Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I tapped the screen with muscle memory more than thought. A small hum vibrated under my fingertips as the datapad lit up, projecting the flight schedule into the air. I barely looked at it—I already knew what it would say. But the ritual was so ingrained into me, I did it anyway.

Nothing.

No missions. No scouting assignments. No debris falls. No patrol rotations or recon check-ins. Just a blank column where there should’ve been a list of tasks, color-coded for urgency.

I stared at it for a long moment. Longer than I meant to, eyes narrowed and focused on the blank screen. The blinking cursor felt like it was mocking me.

I wasn't used to this kind of quiet. The war had ended—really ended—weeks ago. The last Krell fleet had vanished like smoke, the Superiority’s grip broken, the Delvers appeased,, and the Nowhere stable. The galaxy, as far as anyone could tell, was finally at peace.

Which meant I was, technically, off-duty. Free. I hated it.

I didn’t say anything as I tuned away from my datapad, exited my quarters, and made my way to the hangar—my boots echoing too loudly in the almost empty corridor. A few engineers were still around, laughing quietly over a toolkit near the back, their uniforms half-unzipped and grease-stained. Relaxed. Like people who weren’t waiting for the next horror to claw its way through the debris field.

“Morning,” one of them said, tossing me a wave.

I nodded without replying. I wasn’t trying to be rude—I just couldn’t find my voice.

And then a familiar voice called out from behind a half-disassembled acclivity ring.

“Hey, Spin.”

I blinked. Looked up.

Rodge stood, wiping his hands on a rag, fingers smudged with something black and metallic. His safety goggles were pushed up onto his forehead, hair sticking up in disheveled red tufts.

“I thought that was you,” he said, stepping over some spare parts. “You doing okay?”

I hesitated. Stupid question. Great question.

“I’m not malfunctioning,” I offered uselessly. “I guess.”

He gave me a long, pointed look. “So that’s a no.”

I shrugged. “There’s nothing on the board. No patrols. No missions. I checked twice.”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

I nodded. My arms crossed. My jaw clenched. I felt like a ship with nowhere to go.

“I mean, weird in a *good* way,” Rig added. “But… yeah. I get it.”

He didn’t say more than that. Didn’t press. Just stood there with his goggles on his forehead and that look in his eyes—one that said he knew. Not the full weight of it.

But enough.

“Where’s M-Bot?” he asked.

“Landing pad. I’m taking him up.”

He smiled, not quite as wide as usual. “Tell him I said he still owes me a favor. And don’t go hyperjumping into any mysterious anomalies.”

I managed a small, pathetic laugh. “You take the fun out of everything.”

“Someone has to. You get enough chaos from the rest of Skyward Flight.”

I looked down at my gloves, flexed my fingers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said quietly. “I’m just… flying.”

Rig didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. Just let me keep going.

“I thought… I don’t know. I thought there’d always be something. Something to fight. Something to protect. And now I feel like a rusting drone in storage. Useless.”

Rig tilted his head. “You know what we did with the Krell drones after the war?”

“Scrapped them?”

“Nope. Took them apart. Learned what worked. What didn’t. Used them to build new stuff. Better stuff.”

He nudged the stabilizer with his foot. “You’re not done, Spensa. You’re just… in the middle of a systems overhaul.”

I stared at him for a moment. Then burst out laughing. “That was the scudding nerdiest metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“Good,” he said. “I work hard to maintain my brand.”

There was a beat of silence between us—soft, familiar.

Then I asked, quieter, “Do you ever feel like the war was the only time you knew exactly what you were for?”

Rig looked down at his dust covered boots. “All the time.”

He gave a half-smile, almost sad. “But maybe that’s the point. We weren’t meant to be weapons forever. We survived. So now we figure out what else we can be.”

That sat heavy in my chest. But not exactly in a bad way.

“I should go,” I said after a moment, rising to my feet.

Rig nodded, already grabbing a wrench. “You’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

Then he smiled at me—small, familiar, caring—and turned back to his workbench.

