Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sarah stepped into Delbert’s grand manor, the heavy oak door creaking softly behind her. The morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting golden beams across the polished wooden floors. In her arms, she carried a woven basket filled with fresh herbs and vegetables from the market, their earthy scent mingling with the faint aroma of beeswax and aged wood that permeated the house. It was early, and the estate was quiet, save for the distant chirping of birds outside. Sarah was glad to have her shopping done early; there was always so much to do around the manor, and she liked to stay ahead of her chores.

The market had been abuzz with chatter about the mysterious explosion that had lit up the sky that morning. The blast had been so powerful it created a sonic boom that rattled windows and shook the ground, startling Sarah awake in the pre-dawn hours. She’d spent a good chunk of the morning inspecting Delbert’s property for damage, discovering a long crack snaking across the kitchen window. It could have been worse, she reminded herself, but it was still one more thing to add to her ever-growing list of problems. The townsfolk at the market were already spinning wild theories about the explosion—pirates, supernovas, even government experiments—but Sarah had no time for gossip. She had work to do.

She set the basket down on the marble counter in Delbert’s kitchen, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface. This kitchen was nothing like the cozy, cluttered one she’d had at the Benbow Inn, but she’d grown to appreciate its spaciousness and charm. The high ceilings, the warm wood tones of the cabinets, the large window that framed a breathtaking view of the eastern canyons—it was a far cry from the cramped, dimly lit space she’d called her own for so many years. At night, when the air was quieter, Sarah often found herself sketching plans for her dream kitchen. A professional range with a griddle and extra burners would make cooking for guests so much easier. A pull-out spice cabinet would be a godsend compared to the jumbled mess she’d dealt with for years. And an icebox—oh, how she longed for an icebox! No more daily trips to the market to battle other shoppers for scraps of meat. She could just have what she needed right there!

She imagined where she’d place her new kitchen in the rebuilt Benbow Inn. The old one had faced south, its windows perpetually shadowed by the lack of sunlight on that side. She wanted eastern-facing windows like the ones here, flooding the space with morning light. She’d even started flipping through catalogues of fancy light fixtures, though she always stopped herself before getting too carried away.

Guilt gnawed at her whenever she indulged in these daydreams. There was no guarantee Jim and Delbert would return with the treasure, and rebuilding the inn would be a monumental task. The insurance paperwork alone was a nightmare, and the city’s permitting process was a labyrinth of red tape and fees. Delbert had paid her generously for managing his estate, and at first, she tried to refuse the amount, saying it was too much. But he had insisted, and now she was grateful for his stubbornness. Just a few weeks after he and Jim left, the mortgage bill arrived at her mailbox like a giant slap in the face.

And then there was the question that lingered in the back of her mind, one she tried to push away but couldn’t quite ignore: Did she even want to reopen the Benbow Inn? Running the inn had been her life for so long, but it was exhausting work, and turning a profit in their small town was a constant struggle. Starting over from scratch felt daunting, almost insurmountable. Yet the thought of giving it up, of walking away from the community she’d built and the life she’d fought so hard to create, felt like admitting defeat. It felt like proving her mother right, and that thought stung more than she cared to admit.

Sarah shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the present. She fed Delilah, cleaned the stable, and watered the plants in the solarium. With a cup of tea in hand, she sat down at the breakfast table and opened her datebook. Had it really been almost five months since Jim left? The time had flown by, yet each day without him felt like an eternity. She flipped through the pages, checking off completed tasks, before setting the book aside and picking up a small stack of letters she kept close at hand. These letters were her lifeline, her connection to Jim in the vastness of space.

The Legacy had stopped at various ports to resupply, and Jim had sent her a letter from each one. The first two had been filled with complaints about a gruff cyborg named Silver, who Jim claimed had “enslaved” him. Sarah had to chuckle at his dramatics, though she couldn’t help but worry about the kind of influence this Silver might have on her son. But by the third letter, Jim’s tone had shifted. He spoke of Silver with a grudging respect, recounting tales of the man’s adventures and the wisdom he’d shared. Sarah hoped Jim wouldn’t get too enamored with the spacer’s life; the thought of him drifting through the Etherium, far from home, filled her with unease.

In one letter, Jim made a joke about coming home with a new piercing or a tattoo, and Sarah laughed despite herself. Oh, he’d better not, she thought, unable to suppress a wide smile as she flipped through each page of her son’s scrawly handwriting.

The most recent letter, sent about four weeks ago, had explained that communication would be sparse as they ventured into a remote part of the Etherium. Sarah tried not to dwell on the silence, but it was hard not to worry. Treacherous and teeming with all kinds of leviathan horrors, the deepest depths of the Etherium was a truly dangerous place to sail into. Supernovas, black holes, bloodthirsty pirates… Sarah couldn’t imagine her boy facing any of those things.

Then she had to stop and laugh at herself. Jim was fine. Delbert had done his due diligence in hiring the best crew possible, and they had the company of two seasoned naval officers. The chances they’d have to face any of the ghastly things that Sarah’s mind conjured up were slim to none. Jim was probably working on his next letter to her at that very moment.

Sarah leaned against the table, her fingers absently tracing the chipped rim of her mug as her mind wandered. She had been tallying up the days in her head, counting the weeks since Jim had left on his voyage, when the realization struck her like a sudden gust of wind. Jim would still be out there, somewhere in the vast, star-strewn expanse of space, when his sixteenth birthday arrived. The thought settled heavily in her chest, a strange mix of pride and melancholy that she couldn’t quite name.

Jim had never been one for big celebrations. He’d always been more comfortable slipping away from the spotlight, preferring the quiet solitude of tinkering with his solar surfer or exploring the rocky cliffs near the inn. But sixteen… sixteen was different. It was a milestone, a turning point. It was the age when the world started to see you as more than just a kid, even if you didn’t quite feel like an adult yet. Sarah wished she could be there with him, to mark the occasion in some small way—maybe with a homemade cake, or a gift wrapped in pretty paper from the market. She imagined the way his face would light up, just a little, at the sight of something thoughtful, even if he tried to play it cool. But out there, on that ship, surrounded by strangers and the endless void of space, who would remember? Who would care?

The thought twisted something deep inside her, a pang of guilt or regret—she wasn’t sure which. And then, unbidden, another memory surfaced, sharp and unrelenting. She had been sixteen, too, when her life had changed forever. Sixteen when she’d found out she was pregnant with Jim. Sixteen when her parents had told her she was no longer welcome under their roof. Sixteen when she’d been forced to grow up overnight, trading dreams of adventure for the relentless grind of survival. She had been so young, so unprepared, and yet she’d done it—somehow, she’d made a life for herself and for Jim. But at what cost?

Sarah’s grip tightened on the mug as she stared out the window, her reflection faint in the glass. Delbert’s mansion was so much quieter than her busy little restaurant. In the silence, her thoughts felt louder, more insistent. She had worked so hard to give Jim a decent life and more acceptance than her parents ever granted her. To shield him from the kind of pain she’d endured. No matter what he did or how imperfect he was, she couldn’t imagine throwing him out the way her parents had thrown her out. The mere thought filled her with rage at her mom and dad. How could they do such a horrible thing to their own child?

She set the mug down with a soft clink, her hands trembling slightly. Jim was so much like her in some ways—stubborn, headstrong, always chasing the horizon. But he was also so much more. He had a fire in him that she’d never had, a determination to prove himself, to make something of his life. And as much as it terrified her to let him go, she knew she had to. He wasn’t that little boy anymore, the one who’d clung to her hand and begged for stories of pirates and treasure. He was becoming his own person, and all she could do was hope that she’d given him enough—enough love, enough strength, enough of a foundation—to weather whatever storms lay ahead.

Sarah sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. As she turned away from the window, she made a silent promise to herself. When Jim came home—and he would come home—she would make sure he knew how proud she was of him. Sixteen or not, he was still her boy, and she would always be there to remind him of that.

