Deanez
Dean
Two days had passed since the Vigo had settled into its quiet orbit. The ship felt different without him.
Dean had not realized how much of the vessel's life came from Rynar's presence until it was gone. His boots moving through the corridors, tools clattering somewhere in the workshop, the low hum of music leaking from an open hatch, the occasional muttered argument with a piece of machinery that had offended him in some personal way. Even his sleep had been loud in its own quiet way, the small shifts and restless turns that had become a familiar rhythm beside her.
Now the ship moved with a cleaner silence. Not empty exactly. Just… still.
The cockpit lights cast their usual soft glow across the controls while the viewport showed the slow drift of stars sliding past the ship's nose. Dean sat in the pilot's chair, one leg tucked beneath her, a datapad balanced loosely in one hand while the other rested on the armrest.
The Vigo ran perfectly. Rynar's maintenance had always bordered on obsessive, but Vael's repairs had pushed the ship into a rare state of calm efficiency. Power flowed smoothly through the couplings, the sensor array hummed without protest, and even the environmental systems ran with the quiet steadiness of something that had finally been given the attention it deserved.
It meant there was very little left for her to fix. Which meant there was a lot of time to think.
Dean set the datapad down on the console and leaned back slightly, her eyes drifting toward the empty co-pilot seat beside her. She had caught herself glancing at it more than once over the last two days, expecting him to be there with his boots propped up on the console and a mug of something terrible balanced in his hand while he argued with the navigation computer.
The chair remained empty.
A soft thump sounded behind her.
Dean didn't turn right away. Cupcake had been stalking a loose tool for the better part of ten minutes, and judging by the sound of it, the nexu had finally decided the object was an enemy that required decisive and possibly terminal action.
Another thud followed. Then a metallic clatter that suggested the tool had lost the battle.
Dean closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled through her nose, the kind of breath that came from someone who had been alone just long enough for the silence to start settling into her bones.
"Cupcake," she said, calm and even. The cockpit went still. Slowly, she turned in her chair.
Cupcake stood in the middle of the floor with the defeated wrench pinned beneath one paw, her wide golden eyes fixed on Dean with the earnest innocence of someone who had absolutely not been doing anything questionable.
The wrench shifted under her weight. Cupcake's ears twitched.
Dean regarded her for a long moment before rising from the chair. The movement felt heavier than it should have, as though the quiet of the last two days had settled into her limbs.
"You have defeated the wrench," she said softly. Cupcake blinked, triumphant.
Dean crouched and retrieved the tool, setting it back on the console. The nexu immediately leaned forward and bumped her head against Dean's shoulder, demanding recognition for her valor. Dean let her.
Her hand lifted automatically, fingers sliding through the thick fur behind Cupcake's ears. The rumbling purr that followed filled the cockpit, warm and alive in a space that had felt too still for her liking.
"You are supposed to be guarding the ship," Dean murmured.
Cupcake's tail flicked, clearly interpreting this as praise.
Dean straightened slowly, her hand lingering at the nexu's neck before she stepped back toward the pilot's chair. The empty co‑pilot seat sat beside her, quiet and patient, the way it had been for two days.
Outside the viewport, the stars drifted past in their slow, indifferent way.
Two days.
Korda would still be arguing with medical staff. Rynar would still be trying to keep him from doing something reckless. And she would still be here, orbiting in place, keeping the ship running because that was what she knew how to do.
She lowered herself into the chair again, her gaze drifting once more to the seat beside her. The silence pressed in gently, not hostile, just present. The kind that made her too aware of her own breathing.
"He will come back," she said quietly, more to the room than to herself.
Cupcake, apparently satisfied that the wrench had been neutralized, climbed onto the co‑pilot seat and circled twice before settling exactly where Rynar normally sat. Her tail curled neatly around her paws as she looked out the viewport with the solemnity of someone assuming an important post.
Dean watched her for a moment, something soft and tired flickering behind her eyes.
Then she leaned back, letting the hum of the Vigo fill the space around her.
The ship held its orbit. The stars drifted. And the quiet settled in again, familiar and heavy, as she waited.
