You can do it,” Fiearius assured her, holding out his arms. “I’ll catch you, I promise. It’s just like that job on Kadolyne. The jump out the window? That was fun, yeah? Remember that?”

“I’d rather not,” she breathed, and Fiearius laughed.

She hazarded a cautious step toward the edge, but did not move further.

Behind her, Dez muttered near her ear, “Do you need me to throw you?”

When she glanced at him, she saw the mildest of sneers curling his mouth.

With that, Leta cut him a look of pure, cold fury and suddenly burned with anger. In one furious motion, she turned forward, dug her heel into the floor and leapt the distance between the ships in excruciating slow-motion. All the breath froze in her lungs as time seemed to stop — it felt like hours, but it was mere milliseconds until Leta was collapsing against Fiearius’ embrace.

They staggered backward a half-step in the airlock, but Leta’s feet found mercifully solid ground — the magnetic soles of her boots attaching to the floor of the Dionysian. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry with relief, so she simply shut her eyes tightly, as if willing away every single one of the past 24 hours.

Behind her, she heard Dez joining them in the airlock, and the doors sliding closed. The cabin quickly began to re-pressurize — at last, they’d been freed.

She kept her eyes closed as she felt Fiearius unlock her helmet and slide it over her head, smoothing her hair back with his hand as she took her first breath of air.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” he said, and she could feel him grinning at her. “Safe and sound.”

Half of her mind was still on what Dez had told her. Eyes still closed, all she said was, “Let’s hope so.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“And you’re sure your intel is correct?” asked the gruff, smoke-laden voice of Arleth Morgan as he reached to tap a few keys in his console. He was so flustered with excitement that his gnarled, aged hands were trembling and he was having difficulty typing.

On the other end of the line, Ophelia Varisian’s voice arrived coolly through the speakers.

“Yes, sir. I’ve confirmed the Dionysian’s last known location and evaluated their status to determine their most viable next move. They’ve been floating in the black for nearly two weeks. Even running minimal processes, they’ll need to refuel before taking additional action.”

“So they’re going to a port,” said Arleth, making himself sit back in his chair. “And you — what is it then — you intend to stage an attack on one of these ports?”

“Only if the opportunity arises, sir. I’ve determined a pattern in their most frequented refueling locations, and will do my best to connect with the ship, but my chances of choosing the correct one are still only one in eight. More likely, I will access surveillance at all possible ports to pick up their trail and engage in a more appropriate arena in the coming weeks.”

“I want updates throughout the process,” he barked, jumping up to his feet — he could not sit still. “Keep me apprised. Of everything. And Varisian?” He paused coldly. “As far as the other Councillors are concerned, this conversation never happened. Do you understand me?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Pursing his lips, Morgan quickly disconnected the call. Then, with a glint in his eye, he picked up his COMM again. This time, no less than ten of his newly-hired bounty hunters listened expectantly on the other end.

“Listen. All of you. I’m forwarding you the Dionysian’s potential next coordinates. Get to the ports and keep an eye out. And be quick about it. You’re not the only ones hunting this ship and it’s imperative you get to them first. Find Leta Adler and bring her to me. Alive.”

A murmur of understanding rippled over the line. Morgan stood back and crossed his arms.

“Report back once you’ve found her,” he added, then disconnected the call with a jab of his hand.

The rest of the Council stupidly wanted Adler either killed on the spot or taken back to Satieri in chains. But Morgan would have none of it. He clenched one of his fists, digging his nails hard enough to draw blood into his palm.

She belonged on Vescent. She belonged to him. It was his punishment to issue.

He unclenched his fist, lowering his hand back to his side, as he slowly approached

his favorite wall of his office. Photos of Adler of all ages spanned an entire wall, tracking her life, her connections, her whereabouts. It would only be a matter of time until she was within his grasp. Until he could spill her blood across the steps of the Capitol and the Span would see just what happened when you crossed Vescent.

“I would hardly say Aela was good for him. Aela was toxic from the day she walked in the door,” Dez chuckled. “As for you, Dr. Adler, that remains to be seen. Though by how many close calls the Dionysian has had since you came aboard, evidence isn’t exactly tilting in your favor.”

Leta slung her bag over her shoulder and smiled bitterly. “You’ll forgive me for saying your judgment means absolutely nothing.”

“Need I remind you that Fiearius and I have a history longer than you have even been alive, let alone known him. Your naivete might appear cute to others, but I assure you, it is nothing but what it is. Naive. I have only Fiearius’ best interests at heart and always have. Merely my understanding of what those interests are have changed.”

Leta let out a dry laugh. “How is turning him over to the Council in his best interests, exactly?”

“I no longer have any intention of turning him over to the Council. My loyalty towards serving them is, shall we say, shattered.”

Rolling her eyes, Leta walked past him into the doorway. His gaze followed her and he kept talking evenly.

“In fact, I have made quite some effort to do the opposite, if you recall,” he went on, speaking over his shoulder to her. “The breakout on Satieri. The acquisition of the Archetian frigates. The intel on the Society expansion plans. Fiearius may have access to a great deal with that Verdant chip, but there are some things that only the Council themselves can reveal. The Council and now, myself.”