Maybe his words did help—just a little. But nothing could dissolve the constant, heavy weight on my shoulders. And I hated that.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I didn’t realize how fast I was walking until the doors slid open and cool air hit my face, sending my hair flying backwards.

The halls of Platfrom Prime were too quiet. Not tense, not alert—just quiet.

My boots echoed against the floor. I could still hear the place as it used to be, how many memories—good and bad—flooded every inch of this platform.

The hangar lights flickered on as I stepped inside. Still massive. Still gleaming. But empty. The crews had been reassigned. Half the starfighters sat in standby, like slumbering beasts with no battles left to wake them.

I didn’t belong in an office. I didn’t belong behind a desk like Jorgen- even if. , signing reports and coordinating peace talks and being diplomatic. I didn’t know what I belonged to anymore, but it wasn’t this.

And yet my feet still knew the way.

Every step toward M-Bot felt heavier. Like gravity was trying to convince me to turn back.

Maybe it was right. But I kept walking.

M-Bot sat in the far corner, sleek and still. No one had touched him. Not since the last mission. Not since the war ended.

I ran a hand along his hull. Cool metal, dustless. Waiting. I touched it absently, fingers trailing over the curve of his wing.

“Wanna go up?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about philosophical implications of the silence recently, and I—“

“Just fly with me,” I said. Stars—the last thing I needed was to hear a three thousand word long analysis of ‘silence’ and its impacts.

“Aye aye, Captain Existential Crisis,” he said with what could only be described as fond sarcasm. “Do you want to mope in silence or listen to depressing human music?”

“Silence,” I said, climbing into the cockpit.

The canopy sealed with a hiss. I let my hands move without thought—straps, helmet, the control panel. Familiar. Comforting. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed the routine until I was back in it.

“Stars,” I whispered. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Still, I didn’t care. Because I didn’t need a reason. I just needed the sky.

Then, with a quiet sigh and the noise of the thrusters activating—we launched.

The platform fell away beneath us, a smudge of silver against the vastness of Detritus’s debris-laden sky.

It was early—the skylights were still considerably dim, bathing everyone in a pale white glow. Light caught on the remains of the old space debris and ship remains, scattered and half-dismantled now, like someone had taken apart a very complex puzzle and forgotten how to rebuild it.

I rose higher and higher, above the debris, then let M-Bot level out. No fancy maneuvers. No high-G turns or dodges or loops. Just… flying at Mag-5. Not exactly slow, but definitely steady.

It should’ve felt like freedom. This was the thing I’d always wanted—peace. Victory. A galaxy where I wasn’t clawing for breath between every scudding heartbeat.

So why did I feel so… empty?

I toggled the comm out of instinct. “Skyward Ten. Callsign: Spin,” I said.

Nobody answered. Nobody except silence.

Of course it did. There was no mission. No flight. Just me, alone, with nothing to fight, and no one on the other end of the line.

I closed my eyes for a moment. What am I, if I’m not fighting?

I thought of my father. Of his impact on the name I carried. I thought of being that girl in the cavern, hunting rats for some much needed income, desperate to prove herself, burning with fury and stubborn pride. Of the first time I flew a real starfighter. The adrenaline, the terror, the purpose.

That purpose had filled every inch of me. I'd been a weapon, sharp and singular, pointed toward a goal I didn’t know how to live without.

Now?

Now I was just… drifting. A useless weapon, blunt and purposeless.

“You okay?” M-Bot asked, softly this time.

I didn’t answer.

My chest ached. Not physically—just a pressure, like something pushing outward from the inside. I but the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. I wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not over nothing.

Because it wasn’t nothing. I knew that.

It was peace. It was survival. It was a future.

It just didn’t feel like mine yet. Not with this feeling of worthlessness. Not with Jorgen barely getting any time to rest. Not with Alta Base—calm and silent, without anybody barking orders or cadets to train.

I let us maneuver through the debris, ignoring the throb of the burn on my wrist, the stars blinking above the glass of the cockpit—distant, burning, and endless.

And I almost cried.

Almost.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The landing was smooth. Too smooth.