Rynar Solde
Dean had not realized how much of the vessel's life came from Rynar's presence until it was gone. His boots moving through the corridors, tools clattering somewhere in the workshop, the low hum of music leaking from an open hatch, the occasional muttered argument with a piece of machinery that had offended him in some personal way. Even his sleep had been loud in its own quiet way, the small shifts and restless turns that had become a familiar rhythm beside her.
Now the ship moved with a cleaner silence. Not empty exactly. Just… still.
The cockpit lights cast their usual soft glow across the controls while the viewport showed the slow drift of stars sliding past the ship's nose. Dean sat in the pilot's chair, one leg tucked beneath her, a datapad balanced loosely in one hand while the other rested on the armrest.
The Vigo ran perfectly. Rynar's maintenance had always bordered on obsessive, but Vael's repairs had pushed the ship into a rare state of calm efficiency. Power flowed smoothly through the couplings, the sensor array hummed without protest, and even the environmental systems ran with the quiet steadiness of something that had finally been given the attention it deserved.
It meant there was very little left for her to fix. Which meant there was a lot of time to think.
Dean set the datapad down on the console and leaned back slightly, her eyes drifting toward the empty co-pilot seat beside her. She had caught herself glancing at it more than once over the last two days, expecting him to be there with his boots propped up on the console and a mug of something terrible balanced in his hand while he argued with the navigation computer.
The chair remained empty.
A soft thump sounded behind her.
Dean didn't turn right away. Cupcake had been stalking a loose tool for the better part of ten minutes, and judging by the sound of it, the nexu had finally decided the object was an enemy that required decisive and possibly terminal action.
Another thud followed. Then a metallic clatter that suggested the tool had lost the battle.
Dean closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled through her nose, the kind of breath that came from someone who had been alone just long enough for the silence to start settling into her bones.
"Cupcake," she said, calm and even. The cockpit went still. Slowly, she turned in her chair.
Cupcake stood in the middle of the floor with the defeated wrench pinned beneath one paw, her wide golden eyes fixed on Dean with the earnest innocence of someone who had absolutely not been doing anything questionable.
The wrench shifted under her weight. Cupcake's ears twitched.
Dean regarded her for a long moment before rising from the chair. The movement felt heavier than it should have, as though the quiet of the last two days had settled into her limbs.
"You have defeated the wrench," she said softly. Cupcake blinked, triumphant.
Dean crouched and retrieved the tool, setting it back on the console. The nexu immediately leaned forward and bumped her head against Dean's shoulder, demanding recognition for her valor. Dean let her.
Her hand lifted automatically, fingers sliding through the thick fur behind Cupcake's ears. The rumbling purr that followed filled the cockpit, warm and alive in a space that had felt too still for her liking.
"You are supposed to be guarding the ship," Dean murmured.
Cupcake's tail flicked, clearly interpreting this as praise.
Dean straightened slowly, her hand lingering at the nexu's neck before she stepped back toward the pilot's chair. The empty co‑pilot seat sat beside her, quiet and patient, the way it had been for two days.
Outside the viewport, the stars drifted past in their slow, indifferent way.
Two days.
Korda would still be arguing with medical staff. Rynar would still be trying to keep him from doing something reckless. And she would still be here, orbiting in place, keeping the ship running because that was what she knew how to do.
She lowered herself into the chair again, her gaze drifting once more to the seat beside her. The silence pressed in gently, not hostile, just present. The kind that made her too aware of her own breathing.
"He will come back," she said quietly, more to the room than to herself.
Cupcake, apparently satisfied that the wrench had been neutralized, climbed onto the co‑pilot seat and circled twice before settling exactly where Rynar normally sat. Her tail curled neatly around her paws as she looked out the viewport with the solemnity of someone assuming an important post.
Dean watched her for a moment, something soft and tired flickering behind her eyes.
Then she leaned back, letting the hum of the Vigo fill the space around her.
The ship held its orbit. The stars drifted. And the quiet settled in again, familiar and heavy, as she waited.
Rynar Solde