A loud knock at the front door jolted Sarah from her thoughts. She frowned, setting her mug down. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and certainly not this early. When she opened the door, she was shocked to see the all-too-familiar robotic police that had brought her son home to her more times than she cared to count. Their metallic faces were expressionless, but their presence alone was enough to fill her with unease.

“Mrs. Hawkins,” one of them said, their mechanical voice devoid of emotion.

“Officers…” Sarah’s voice wavered as her eyes darted between them, a part of her somehow expecting to see Jim standing there, sheepish and scuffed up as usual. “What brings you here?”

“We’re here to inform you that your son has been involved in an accident.”

The words hit her like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Her hands gripped the doorframe, her knuckles turning white as a buzzing noise filled her head.

“He is currently at Crescentia Royal Naval Hospital in critical condition. Your presence has been requested.”

Sarah heard the words, but they didn’t register. Her mind was a whirlwind of denial and panic. Without thinking, she stepped past the officers, her feet moving on their own. She didn’t bother to shut the door behind her as she sprinted down the path, her heart pounding in her ears. The next few hours were a blur, a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.

Chapter Text

Silver traced his finger along the intricate ridges of one of the ornate Romanesque columns in the hospital’s waiting room, the cool marble offering a faint distraction from the storm raging in his mind. His gaze wandered to an elaborate mosaic on the wall, its tiles depicting a sanitized version of the Terran Empire’s history—heroic explorers, triumphant battles, and grand discoveries. The artistry was undeniable, the craftsmanship exquisite, but it felt hollow to Silver. This hospital was a monument to wealth and power, its grandeur almost mocking in the face of the suffering it housed. He just hoped the level of care matched the opulence of its architecture.

The waiting room was a sea of anxious faces—military wives clutching handkerchiefs, mothers pacing with restless energy, children clinging to their parents. Silver, with his towering Ursid frame and gleaming metal limbs, stuck out like a sore thumb. He tried to make himself small, to blend into the background, and he felt a bit silly for trying. Still, the others seemed too absorbed in their own worries to pay him much mind. To them, he was just another figure in the crowd, another soul waiting for news that could change everything.

His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, ticking as the time slipped away. The last time he’d seen Jim flashed in his mind like a cruel slideshow: the boy conscious one moment, his voice weak and barely coherent, and then—eyes rolled back, his body seizing and convulsing. Silver had been forced to step aside as medics swarmed, cutting away the rest of Jim’s blood-soaked clothes and rushing him off the ship. The entire scene had burned itself into Silver’s memory, and would likely haunt his nightmares whether Jim pulled through or not.

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to sink into a chair across from Delbert and Amelia. The pair sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the tiled floor, their hands fidgeting nervously. Delbert’s face was pale, his glasses slipping down his nose as he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”

Amelia reached over, gently pulling one of Delbert’s hands away from his face and squeezing it.

“Please don’t blame yourself, Doctor,” she said softly, though her own expression was strained.

“It is my fault,” Delbert insisted, his voice trembling. “I was the one who convinced Sarah to let Jim come along. I’m the buffoon who thought this journey would be good for him. I never imagined…”

He trailed off, wiping his eyes with a shaky hand.

“No, Doc,” said Silver, “The lad got hurt because of me. I deserve all the blame for this.”

Amelia sighed, leaning forward in her seat and wincing as she adjusted her injured shoulder in its sling.

“Wrap it up, you two,” she said firmly. “His mother will be here any minute, and we need to be present for her.”

As if on cue, a woman’s panicked voice echoed nearby, and Silver jerked his head up to see a handsome young woman rushing down one of the corridors. She was a whirlwind of motion, her wild brunette hair half-escaped from its pins, her eyes wide and frantic. She was the spitting image of Jim, and it didn’t take Silver more than a few seconds to conclude that this had to be Sarah Hawkins.

“Delbert?! Delbert!” She lunged for the man and grabbed him by his shirt collar. “Where is Jim?!”

“Sarah- I- he’s-!” Delbert stumbled over his words, taking entirely too long to answer the frantic mother.

“No!” Sarah began to cry, assuming the worst. “Please! Not my baby!”

“The lad’s alive!” Silver interjected, his voice booming through the room. He stood, towering over the group, his single eye locking onto Sarah’s. “He’s hurt, Miss, but I can assure you he is alive!”

Sarah’s tearful gaze fell on Silver, making him shift uncomfortably where he stood. The truth was, Silver actually didn’t know for sure whether or not Jim was still alive, but he hadn’t the heart to tell the already-distraught woman such a thing. He just figured it was better to let her hope until the doctors said otherwise.

Silver watched her blue eyes move from his face down to his chest, where they suddenly widened.

“I-is that-” she stammered, horror taking over her expression.

Silver looked down and realized what she was looking at.

“Shit,” he muttered as he tried to close his coat over the massive bloodstains that had dried on the front of his shirt.

The damage was already done. Sarah’s attention moved to Delbert and Amelia, who had come to the same realization that their clothes were also stained with blood.

“Is that his?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling. “Why is there so much? What happened to my son?!”

Silver thanked the gods above when the capable Captain Amelia stepped up to answer, her composed and commanding demeanor cutting through the chaos around them like a steady beacon in a storm.

“Your son has sustained severe injuries,” she said, her voice steady and gentle. “But I can assure you that he is in good hands right now.”

The captain’s words seemed to do little to calm Sarah, who shook her head and clutched her chest.

“How bad is he? You haven’t even told me where he got hurt!”

Amelia hesitated, her jaw tightening. “The worst injuries are to his leg and stomach. He’d gone into shock by the time the medics took him from us. Truthfully, we don’t know how bad it is at this moment.”

“Shock?” Sarah’s voice cracked.

Delbert stepped in, his voice wavering but earnest. “He lost quite a bit of blood, Sarah. But he’s a strong boy. He’ll pull through. I know he will!”

Sarah looked absolutely miserable, her gaze moving around the room as if trying to find some sort of clue that would lead her to her son. Amelia reached for Sarah’s hand and held it.

“I wish there was more we could say, but until the doctor updates us…”

Sarah’s face went pale, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead. She swayed on unsteady legs, her free hand flying to her mouth. “I… I think I’m—”

Before anyone could react, Sarah bolted to the nearest trash bin, retching violently. Amelia was at her side in an instant, holding her hair back and murmuring soothing words to ease the suffering girl. When Sarah finally straightened, wiping her mouth with a trembling hand, she kept her gaze down, her shoulders hunched with the weight of the entire universe upon them.

Silver watched the scene unfold, his chest tight with guilt and dread. This was going to be a long day.

The next few hours dragged on with agonizing slowness, as if the universe itself had conspired to stretch every second into an eternity. Sarah, Delbert, and Amelia sat huddled in a quiet corner of the waiting room. It had taken over an hour to explain to Sarah everything that had led to Jim’s hospitalization. Her initial shock had given way to fury when she learned that pirates had infiltrated the ship. Silver couldn’t help but notice how Amelia had carefully omitted his own role in the ordeal, and he wondered why she’d chosen to shield him—at least for now.

The cyborg sat awkwardly on a bench across from the group, his massive frame feeling out of place in the sombre, hushed environment. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more guilt-ridden than the last. He felt like an intruder, an unwelcome spectator to the worst moment of Sarah’s life. The weight of everything pressed down on him, and he couldn’t sit still any longer.

Silver stood, intending to pace off some of his restless energy, but the moment he put weight on his prosthetic leg, a sharp pain shot through him. He winced, hissing through his teeth as the memory of the galley flooded his mind—Jim’s terrified face, the boy cornered and desperate, Silver’s own hand gripping a laser pistol hidden behind his back. What had he been thinking? How could he have let it come to that?

He needed to apologize, to make Jim understand that he’d never intended to hurt him. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he cringed. Taking the boy hostage wasn’t exactly a noble alternative.

