27. Dayn
DAYN
I slice through the airlock into the void, the hiss of my helmet sealing behind me like a judge’s gavel.
The cold settles around me, a vacuum so absolute only the pulse of my life support keeps me tethered.
Out here, the Hades Drift looks deceptively silent—endless black broken by distant stars and the glint of hostile hull plating.
A rogue Vortaxian fleet pulses with menace, hostage shuttles trailing behind like dying comets.
I ride the thruster thrums toward our objective—the lead ship hovering just inside the Drift's gravity well. The Hellfighters’ assault team fan out with coordinated precision.
Behind us, Josie’s voice over comms is steady, all business.
“Three minutes to breach point. Comms grid is hot but shaky—we’re still cutting residual encryption. Stay frosty, Dayn.”
The air in my lungs tastes artificially sweet through the visor. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second and open them on the same wrecked reflection staring back—a predator, yes, but tonight I’m leading a war. My clawed hands flex against the EVA suit. No fear.
I dock the boarding plate with a jarring clang and breach the entry. Inside, corridors glow with emergency sirens, red and purple bending across steam-laced walls. Hostages tremor, pressed against bulkheads while armored Vortaxian guards patrol with suppressors like they’re dead set on silence.
I gesture—precision soldiering born from instinct.
The strike team splits: one to disable ship’s engines, another to secure hostages, my own group to neutralize captain and comms array.
I pick my shot—fertilizer-engine conduit behind a vent.
I squeeze a charge onto the pipe and leap back.
The thud of the explosion echoes like thunder.
But sudden pain explodes across my side—fire blooming under the armor. A dull click and my right arm goes limp. I stagger, chest jarred. Comms relay static, then Josie’s voice breaks through.
“Dayn? Dayn! Respond!”
I swallow blood—iron and fear—and shove the ruined arm down to stabilize. “…I’m fine,” I grunt.
A firefight erupts. I drop into cover—no choice—and reload suppressed gauss rifle. I track a guard stepping into the blast ring. One shot knocks him to the deck. The world tilts. Gravity stabs. I breathe through clamped teeth.
“Dayn!” Josie’s voice is frantic. “You’re bleeding out. You’re losing pressure in your suit!”
My vision flickers; sensors blink red. My chest rattles with each shallow breath. I realize I can’t do this. Not tonight.
The EVA door seal hisses behind me as backup rushes in. The corridor blasts with concentrated heavy fire. Behind me, Josie’s voice: “Override protocols. Kick it to tactical priority!”
I flinch. “You can’t?—”
“Watch me.”
She streams commands through comm-link, hammering overrides while my suit cycles diagnostics. A hiss of nitrogen rushes into stabilizers. I feel the suit's pressure spike and hold.
“Status?” I rasp, voice anemic and thick.
“Staying level—but don’t try to get up.” She sounds like she might cry. Every syllable breaks my heart.
I flick my gaze upward to see her outline through the viewport—tethered above, fingers dancing across a maintenance port. Distant explosions rattle. Metallic odor floods my nose through the filter—burn, oil, blood. I clamp my jaw.
I feel her lips against the speaker. “Don’t you dare leave me, assassin!” She screams the words sharp and raw, and I hear the promise behind them.
My lips twitch into a grin too gone to hold. “Was just resting my eyes,” I slur. The comic timing is reflex. My vision roars, and she swears.
Minutes stretch into heartbeat synchrony until the suit’s life bar steadies. Oxygen stabilizes. The bleed slows. Suit integrity returns.
“Stand up. We’re eight minutes from exfil,” she says quietly, but relieved.
“I’m standing,” I whisper, forcing my legs beneath me.
My injured arm burns. My side on fire. But I rise. I don’t stand for courage—I stand because she lifted me.
I move forward with limp swagger. The corridor’s red glow softens now that shields are down. Hostages huddle—smoke and terror etched across faces. I help them through the panic. Each release opens the door a little wider.
When we reach the docking bay, the shuttle’s hatch yawns like a salvation. Josie flies toward me, tether still at her side, kisses me before we fully land. It starts slow—ocean to shore—then deepens, frantic as regenerating life.
I taste ozone and the metallic tang of my blood. She pulls back, chest heaving. I cup her face with my uninjured hand.
“You—” I rasp, voice broken, wet. “You’re really bad at staying in your lane.”
She laughs softly, tears flecking her eyes. “You don’t have a lane.”
I laugh. My ribs grunt with pain. I pull her close. “You married a wild card.”