I touched down without a single tremor, not even a bump, the weight of M-Bot settling down onto the platform like a sigh. He powered down with uncharacteristic quiet. No snark. No sarcastic remark. No comment about Mushrooms. No dramatic exit music. Just silence, like he understood the current complexity of my emotions.

I popped the canopy and jumped down before it had fully opened, my boots hitting the metal with a dull thud. I didn’t stop moving. Didn’t think. I could still feel the ache from earlier—the pressure that had curled in my chest like a fist with no one to punch.

So I walked. Walked, as if the sound of my footsteps would somehow drawn away the hurricane inside my head.

Not towards my quarters. Not towards the mess hall. Not towards the Flight meeting room. Just… away. Somewhere I didn’t have to be anything. Someone.

And of course he was there. Of course.

I turned the corner and nearly walked straight into him—tall, uniformed, sleep-deprived-looking Jorgen. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned at the collar. collar. He had that slight crease between his brows, the one he probably thought made him look serious instead of tired. His datapad and a small stack of reports was tucked under one arm, and his other hand came up slightly, like he was about to reach for me. Instinctive.

“Spensa,” he said, his voice quiet, laden with an undertone I wasn’ prepared to hear. Like a question. Like he’d seen something in my face and wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to ask.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look at him.

I brushed past, shoulder grazing his arm, and kept walking. Not fast. Just steady. Deliberate.

He didn’t follow. Not immediately. I could feel him watching me, though, like a slight, insistent presence pressed against my back.

“Hey,” he said after a heartbeat. “Are you—”

I waved a hand behind me. Not a real wave. More like a *don’t*.

Because I didn’t trust my voice.

Didn’t trust that if I opened my mouth, it wouldn’t break apart into something shaky and fragile and stupid. Didn’t trust that if I looked him in the eyes—those grey-flecked brown eyes, that held a kind of love and quiet strength I’d never find anywhere else—I wouldn’t unravel right there in the hallway like a badly tied knot.

Because he’d see it. He always did, anyway. And I wasn’t ready to talk about how the silence in the sky felt louder than any battle ever did.

So I walked. Again.

One foot in front of the other. Deliberate. Like I still had somewhere to go. Like I wasn’t completely lost in a world that had finally stopped spinning.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I found the farthest corner of the hangar and sat down hard, legs crossed, arms folded tight across my chest like they might hold me together if I just pressed hard enough. The stars outside the glass, beyond the debris field curved into infinity.

Empty. Cold. Beautiful. Still.

I hated them a little for that. Because my world didn’t feel still.

No more missions. No more war.

And somehow—I felt more hollow than I ever had durning any battle.

The silence pressed in again—heavy and aching. I didn’t even have M-Bot in my head to distract me. He’d gone quiet too, as if he knew. As if even *he* didn’t know what to say.

What was I supposed to do? What was I, if not fighting? If not flying with a purpose sharp as a newly forged blade? I had dreamed of freedom—earned it—but now that it was here, it didn’t feel like flying. It felt like falling.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the cold of the metal floor to seep through my pants. Long enough for my arms to start trembling—not from chill, but from the effort of staying locked up so tight.

The door hissed open behind me, the noise cutting through the heavy silence of the room like a whip.

I didn’t look. I didn’t even need to. The sound of his footsteps alone was enough to identify who it was.

Slow. Hesitant. Familiar.

Jorgen. Of course.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just… came to stand a few feet away. Gave me the choice to speak or not. I didn’t.

Eventually, I heard him sigh. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to stare at these stars and think the hardest thing I’d ever have to do was survive an intergalactic war.”

I didn’t move.

He sat down beside me, close enough that I could feel his presence, his warmth—but not touching me. Not yet. Just… there.

“And now I’m eighteen, and we’ve survived an intergalactic war, and I don’t even know how to cook without burning it.”

That almost made me smile. Almost being the keyword because—well—I didn’t.

He turned his head toward me, his voice quiet. “You didn’t answer when I called you earlier. You just walked away.”

I stared forward, my eyes fixated at a random spot on the floor. “I didn’t want to talk.”

“I know,” he said, gently. “But I do.”