Defeated, Silver sank back into an empty chair next to Sarah, who was preoccupied with a small locket in her hands. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she flipped through dozens of moving images, each one a snapshot of Jim’s life. There he was as a baby; he was adorable with his tiny arms reaching out toward the camera, his mouth forming the unmistakable shape of “Mama.” Silver couldn’t help but smile.

“Cute little guy,” he commented softly, his voice warm despite the heaviness in the room.

Sarah glanced at him, her eyes red-rimmed but soft. She pressed a button on the locket, and the image shifted to a slightly older Jim, no more than six, holding some kind of wild creature in the doorway of what looked like the Benbow Inn. Sarah let out a small, tearful chuckle.

“I wish I had something more recent,” she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. “He hasn’t let me take any good pictures of him since he was thirteen.”

Proving her point, Sarah flipped through several images until she landed on a video of a teenaged Jim. No older than thirteen, he looked much more like the boy Silver had met on the Legacy. That mean mug and prickly demeanor was all a ruse - a mask Jim wore to protect his heart from being broken again.

“Ah, there’s that attitude,” Silver said with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “He’s really come out of his shell these last few months. Mark me words, ye’ll get that picture real soon.”

Sarah’s eyes welled with tears, but she smiled faintly. “He’s told me all about you, Mr. Silver.”

Silver blinked, caught off guard. “When did he- how?”

“In his letters,” she replied with a tiny laugh.

“Of course,” Silver rubbed his forehead. A small ache had begun to take hold as he realized he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in almost thirty hours.

Sarah reached over and patted Silver’s arm, “He really likes you.”

Silver’s heart swelled with warmth at her words. Jim had spoken kindly of him. The boy had seen something in him worth trusting, worth caring about. It was a gift Silver didn’t feel he deserved, but one he cherished all the same. He’d grown so incredibly fond of the kid, and it felt good to know that the feeling was mutual.

His moment of comfort was short-lived, however. He noticed Captain Amelia watching him through narrowed eyes. Her icy stare sent a chill down his spine, a blunt reminder of the reckoning that awaited him. His time was running out. Soon enough, she would turn him over to the authorities, and there was no guarantee she’d even let him see Jim before the noose tightened around his neck.

Before he could dwell on it further, Amelia’s ears perked up, and she straightened in her seat. “Someone’s coming.”

The group turned as one, tense with anticipation, to see a tired-looking doctor emerge from the hallway. He wore a smile, a welcome sight that loosened the invisible vice that had everyone holding their breath.

The doctor easily picked Sarah out of the group. “Are you Mrs. Hawkins?”

“Yes!” Sarah’s voice was a mix of desperation and hope as she rushed forward, her boots clicking sharply against the floor. “Jim! Is he—?”

“He’s out of surgery and receiving another blood transfusion,” the doctor took her hands in his, his grip firm and reassuring. “He’s not completely out of the woods, but I am confident your boy will be alright.”

Sarah’s breath hitched, and before the doctor could react, she threw her arms around him in a crushing hug.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she cried, her voice muffled against his coat. She pulled back, eyes wide and pleading. “Can I see him now?!”

“Of course, you can all come see him,” the doctor said, gesturing toward the hallway behind him. His tone shifted, growing more serious as he added, “but first, I need to warn you about something.”

Sarah froze, her hands still clutching the doctor’s sleeves. The rest of the group—Silver, Delbert, and Amelia—edged closer, their faces tense.

“What is it?” Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor hesitated, his gaze flickering to each of them before settling back on Sarah. “When he came in, his injured leg had no pulse, a nasty infection had begun to set in, and… well, despite our best efforts, we weren’t able to save it. We had no other choice but to amputate.”

A collective gasp rippled through the group. Silver felt his stomach drop as if he’d been punched, his mechanical hand tightening into a fist. His mind raced, images of Jim—reckless, spirited, always in motion—flashing before him. The boy who could scale rigging with ease, leap across gaps without hesitation, and outrun trouble when it came calling. Losing a limb… it wasn’t just a physical loss. Silver knew it would cut deeper than that.

“Where is the amputation?” Silver asked, his voice gruff but steady, cutting through the heavy silence.

“His left leg,” the doctor replied.

“No, I know that!” Silver snapped, his frustration bubbling over. “I meant did ye amputate below the knee, at the knee, or…?”

“Above the knee,” the doctor said, his tone somber. “We tried to save as much of it as we could, but the tissue damage was very severe.”

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting. Delbert let out a low groan, his glasses slipping down his nose as he pinched the bridge of it. Sarah covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders trembling as tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, my poor baby,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Silver’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. He’d seen Jim at his best—strong, agile, fearless. The kid had a fire in him that Silver admired, a spark that made him believe Jim could conquer anything. But this… this would test him in ways Silver knew all too well. He’d been young once, too, full of energy and dreams, until the event that took pieces his own body. The thought of Jim facing that same kind of loss twisted something deep inside him.

“How is he taking it?” Delbert asked.

The doctor sighed, adjusting his glasses. “He was a bit combative after surgery, so we’re keeping him sedated for now. He has no idea what’s going on.”

Sarah nodded, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand.

“Take me to him,” she said, her voice firm despite the quiver in it. “Please.”

The doctor nodded and turned, leading them down the long, ancient hallway. The group followed in silence, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor. The walls were lined with framed paintings of serene landscapes, a feeble attempt to soften the harsh reality of the place. Silver’s damaged prosthetic clicked with each step, a constant reminder of the fragility of flesh and bone.

As they approached Jim’s room, the doctor paused outside the door, his hand resting on the handle.

“Prepare yourselves,” he said gently. “He’s still hooked up to machines, and it might be unsettling to see him like this.”

Sarah nodded, her face set with determination. The doctor opened the door, and they filed in, one by one, their breaths catching as they took in the sight of Jim lying motionless in the hospital bed. Tubes and wires snaked around him, the steady beep of the heart monitor filling the room. His face was pale, almost ghostly, partially obscured by an oxygen mask that fogged faintly with each shallow breath. Despite the layers of blankets piled over him, his entire body shivered, a faint but constant tremor that made Silver’s heart ache.

Sarah moved to his side immediately, her hands trembling as she held his face and kissed his forehead.

“Oh, Jim,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain of her emotions. “My brave boy.”

Silver scanned the shape of Jim’s body beneath the blankets—the faint outline of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his torso. But it was the absence that struck him hardest. The shape of Jim’s body fell off like a cliff where his left leg should have been. Next to his remaining leg, the blankets lay flat, no bump or contour to mark the presence of the other. The only bit that remained was a short stump. The sight was jarring. It was one thing to hear the doctor’s words, to know in theory what had happened. It was another thing entirely to see it, to confront the reality of Jim’s permanent injury, his form forever altered.

Silver stood near the foot of the bed, his massive frame dwarfing the space. His gaze was fixed on Jim, but his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and a gnawing sense of guilt that refused to be silenced. Jim would need more than just time to heal; he’d need a reason to fight, something to remind him that losing a leg didn’t mean losing himself. And Silver, of all people, knew exactly what that felt like. He’d been there, once. He knew the darkness that came with waking up to a body that no longer felt like your own. But Jim was just a kid. He shouldn’t have to face that kind of pain. Not yet. Not ever.

Silver’s breath hitched as he watched Jim’s body tremble beneath the layers of hospital blankets. The boy’s breathing was labored, each inhale sharp and uneven, causing the oxygen mask to fog slightly with each exhale. Silver’s mechanical hand twitched at his side, the gears inside whirring faintly as he clenched and unclenched his fist. He hated this—hated his own helplessness, the darkness and sterility of the room, the way Jim looked so small and fragile lying there. It was wrong. All of it was wrong.