Leta was on the verge of disappearing down the stairs when she felt herself slow in place. Curiosity halted her feet, and she turned around in spite of herself.

“You’ve spoken with the Council?”

Dez did not look surprised at her inquiry. “I used to, often. Not face to face, of course. No one speaks with them face-to-face.” Silence descended between them, and then Dez prompted, “You have questions for me.”

Leta wanted to keep walking. She knew she should have. But her curiosity got the best of her and she turned around fully.

“Ren told me he’s picked up some information. He believes he knows who the Vescentian councilor is — that he’s discovered his identity.”

For the first time, genuine curiosity came to Dez’s face. “Interesting. Ren Calimore was put away for breaching high-level intel, though I wasn’t aware what, specifically, that intel was.”

“So you think it’s possible,” said Leta bluntly. “Possible that Ren knows who the Vescentian councilor is.”

“To end up on the Baltimore rather than an unmarked grave, whatever he found would have had to be…special. Something worth investigating so that the hole he found in security could be filled. So what was it? Who does he think he is?”

“A man named Arleth Morgan. Do you know anything about him?”

Dez pursed his lips in a frown. “The name is not familiar, no.”

Leta walked a few steps closer. “Fiearius and I looked at the Verdant database. It said Morgan was in Internal Affairs.

“Not exactly a key identifier, but it would fit.,” said Dez, rubbing his chin in thought. “The Vescentian Councillor I’ve spoken to was a little less than…civil. An ‘ends justify the means’ sort of man. He has a lot of sway with the Council though as he was instrumental in the acquisition of Vescent. In nearly every conversation, he found a way to remind his fellow Councillors just who got the Society’s politically opposing candidates out of the way.”

“He — what?”

“The Wellian outbreak. That spread through the Vescentian Parliament,” Dez said simply. “Ten years ago. You were fourteen at the time, I believe? Perhaps you don’t remember.”

“No, of course I remember,” said Leta, swiping her hand impatiently. “It was all over the news. Half of parliament died from it. One of the diplomats got it when she visited Archeti, and she spread it through all of — “

But Dez was shaking his head. “The virus was planted. At a dinner party, I believe.”

“Planted?”

Leta did not want to believe it, but she felt odd, shaky — somehow, she knew Dez was telling the truth.

She started to pace the floor, her nervous habit. “So Morgan was responsible for those deaths. All those politicians. Their families.” She shot Dez a look of alarm. “That outbreak went on to kill hundreds of people! ”

“As I said,” Dez sighed, “the ends justify the means.” After a pause, he looked at her and added, “There’s something else I recall about the man. He had a particular interest in you.”

Leta halted. Slowly, she lowered herself to sit on a bench in the hallway. “What do you mean?”

“Once you boarded the Dionysian, he was insistent that I focus my attention on returning you to Vescent, rather than my primary objective of recapturing the Verdant. The Council disagreed. But he continued to press the matter.”

Leta snorted, though she found no humor in the situation. “Well, Ren said he’s after me now like he never has been before,” she said quietly. “That he’s using a network of bounty hunters.”

Dez lifted his eyebrows wryly. “Interesting. Contracting independent bounty hunters. You must be worth a great deal to deserve such a diversion from protocol.”

“But I’ve been wanted in Vescent since I left,” she mumbled. “Don’t suppose you have a theory as to why this is happening now?”

Dez directed his gaze at the ceiling. “Perhaps he thinks you, too, hold the knowledge that put your fiance behind bars.”  Ex-fiance, Leta corrected silently. “Perhaps he was right. In any case, if the Vescentian Councillor is still set on your return, it could prove problematic to our own operations. Combatting the Society is one thing. Simultaneously fighting off a network of bounty hunters is something else.”

Leta gave a dark, twisted smile. “So you’re saying I’m putting everyone in danger.”

“I’m saying perhaps Fiearius needs to reevaluate the risks of his situation.”

In this case, Leta thought, the risk was her. Leta did not want to think it, but she could not help herself: perhaps going after the Society was a bigger mistake than she’d thought.

– – – – – – – – – –

The hours bled on. It may have been hour fourteen — or eighteen? — when Leta slumped in a corner of the cargo bay, knees drawn up her chest, her head slanted against the wall as she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Nightmares punctuated her mind — swirling, dizzying images of bounty hunters, the stone landscape of Vescent, and a figure whose face she could not quite see, no doubt that of Morgan —

“Hey,” said Fiearius’ voice in her ear. “You awake?”

Leta cracked open her heavy eyes. Around her, the cargo bay lay still and silent. Dez was sitting against the opposite wall across the room, but besides that, absolutely nothing had changed.

“I’m here,” she managed, her throat hoarse with dehydration.

“Good.” Fiearius’ voice became sly. “So … what’re you wearing?”

For the first time in hours, Leta almost felt herself laugh. “Still a fucking spacesuit, Fiear.”

“Good. Keep that on, you’re gonna need it in a minute.”