He waited. Always giving me space, this boy. This man. This heartbreakingly patient (most of the time), determined idiot I somehow fell in love with.

“I checked the schedule today,” I whispered. “Out of habit.”

He was silent.

“There was nothing,” I continued, voice small even to my own ears. “No missions. No threats. No drills. Just… blank space. And I realized… that’s it. It’s over. We don’t have to fight anymore.” I paused. My throat ached. “But I don’t know what to do with that.”

Jorgen looked down. “Yeah.”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me,” I snapped, the words too sharp, too sudden, harsher than I intended. “You’re always good at this. At planning. At moving on. You’ve got your command, your reports, your wine-drinking war council meetings with other diplomats. But me? I only know how to fight, Jorgen. I only know how to fly. I don’t know who I am if there’s nothing to fight for.”

He didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me, steady and calm, like he was bracing against an insignificant turbulence.

“I think,” he said, the words carefully exiting his lips, “that you’re not giving yourself credit for everything you are.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my voice level. “Don’t say something inspiring. I swear to stars, if you give me some sort of inspirational speech—”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just telling you what I see.”

I turned to him then. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because my chest was too tight, my hands too cold, and the silence in my ears too loud.

He looked back at me like I was the only thing in the universe that made sense.

“You’re Spensa Nightshade,” he said, voice low and sure. “You’re a survivor. A daughter. A pilot. An absolute menace, yet still the bravest person I’ve ever met. You don’t have to be in a cockpit to matter. You don’t have to be at war to be you.”

I looked away, my gaze falling to the ground. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, he reached out—very gently, as if I’d splinter if he moved too fast—and took my hand. I let him.

“It’s okay not to know what comes next,” he said. “We’ve lived our entire lives on the edge of annihilation. Now we have to learn to live in the quiet. And I know that’s harder than any battle we’ve fought.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. Hard enough to taste blood for the second time today. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I wasn’t—

He squeezed my hand, the gesture firm and grounding. “But you’re not doing it alone.”

Something cracked. Not loud. Not sudden. No tears. Just… a little break in the shell. Enough that I leaned into him, pressed my forehead to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me, warm and solid and there.

The sky outside the glass didn’t change. The stars still burned. Silent and still.

But my world didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I stayed curled into his arms for a long time. Jorgen didn’t say anything else. Just breathed with me. Held me like I wasn’t breaking. Like maybe I wasn’t.

And eventually… something settled.

Not fixed. Not whole. But settled. Just a little.

“I don’t want to be useless,” I whispered.

“You’re not,” he said softly.

“I don’t want to disappear into peacetime and turn into someone I wouldn’t even recognize.”

“You won’t.”

I pulled back enough to look at him. “You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can promise I’ll be here. To remind you who you are, if you forget. To fly with you, even when it’s not for battle. To watch you figure out what’s next.” He smiled, just a little. “To be really unhelpful when you try to cook, because I’ll eat all of it and lie about how it’s edible.”

I huffed a small laugh through my nose. “Stars help us all.”

The quiet returned, but this time, it didn’t press down against my chest as hard.

And then—I don’t even know what made me do it—I stood up.

Jorgen blinked. “Where are you going?”

I stared out the window, past the debris field, eyes drifting towards the stars. They weren’t enemies. They weren’t even answers. They were just… stars. Luminous, massive balls of hot gas, primarily composed of hydrogen and helium. Endless. Waiting.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I’m not done flying.”

He stood with me, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

“So,” I said, voice low but solid, “I’m going to figure out what flying means now. If I can.”

He looked at me, a slow smile blooming on his face. Not the polished one. Not the diplomatic one. The real one. The one he gave only to me.

“I’ll come with you.”

“I know,” I said, and reached for his hand again, lacing my fingers through his. “But this time… I think I want to go first.”

We walked away from the stars and the silence. Back into the quiet halls of Platfrom Prime.

And I didn’t have a mission anymore. I didn’t have orders.

But I had this: I was still flying. Still choosing. Still me. Still walking.

I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay still.

I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t anything. Just… awake. Aware.

Like something inside me had gone still.

I guess that’s what peace feels like.

Lucky me.