“He’s cold,” Silver muttered, his voice low and rough. He stepped closer to the bed and reached out to adjust the blankets. His organic hand hovered for a moment, hesitant, before he gently tucked the edges around Jim’s shoulders. He then reached under the covers and wrapped his hand around Jim’s remaining foot. The boy’s skin was like ice, and Silver felt a surge of frustration. “Come on now, the lad’s freezing! Can’t ye do something about that?”

The doctor, who had been quietly observing from the corner of the room, stepped forward.

“It’s normal for patients to feel cold after major surgery,” he explained, his tone calm and clinical. “We’re monitoring his temperature closely, and we’ll adjust as needed. Just give him some time—”

“Normal?” Silver snapped, his voice rising. He turned to face the doctor, his single eye blazing with a mixture of anger and fear. “There ain’t nothing normal about this! The boy’s been through hell, and now he’s lying here, shaking like a leaf, and ye’re telling me it’s normal?”

“Mr. Silver,” Amelia interjected, her voice firm but calm as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “They’re doing everything they can.”

Silver clenched his jaw, but he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He knew Amelia was right, but it didn’t make the sight of Jim any easier to bear. The boy looked so small, so fragile, lying there in that sterile bed, and it tore at Silver in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. He stared down at Jim, his hand still wrapped around the boy’s bare foot, trying to warm it with his own calloused palm.

“Can’t ye bring him a sock or something?”

The doctor nodded. “Of course. A nurse will be in shortly.”

Silver watched the doctor leave the room, his jaw clenched tight, frustration simmering beneath the surface. The man’s calm demeanor, his clinical detachment—it grated on Silver’s nerves. How could anyone stand there and act like this was just another day, another patient? This wasn’t some stranger lying in that bed. This was Jim.

Moments later, a nurse walked into the room, her steps swift but quiet. She handed Silver a pair of socks, neatly folded together. Silver stared at them for a moment, his mind briefly catching on the absurdity of it. Two socks. Jim only needed one now. The thought almost spurred him to make a smart remark, something sharp and biting, but he stopped himself. This wasn’t the time to be rude to the poor nurse. It wasn’t her fault. Instead, he simply nodded, his voice uncharacteristically quiet as he muttered, “Thank ye, lass.”

The nurse gave him a small, understanding smile before slipping out of the room, leaving everyone alone with Jim once more. Silver unfolded the socks, his hands moving carefully as he reached under the blankets to slide one onto Jim’s remaining foot. The boy’s skin was still cold, but Silver hoped the small gesture would bring him some comfort, even if he couldn’t feel it at that moment. As he tucked the blankets back around Jim, Silver’s gaze lingered on the flat space where the boy’s other leg should have been.

A slender hand gently settled on his own, and Silver looked up to see Sarah looking at him, her tear-streaked face soft with gratitude. He had been so preoccupied with caring for Jim, so lost in his own guilt and worry, that he had almost forgotten that the others were still in the room with him.

“Thank you,” Sarah said, her voice barely a whisper, but it carried a weight that made Silver’s throat constrict. Her fingers squeezed his hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of the care he was showing her son.

Sarah’s eyes welled with fresh tears, but she held his gaze, her expression a mix of gratefulness and sorrow. She gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go and turning back to Jim. Silver watched her for a moment, his chest tightening as he observed the tenderness in her movements. She brushed a strand of hair from Jim’s forehead, her touch lingering as if she could pour her strength into him, as if her love alone could will him back to health. It was a mother’s love—fierce, unyielding, and boundless—and it stirred something deep within Silver, something he couldn’t quite name. Respect, perhaps, or even a flicker of nostalgia. It reminded him of a time long past, a faint memory of warmth so distant it felt like a dream.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Jim’s eyes cracked open. It was slow and hesitant, as if he were fighting against the weight of his own eyelids. His gaze was watery and unfocused, slowly scanning the air above him in confusion before landing on Sarah. For a moment, he flinched, his body tensing as if he didn’t recognize her—or worse, as if he thought she might be someone else. Silver could only imagine what the world must have looked like through Jim’s drugged and disoriented mind. Shadows and shapes, blurred faces, the unfamiliar room—it must have been terrifying.

Sarah immediately rushed to comfort him, her voice soft and soothing as she leaned over him. “Shh… It’s okay, baby, it’s just me.”

Jim’s lips parted, his throat working as he tried to speak, but all that came out was a tiny, broken whimper. His arms twitched, as if he wanted to reach for his mom, but they were too weak, tangled in the coils of tubes, wires, and heavy blankets that seemed to pin him down. He looked as helpless as a newborn, his usual tenacity stripped away by pain and exhaustion.

“We’re all here. We’re not going anywhere,” Sarah continued, raking her fingers through Jim’s hair.

Silver reached under the blanket, his large, calloused hand enveloping Jim’s smaller one. The boy’s fingers were cold and limp, but Silver held them firmly, as if he could transfer some of his own strength through the touch. His throat was too tight to speak the words he wanted to say—reassurances, apologies, promises. They remained lodged in his vocal cords, unable to escape. Even if he could force them out, he feared they would come out as a broken mess, and he would simply fall apart. So he stayed silent, his grip steady, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm of Jim’s pain and confusion.

Jim’s fingers tightened around Silver’s in a weak but desperate grip, the boy’s hand trembling as if clinging to the only lifeboat in a storm. His breathing quickened, each inhale sharp and shallow, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven bursts. The steady beep of the heart monitor accelerated, its rhythm growing faster and more erratic, a jarring soundtrack to Jim’s distress.

“He’s in pain,” Delbert said, his voice tinged with alarm as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll get the nurse.” He hurried out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Silver’s heart hurt as he watched the boy struggle, his face contorting with discomfort, his panic seeming to fill every corner of the room. It was a raw, visceral thing, Jim’s fear, and it clawed at Silver’s resolve. He leaned closer, his voice low and steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside him.

“Easy now, lad,” he murmured, his hand still clasping Jim’s. “Ye’re alright. Just breathe.”

Moments later, the door swung open, and a pair of nurses rushed in, their movements brisk and efficient. One carried a syringe, its contents glinting faintly under the lights. They moved to Jim’s side without hesitation, their voices calm but firm as they assessed the situation. Silver reluctantly stepped back, his hand slipping from Jim’s, though his gaze never left the boy. He watched as the nurses worked, one pair of practiced hands gently holding Jim’s arm steady while the other administered the medicine with swift precision. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air growing heavier, as if the walls themselves were closing in, holding their breath alongside the small group gathered around the bed.

Then, slowly, Jim’s breathing began to calm. The frantic rise and fall of his chest evened out, and the rapid, erratic beeping of the heart monitor slowed to a steadier, more reassuring rhythm. The tension in the room eased, if only slightly, as Jim’s face relaxed, the lines of pain and panic smoothing away. Within moments, he was peacefully asleep once more, his body still and quiet beneath the blankets.

Silver let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders sagging with relief. He glanced at Sarah, who was still clutching Jim’s other hand, her face pale but composed. The nurses exchanged a few quiet words before stepping back, their job done for now. The room felt quieter, the storm momentarily subdued, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air like a shadow.

Once again, Silver eased his hand around Jim’s. He sat quietly, his focus narrowing to the steady rhythm of Jim’s pulse beneath his fingertips—a fragile but persistent reminder that the boy was still here, still fighting. The hours ticked by in silence, the only sounds the soft hum of the machines and the occasional shuffle of feet as the group kept their quiet vigil. Words felt unnecessary, even intrusive, in the face of the unspoken understanding that bound them together. They were united in their shared hope, fear, and determination to see Jim through this. And so they waited, each lost in their own thoughts, each drawing strength from the others’ presence.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and B.E.N. bounded into the room with his usual exuberance, Morph hovering close behind.

“Captain! I found the most adorable little inn just across the road. You are going to love—Oh, my… Jimmy!”