She smacks my chest gently. “You married a spark I couldn’t ignore.”
I swallow, dizziness creeping. “Let’s land.”
She takes my arm, not letting go as we shuffle into the shuttle. Inside, the medics rush forward. I let them work, but I keep my gaze locked to hers.
She squeezes my hand. “They can’t stop me,” she whispers. “Not ever.”
I grin, nasally. “Good to know.”
The medic presses a hypo into my neck—warmth floods through me. Pain blurs, but I barely feel it. I want to feel her.
Once secure, I lean back and close my eyes. The shuttle rumbles to life, doors clanging shut. I breathe—not for blood, not for oxygen—but for her.
She climbs beside me, pulling me close until the seatbelt tugs us tight. “You ready to come home?” she asks.
My voice is thick with gratitude and exhaustion. “Only if ‘home’ has you in it.”
She kisses my temple. The engines hum. I open my eyes to see her smile.
Outside the viewport, the rogue fleet retreats. Hostage vessels follow them out, crewed by survivors still breathing freedom.
Josie rests her head on my shoulder and says softly, “We did it again. Together.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah.”
I stare out at the fleeing vessels, stars sliding past. My side aches. My mask presses wet against my cheek. But the adrenaline fades into more profound sensation: life. Possibility. Peace earned in chaos.
I hiss through the comms: “Hellfighters, status?”
A dozen voices murmur triumph and relief. I bring Josie’s hand to my lips and plant a kiss on each finger.
“We live. We fight. And we don’t quit.”
She grips my hand, defiant.
I close my eyes and rest for an instant—then lean forward, voice firm. “Plot course home. The galaxy’s too big for one spark, and tonight, we’re wildfire.”
I’m awake before the shuttle even completes its orbital burn, night settling like spilled ink through the viewport. The med bay’s glow dims, and the cabin air feels softer now—safe. I nudge Josie gently. “Hey.”
She blinks at me, tangled in blankets with hair plastered to her forehead. “Huh?”
“Come here,” I murmur, patting my thigh. She swings her legs onto the bunk and leans in, curious. I extend my palm—cradled within is a small, misshapen bolt, charred and warped, still warm.
She frowns. “What is that?” I hold it out: jagged, imperfect, with oxidation flecks glistening like stars trapped in steel.
“Remember the pump you fixed on Snowblossom? The one that threatened to flood half the colony?” I trace the bolt’s edges. “This is from that water reclamation pump—the last piece we salvaged before Kernal’s attack. It's seen more—than you—or I.”
She takes it gingerly, fingertips brushing the rough metal. “You kept it?” Her voice softens, wonder threading through it.
I swallow. “It survived the Vortaxians, the sabotage, our rescue. It’s… small, busted—and yet, it held. Like us.”
She lets the bolt rest in her open palm, eyes trained on it. “That’s… poetic, Dayn.” She raises her gaze. “Kind of.”
I shift beside her, pressing my knee against the bunk, half-lounging, half-offering. I reach into my pocket and produce a compact heirloom generator ring—sleek metal band etched with Shorcu runes. She leans forward, the bolt startling in contrast to the smooth curve of the ring.
I slide my hand toward her. “I want you to make something with it. With me. We’ll build a life stronger than steel. You’re broken only to the world’s eyes—but to me, you’re perfect.”
Light bends across her face—moonlight and relief. She stares at the ring, then back at me, and laughs softly, incredulous.
“You’re proposing with plumbing?” Her eyes water with laughter and emotion.
I nod, eyes locked on hers. “It’s our origin story. Honest as dirt and rust. We come from fixing broken things. We are broken things.”
She bursts out laughing, then sobers, pressing the bolt and ring together in her palm. “You’re lucky I like broken things.” Then she kisses me hard—urgent, blazing, filled with every war, every triumph, every fragile promise we’ve made.
When she breaks away, her eyes shine. “Yes,” she breathes. “A thousand times yes.”
I slip the ring onto her finger, the metal cool against her warmed skin. I kiss her knuckles and the back of her hand, then cup her face. “I love you, Josie McClintock. Engineer of broken bolts…and my heart.”
She lays her head back on my chest. “Don’t let me fix you ,” she teases. “I’m not responsible for your serial killer habits.”
I laugh, low and steady. “Deal.” I bury my face in her hair, inhale her scent—grease, sweat, hope.
Outside the shuttle, stars streak past as if cheering. And beneath the battered lighting of our small cabin, two people who started with broken pieces form this moment: tender, fierce, unbreakably theirs.