B.E.N.’s voice cut off abruptly, his cheerful tone replaced by stunned silence as he took in the sight before him. His robotic mouth hung open, his amber eyes flicking rapidly from Jim’s pale, still face to the flat space beneath the blankets where his leg should have been. For once, the usually talkative robot was utterly speechless, his gears whirring faintly as he processed the scene. Morph, sensing the tension, let out a soft, worried chirp and hovered closer to Silver. The room, already heavy with silence, seemed to grow even quieter as B.E.N. stood frozen, his usual energy replaced by a rare moment of solemn disbelief.

Amelia shot B.E.N. a sharp look, holding a finger to her lips in a gesture that brooked no argument.

“Keep your voice down,” she said. “Mr. Hawkins is very unwell. He needs peace and quiet more than anything else right now.”

B.E.N.’s mechanical shoulders slumped, his amber eyes dimming as he processed her words.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I truly am,” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. If he’d had tear ducts, he would have certainly begun to cry. Instead, his gears whirred softly, a mechanical mimicry of distress. “Oh, Jimmy… this is terrible!” he added, his voice cracking as he hovered closer to the bed, his movements hesitant.

Morph, sensing that something was wrong, flitted nervously around Jim’s face before snuggling up under his chin. The little shapeshifter let out a soft, mournful chirp, his usual playful demeanor replaced by quiet concern.

“I… I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” B.E.N. murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his usual exuberance replaced by solemnity. “I got so caught up in what I was doing, I just… lost track of time…” His mechanical hands fidgeted nervously, his amber eyes flicking back to Jim’s still form as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Amelia’s expression softened slightly. “That’s alright, B.E.N.,” she said before changing the subject. “You said you found us a place to stay?”

B.E.N. perked up a little at the question, his gears whirring as he shifted back into problem-solving mode.

“Yes, ma’am! Two rooms, just across the road. One for you and Mrs. Hawkins, and one for Doc, Silver, and me.” He paused, glancing around the room as if suddenly remembering the gravity of the situation. “It’s, uh… it’s not much, but it’s clean. And close. Real close. So we can be here in a flash if Jimmy needs us!”

Amelia nodded, her sharp eyes assessing the robot with a mix of gratitude and mild exasperation.

“Good. That’s one less thing to worry about.” She turned to Sarah, who was still seated by Jim’s side, her hand gently holding onto his. “Visiting hours are almost up, but we’ll stay here until they kick us out.”

“How long do we have?” Sarah asked, not taking her eyes off of Jim.

“About thirty minutes,” Amelia replied.

Sarah sighed, her shoulders slumping under the weight of exhaustion and worry.

“Can’t they give me a cot to sleep on? I’ll even sleep on the floor if I have to.” Her voice was pleading and desperate, the mere thought of leaving Jim alone too unbearable for her to accept.

Amelia’s expression softened.

“They’re pretty strict here, Mrs. Hawkins,” she said gently. “Besides, you need your rest, too. Sleeping on the floor wouldn’t do either of you any good.”

Sarah’s grip on Jim’s hand tightened, her fingers trembling as she pressed his hand to her cheek.

“What if he wakes up all alone in the dark? That would be so scary for him…”

Amelia hesitated, her usual composure faltering for a moment as she considered Sarah’s words. She glanced at Jim’s still form, her mind racing for a solution.

“I understand,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “But the hospital staff won’t budge on their rules. The best thing we can do is make sure someone is here first thing in the morning. We can take turns, so he’s never alone for long.”

Sarah didn’t respond immediately, her eyes still fixed on Jim. Finally, she nodded, though her reluctance was palpable.

“Alright,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “But I’m coming back first thing in the morning. I don’t care what anyone says.”

Amelia placed a reassuring hand on Sarah’s shoulder, “That’s fair enough.”

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew quieter, the weight of the day settling over them like a heavy blanket. Silver remained in his seat to Jim’s right, his large frame hunched slightly as he kept a firm but gentle grip on the boy’s hand. Across from him, Sarah sat with her gaze locked on Jim, her eyes searching his face for any sign of movement, any flicker of awareness. The silence among the group was thick, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor and the occasional uneven breath from Jim.

When a nurse finally appeared in the doorway, her expression sympathetic but firm, the spell was broken.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but visiting hours are over. You’ll need to come back in the morning.”

Sarah hesitated, her hands tightening around Jim’s for a moment longer. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering as she whispered something too soft for anyone else to hear. A quiet promise meant only for him. Then, with a deep breath, she straightened, her resolve hardening even as tears glistened in her eyes.

“I’ll be back first thing,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Silver stood slowly, his movements stiff, every bone in his body aching. He gave Jim’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it, his gaze lingering on the boy’s face.

“Rest easy, lad,” he murmured, his voice rough but tender. “We won’t be gone long.”

One by one, they filed out of the room, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. They were the last visitors still there. Sarah walked with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her shoulders hunched as if to ward off the chill of the hospital air. Silver followed close behind, limping badly and hoping to the stars above that B.E.N. had remembered to get his toolkit out of his cabin on the ship. Amelia and Delbert brought up the rear, whispering to each other in a way that made Silver certain they were discussing him.

They made their way to the inn that B.E.N. had found for them, the warm glow of its windows spilling out onto the cobblestone street. As they stepped inside, the rich aroma of a hot meal and the malty, earthy scent of ale greeted them. It wrapped around the group like a comforting embrace. Silver’s stomach growled audibly, and he realized just how long it had been since he’d last eaten. Judging by the way the others perked up at the smell, he wasn’t the only one who was starving.

The inn was cozy, with a low ceiling supported by wooden beams and a fire crackling in the hearth. A few patrons sat scattered around the room, their conversations a low hum that added to the warmth of the atmosphere. B.E.N., who had been unusually quiet since their arrival at the hospital, suddenly sprang back to life, his amber eyes brightening as he gestured toward a table near the fire.

“Over here! I saved us the best spot in the house!”

As they settled around the table, the innkeeper appeared almost immediately, his cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to the somber mood of the group.

“What can I get for you all?” he asked, his voice bright and welcoming, as if he hadn’t noticed the heaviness that clung to the group like a shadow.

“Ladies first,” Silver said, nodding his head toward Sarah.

Sarah sighed, her shoulders slumping as she stared at the table.

“Uh… I’m really not all that hungry right now,” she admitted, her voice quiet and tinged with exhaustion. Her hands fidgeted with the edge of her napkin.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Silver gently admonished her. “Ye need to get yer strength up. Jim needs ye to get yer strength up.”

Sarah hesitated, considering Silver’s words as her gaze flickered to his face before dropping back to the table. Finally, she turned to the innkeeper.

“I’ll have the soup, please. And some tea.”

The innkeeper nodded, jotting down her order with a quick flourish before turning to the others. One by one, they placed their requests. As the innkeeper bustled off to the kitchen, the group fell into a comfortable silence, the warmth of the inn and the promise of a hot meal easing some of the tension that had gripped them all day. Silver leaned back in his chair, his mechanical hand tapping absently against the table as he stared into the fire crackling in the hearth.

B.E.N., unable to stay silent for long, broke the quiet with a sudden burst of energy.

“You know,” he said, his voice a little too loud for the subdued atmosphere, “I think this place is great! Cozy, warm, and the food smells amazing. Jimmy is going to love it here! Once he’s back on his feet, of course!”

Delbert pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses slipping slightly as he sighed. “Poor choice of words, B.E.N.”

“What?” B.E.N. blinked, his amber eyes wide with genuine confusion. He looked around the table, completely clueless to the gaffe he’d just made. “Did I say something wrong?”

Sarah chuckled softly, the sound breaking through the heaviness like a ray of sunlight. It was a small, fragile laugh, but it was enough to lighten the mood, even if just a little. She put a reassuring hand on B.E.N.’s shoulder.

“No, you’re right,” she said, “Jim would love it here.”

Inside their room, Delbert busied himself with preparing his bed, meticulously smoothing out the sheets and fluffing the pillows in an almost ritualistic manner, as if the act could somehow anchor him in the midst of everything that had happened that day. Across the room, Morph had already curled up into a tiny ball on Silver’s bed, his soft, rhythmic chirps indicating he was fast asleep. Silver, meanwhile, sat on the edge of his own bed, his mechanical leg propped up on a chair as he tinkered with his damaged prosthetic. His tools were spread out on the floor, and the faint whir of gears and the occasional spark filled the room as he worked.

Delbert glanced over, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Do you need any help with that?” he asked, his tone hesitant but genuine.

Silver shook his head, not looking up from his work.

“Nah, I’ve got it. Just trying to patch this thing up.” He twisted a small wrench, tightening a bolt with practiced ease. “It’s seen worse, believe me.”

Delbert nodded, “Well, if you change your mind, just let me know. I may not be an engineer like Jim, but I’m fairly handy with tools.”

Silver chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Doc,” he said, finally glancing up with a faint smirk. “Though I reckon ye’d be better off sticking to yer star charts and equations.”

Before Delbert could respond, there was a soft knock at the door, and the two looked up to see Amelia leaning against the doorway. She looked exhausted, her usual sharp demeanor softened by the weight of the day. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, and her hair, usually so meticulously styled, had a few loose strands framing her face.

“How is Sarah doing?” Delbert asked, setting aside the pillow he’d been fluffing.

Amelia sighed deeply, crossing her arms as she stepped further into the room.

“I just got her to go to sleep,” she replied, her tone heavy with both relief and weariness. “The poor thing is just inconsolable.”

She pulled a chair from the corner of the room and sat across from Silver, her posture rigid but her exhaustion evident in the way she leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on her knees. Her sharp eyes, however, remained focused, narrowing as she studied Silver with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. So far, she had allowed him to remain under her and Delbert’s watch, but with the unspoken promise that she would eventually turn him over to the authorities. Silver hoped she’d at least let him see Jim after the boy woke up, but he knew he was lucky to have even made it this far. Frankly, Amelia was jeopardizing her own career by keeping him around even this long, and Silver was surprised she hadn’t already handed him over to the police. What was she waiting for?

“I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Silver set his wrench down with a soft clink and gave Amelia his full attention, his single eye meeting hers with a mixture of wariness and respect.

“Aye, Captain,” he said, “What’s on yer mind?”

“Everyone is talking about the explosion in the sky this morning,” she began, her voice low and measured. “It’s only a matter of time before someone connects that to us, so we need to be as unassuming as possible.”

Her eyes flicked to Silver’s metal arm, then to his mechanical leg, her expression hardening.

“I hate to sound insensitive, Mr. Silver, but do you have any way to cover that up?”

Silver was caught off guard by the question, but he understood where her concern was coming from. His mechanical limbs were distinctive, to say the least, and in a town buzzing with rumors about the mysterious explosion, drawing attention was the last thing they needed. He took a moment to think, his mind racing through his limited options.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied finally, his voice steady. “Me snow jacket is still in me cabin on the ship. It’s got a big enough sleeve to protect me gears from freezing. I could cover up with that and some gloves.”

Amelia nodded, her expression softening slightly with relief.

“Good,” she said, “The less attention we draw, the better. We’ve already got enough to worry about without adding curious onlookers to the mix.”

Silver inclined his head in agreement, though a flicker of unease crossed his features. “Aye, Captain. I’ll make sure I’m nothing but a shadow while we’re here.”

Amelia studied him for a moment longer, her keen gaze examining him closely. Then, with a sigh, she leaned forward again, her elbows resting on her knees. Her posture was still commanding, but there was a weariness in her movements now, a vulnerability she rarely showed.

“Look, Silver,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I need you to understand that my hands are tied. Once Jim is stable and we’ve sorted things out, I can’t protect you for very long. The authorities will have questions, and I… I’m risking my neck by doing this.”

That alarmed Silver. Of course! Amelia’s actions weren’t just a risk to her career—they were a risk to her life. Harboring a criminal such as him could be seen as treason, especially given her position as a captain of the navy. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and he straightened, his expression turning serious.

“Please don’t risk yer life for me,” Silver said, his voice tinged with urgency. “That’s not fair to ye. I’ve made me choices, and I’ll face the consequences. But ye’ve got too much to lose, Captain. Don’t throw that away for the likes of me.”

Amelia looked at him with a mix of sympathy and a dash of respect, an expression Silver hadn’t seen from her before. It was fleeting, but it was there.

“I’d give almost anything to have a chance to say goodbye to Jim,” Silver continued, his voice cracking as he put his hand over his heart. “But I won’t ask ye to sacrifice yerself. Jimbo will be fine without me, but he’ll need you both and his mum more than anything else in this universe.”

Amelia didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out a small, ornate object that gleamed faintly in the dim light. At first glance, Silver assumed it was a pocket watch—its brass casing was polished to a soft sheen, and it fit neatly in the palm of her hand.

It was when she turned it over that Silver realized it was her compass. The light caught the glass face, revealing the faint tremble of the needle beneath, and for a moment, he was struck by how delicate it seemed in her hands—unlike the sturdy, utilitarian instruments he was used to seeing aboard ships. Her fingers traced an intricate engraving on the back, the motion slow and deliberate, almost reverent. Silver couldn’t make out the words or symbols etched there, but the way her touch lingered, the way her breath seemed to still as if she were holding a piece of her very soul, told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t some ordinary trinket, something picked up in a port market or passed down without thought. It was a relic of her past, a fragment of someone she had been—or someone she had lost. The weight of it was palpable, not in its physical form but in the way she cradled it, as if it were the only thing tethering her to a world that had long since slipped through her fingers.

Silver watched her quietly, his curiosity piqued but his respect for her privacy keeping him from asking questions. Whatever that object meant to her, it was clear it held a story—one she wasn’t ready to share. After a long moment, Amelia slipped the item back into her pocket and looked up at Silver.

“You really do care about Jim, don’t you?” she said, her voice softer now, almost gentle. It was more of a statement than a question.

For a moment, Silver didn’t respond. His eye flickered, the usual harshness in his gaze dimming as something deeper and more vulnerable surfaced. Then, much to his embarrassment, a single tear escaped, tracing a jagged line down his weathered cheek. He turned away, his mechanical hand clenching into a fist as he tried to stifle the sob rising in his throat.

“Care about him?” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his words. He laughed, a hollow sound that did nothing to mask the pain beneath it. “I love that dumb kid!”

The admission hung in the air, heavy and unguarded, as if Silver had torn open a part of himself he’d kept locked away for years. His breath hitched, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his eye, trying to stem the flood of tears that now refused to be contained. His shoulders shook with the effort to hold himself together, but it was a losing battle.

Amelia’s expression softened, her usual stern demeanor melting away as she watched the man before her unravel. She nodded, Silver’s tearful admission confirming something she understood all too well.

“I can see that,” she said quietly. “And for what it’s worth, I know he loves you too.”

Silver swallowed hard, his throat tight as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Amelia stood and headed toward the door, stopping at the threshold. “Get some rest,” she said, looking at Silver. “Tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

As she left the room, Silver sat in silence. He glanced at Delbert, who was already fast asleep, his soft snores filling the room. The sound was almost comforting. Silver turned back to his prosthetic, picking up the wrench and resuming his work. But as the minutes ticked by, the exhaustion of the day began to creep in, his movements slowing, his limbs growing heavy. Finally, with a sigh, he set the wrench down and rubbed his face with his organic hand.

“Sleep can’t wait forever,” he muttered to himself. With that, he carefully set his tools aside and stretched out on the bed, his mechanical leg propped awkwardly to the side. Morph, sensing his movement, flitted over and nestled into the crook of his arm, his tiny form glowing faintly in the dim light. Silver hesitated, then gently patted the little creature with a finger, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Alright, ye little rascal,” he murmured. “Let’s get some shuteye.”

Silver let out a long breath, the tension in his body slowly easing as sleep finally claimed him. The weight of the day—the fear, the guilt, the relentless worry—seemed to melt away, if only for a few hours.

That night, Silver dreamed.

In his dream, Jim was whole and unharmed, his mischievous grin as bright as the stars above. They stood together on the deck of a sleek, fast ship, the kind Silver had always imagined but had never possessed for himself. The Etherium stretched out before them, endless and shimmering, its colors shifting like liquid light. Jim was at the helm, his hands steady on the wheel, his laughter ringing out as the ship soared through asteroid fields and skimmed the edges of nebulae. Silver stood beside him, a proud smile spread across his face.

“Where to next, Captain?” Jim asked, his voice teasing but full of excitement.

“Wherever the wind takes us, lad,” Silver replied, his chest swelling with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. “The Etherium’s ours for the taking!”

Chapter Text

Silver woke to the faint hum of the hustle and bustle out on the street and the distant clatter of dishes from the inn’s kitchen below. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the early morning light, but the memories of the previous day had Silver ignoring the ache in his bones and practically jumping from his bed.

He dressed quickly, pulling on his boots and tightening his belt. Morph chirped softly, flitting over to perch on his shoulder as he made his way downstairs. The inn’s common room was already bustling with activity, the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods filling the air.

Delbert, Amelia, and B.E.N. were seated at a corner table, looking exhausted. Silver grabbed a cup of coffee from the counter and joined them, nodding in greeting as he slid into a chair. Silver noticed that Amelia had changed out of her uniform and into a casual white blouse with black dress pants. While she still looked sharp, it was jarring to see her out of uniform.

“Sarah’s already at the hospital,” Amelia said without preamble. “She left early this morning, just like she said she would. I didn’t even hear her get up.”

Silver took a sip of his coffee, the bitter warmth grounding him. “Then I’d best be gettin’ there too,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

Amelia shot him a look from the corner of her eye, her sharp gaze flicking to his mechanical arm. “Not like that, you’re not. Remember our discussion last night?”

“Oh… right,” Silver said with a frown. “I’ll head to the ship and get me coat and gloves.”

“No need for that!” B.E.N. piped up, sounding as chipper as ever as he pushed a folded coat and a pair of gloves across the table toward Silver. “The captain already sent me to get your things for you.”

Silver shot Amelia a surprised look. “Ye had him fetch it for me?”

“I’m not taking any chances,” she replied. “From now on, you’re not permitted to leave your room without these on. Now get changed.”

With a grumble, Silver stood and shrugged into the coat, the thick fabric swallowing his mechanical arm. He pulled on the gloves and adjusted the bandana around his head, making sure it covered his mechanical eye. When he turned back to the table, everyone gave a nod of approval.

“You look like just another Ursid,” Delbert said, adjusting his glasses. “No one would guess you’re, uh… well, you.”

“Glad to hear it,” Silver muttered, though he couldn’t help but feel a pang of discomfort.

B.E.N. shot up from his seat, evidently unable to hold still for another moment. “Well, since I can’t have coffee with you guys—for obvious reasons—I’m gonna go check out that gift shop down the road! I thought it would be nice to get something for Jimmy to cheer him up a bit when he wakes up. Maybe a little stuffed animal, or a book, or… oh! How about some of those firecrackers? He’d love that, wouldn’t he?”

Delbert laughed, although he looked mildly concerned. “B.E.N., while I’m sure Jim would like the firecrackers, I doubt the hospital staff would appreciate you bringing such a thing inside the building! A stuffed animal would suffice.”

“Ah! No, you’re right!” B.E.N. said, looking rather sheepish, “I’d hate to break their rules and get kicked out. I’ll meet you guys at the hospital! Uh… Does anyone have any money?”

Amelia sighed as she reached into her pocket, retrieving a few coins. “Here you are. Just please do your best to not talk to anyone I haven’t authorized you to speak to.”

“No talkie to any unauthorized personnel. Got it!”

With that, B.E.N. was out the door and out of their hair.

Delbert sighed, shaking his head. “That robot is going to be the death of me.”

“He means well,” Amelia said, though her tone suggested she was equally annoyed by the android. “At least he’s keeping busy. It’s better than him sitting here and yapping loud enough for everyone to hear.”

Silver smirked, taking another sip of his coffee. “Aye, but let’s hope he doesn’t come back with a stuffed animal the size of a small planet.”

As they sat finishing their coffee, the low murmur of the inn’s common room was abruptly interrupted by the approach of a man. He was unremarkable in appearance—average height, plain coat, and a face that blended into a crowd—but there was a curious glint in his eye that set Silver on edge. The man stopped at their table, his smile overly friendly, his demeanor just a little too eager.

“Morning,” he said, his tone dripping with false cheer, “Mind if I join you?”

Before anyone could respond, he pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward with an air of familiarity that made Delbert visibly uncomfortable. Amelia’s ears flicked sharply before flattening against her head, a subtle but unmistakable sign of her irritation. Silver, meanwhile, kept his expression neutral, though his mechanical hand twitched slightly under the table.

“I’ll just cut to the chase,” the man said, reaching out to shake Amelia’s hand. She didn’t take it. Undeterred, he continued, “Captain Amelia, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Oscar Crowder with the Crescentia Star Press. I want to ask you some questions regarding the explosion that occurred when you reentered the atmosphere yesterday morning.”

The air at the table grew heavy, the casual camaraderie of moments ago replaced by a palpable tension. Delbert shifted in his seat, his eyes darting between Amelia and the intruder. Silver’s grip tightened around his coffee cup, the faint creak of his mechanical fingers the only outward sign of his unease.

Amelia’s expression remained neutral, but her ears flickered again.

“How did you get my name?” she asked, her voice cool and measured.

Oscar shrugged, his smile never wavering. “People talk, Captain. Rumors are beginning to spread about the nature of your latest expedition. I figured it would be best to get answers directly from you rather than allow for people to create their own narrative.”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, her gaze piercing. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Crowder. I have no comment on the matter.”

Oscar’s smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, his tone taking on a slightly harder edge.

“That’s a real shame to hear, Captain. That explosion was not only felt for miles, it caused quite a bit of property damage! The navy is going to have to pay out a lot of money to people, and—considering it happened under your watch—I thought you’d be more understanding as to why people have questions.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned in closer. “Why… there’s already a crazy rumor that pirates were involved.”

A devilish grin spread across Oscar’s face, as if he’d just played his trump card. Silver’s jaw tightened, his mechanical hand gripping the edge of the table so hard it left faint indentations in the wood. He shot Amelia a glance, but she remained calm, her posture unyielding.

“Rumors are just that—rumors,” Amelia said, her voice as sharp as a blade. “And I suggest you be careful about spreading unfounded accusations, Mr. Crowder. Defamation is a serious offense.”

Oscar chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Oh, I’m not accusing anyone of anything, Captain. I’m just reporting what people are saying. And people are saying a lot. For instance, they’re saying that your ship was seen leaving a hole in the sky. They’re saying that the explosion wasn’t an accident, but the result of a confrontation. And they’re saying—” His eyes flicked to Silver, lingering for a moment too long, “—that you’ve got some rather interesting crew members.”

Silver’s blood ran cold, but he kept his expression carefully blank. Morph, who had been dozing on his shoulder, let out a soft, nervous chirp. Amelia, however, didn’t miss a beat.

“The Crescentia Star prints conspiracy theories and calls it journalism. I’ve no interest in feeding your tabloid,” she said, her tone icy. “If you’re quite finished, I suggest you leave. Now. Before I have you removed.”

Oscar held up his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t fade. “Alright, alright, no need to get hostile. I’ll go. But don’t think this is the last you’ll hear from me, Captain. The public has a right to know the truth.”

As he stood and walked away, Delbert let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Well, that was… unsettling.”

“It’s only going to get worse,” Amelia said grimly, her gaze following Oscar’s retreating figure. “If the press is already sniffing around, it won’t be long before others start asking questions. We need to be prepared.”

Silver leaned forward, his voice low. “He knows something. Or at least, he thinks he does. Did ye see the way he looked at me?”

Amelia nodded, her expression dark. “I saw. Which is why we need to be even more careful.”

Silver drained the last of his coffee and stood, his jaw set. “Then let’s not give ’em any more ammunition. I’m heading to the hospital. If anyone else comes sniffing around, tell ’em to bugger off.”

Amelia nodded, her expression softening slightly. “Be careful, Silver. We’ll meet you there soon.”

Silver left the inn, the cold morning air biting at his face the moment he stepped outside. He pulled the collar of his coat higher, shielding his neck from the chill as he hurried across the street. The hospital loomed over him, its marble white walls towering like snowcapped mountains against the grey sky. Silver hardly looked up as he entered the building, his feet retracing his steps from the day before and carrying him to his destination.

His heightened sense of smell picked up the pungent scent of soiled linen, antiseptic, and suffering as he made his way down the corridor toward Jim’s room. When he reached the door, he paused, his hand hovering over the handle. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was quiet, save for the soft buzz of medical equipment and the occasional drip of water. Jim lay on his right side, his face turned toward the wall. Blankets covered the front of his body, while his back was exposed. Even from where he stood, Silver could see evidence of the brutal violence inflicted on Jim’s body—deep, purple bruises that curled from his back and around his sides, and a suspiciously claw-shaped scrape on his shoulder. Sarah stood behind Jim, a basin of water on the table next to her. She held a washcloth in her hand, gently dabbing at Jim’s back, her movements feather-light and careful.

Silver hesitated at the doorway, unsure if he should intrude. This felt like a private moment, something sacred between mother and child. But Sarah looked up and noticed him standing there. She smiled gently, her tired eyes softening.

“You can come in.” Her voice was hoarse from lack of sleep, but her smile was genuine. “I’m almost done.”

As Silver crossed the threshold, Morph tumbled from his pocket in a pink streak. The little blob chirruped affectionately at Jim before suddenly recoiling, his form shivering into jagged spikes. He darted back and forth between Jim's face and something beneath the sheets on the side of the bed.

Silver’s gaze followed Morph to the telltale tubing—a catheter—attached to a collection bag, the contents inside staining the plastic a disturbing rust-red. His augments whirred as realization hit, the scent of copper suddenly overwhelming his enhanced senses.

“Miss Hawkins, he’s—there’s blood in his—”

“I know.” Her voice was calm, but the way her fingers clenched the washcloth betrayed her. “They told me his kidneys are bruised.” The words came out measured, the careful recitation of someone who had already screamed these same questions at doctors hours ago. “It's supposed to clear up… eventually.”

She dipped the washcloth into the basin, wringing it out before sighing.

“The water keeps getting cold,” she said, frustration creeping into her tone. “I must’ve refilled this thing ten times already!”

Silver glanced at the basin, then at his mechanical hand.

“I can fix that.” He pulled off his glove and tapped the side of the basin with his metal finger, the faint hum of machinery filling the room as the water began to heat. Steam rose from the surface, and Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Thank you!” she said, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. She stared at Silver’s mechanical hand, her curiosity evident. “That’s quite impressive.”

Silver slipped his glove back on, a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got some tricks up me sleeve,” he said with a wink.

Sarah chuckled softly, the sound a welcome break from the heaviness of the room. She resumed her task, her movements slower now, as if she were savoring the warmth of the water. The washcloth glided gently over Jim’s back, her touch careful and deliberate, as if she were afraid of causing him even the slightest discomfort. Silver sat down in the chair by Jim’s side, his sharp eyes studying the boy’s face. Jim looked paler than usual, his features drawn and fragile, but the oxygen mask was gone, and there was a faint flush of color in his cheeks—a small but promising sign.

“Ye know the nurses can do that for ye,” he said, nodding toward the washcloth in her hand.

Sarah paused, her hands stilling for a moment as she looked at him.

“I just don’t want strangers touching my child any more than necessary,” she said, her voice firm. There was a protective edge to her words, a mother’s instinct that Silver couldn’t help but respect.

“Aye, I get that,” he said with a nod. “Ye’ve done a fine job with him, Miss. He’s lucky to have ye.”

Sarah smiled a bit at that, though the worry in her eyes didn’t fade. She dipped the washcloth back into the basin, wringing it out before continuing her task.

“I just want him to be okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to Silver. “He’s been through so much already.”

“How’s the pup doing anyway?” Silver asked, his voice low.

Sarah leaned back in her chair, setting the washcloth in the basin for a moment.

“He seems to be doing better,” she said, though her tone was cautious. “The doctors say his vitals are stable, but…” She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “They’re keeping him sedated. He… he tried to remove his tubes right before I got here. He’s just not in his right mind.”

“Blimey…” Silver muttered, the word heavy with emotion. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Jim’s forehead. The boy didn’t stir, his breathing slow and even.

“He’s got a lot of fight in him,” Sarah said, smiling despite the tears glistening in her eyes.

Silver nodded, though his throat felt too tight to speak. He leaned back with his hands in his lap, his gaze never leaving Jim’s face. The room fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the steady beep of the heart monitor and the occasional rustle of blankets as Sarah continued her task.

After a while, Sarah set the washcloth aside and pulled the blankets up to cover Jim’s back. She smoothed the fabric, her hands lingering for a moment before she stepped back.

“There,” she said more to herself than to Silver. “All done.”

Silver glanced at her, catching the dark circles under her eyes and the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of her worry. She looked like she hadn’t slept in ages, her strength worn thin by the relentless strain of waiting and agonizing.

“Didn’t eat this morning, did ye,” said Silver. When Sarah didn’t respond, he added, “Jim will be real upset to hear ye ran yerself ragged caring for him.”

Sarah scoffed and waved her hand dismissively, though the gesture lacked any energy.

“I’m fine!” she said, her voice a little too sharp, a little too defensive. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if daring Silver to argue, but the defiance in her eyes couldn’t mask the weariness that clung to her like a second skin.

“Aye, the lad needs ye,” he said quietly. “But he needs ye at yer best, not half-dead on yer feet. Ye won’t do him any good if ye collapse from exhaustion.”

Sarah opened her mouth to retort, her defenses rising, but before she could speak, another familiar voice entered the room.

“He’s right, Mrs. Hawkins,” Captain Amelia said as she strode into the room, her posture as commanding as ever despite the casual clothes she wore. Delbert followed closely behind, his hands clasped nervously in front of him.

“You hardly ate a thing last night,” said Delbert, “I would have keeled over by now if I were you! You really must take better care of yourself.”

Amelia approached Jim’s bedside, her gaze softening as she took in the boy’s still form. She studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“He looks a little better this morning,” she said, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Some color in his cheeks. That’s a good sign.”

She turned to Sarah, her expression softening further. “Mrs. Hawkins, why don’t you come with me for a bite to eat? My treat.”

Sarah shook her head, her hands fluttering nervously. “Oh, you don’t have to do that! I’m fine, really. I just—”

“I insist,” Amelia stared at Sarah in a way that left no room for argument. “Mr. Silver and Dr. Doppler can keep Jim company for now.”

Delbert stepped forward, offering Sarah a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll fetch you if anything changes. But you really must take care of yourself, Sarah. Jim would want that.”

Sarah hesitated, her gaze flicking between Amelia, Delbert, Silver, and Jim. Finally, she let out a long, shaky breath and nodded.

“Alright,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just… just for a little while.”

“Good,” Amelia smiled as she placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder, guiding her toward the door. “There’s a restaurant called Molly’s down the road. Looks rather nice! We’ll get ourselves a good breakfast there.”

As they left the room, Delbert pulled up a chair and sat down beside Jim’s bed, opposite Silver. He rested his hands on his knees, his fingers tapping nervously as he glanced at the boy’s sleeping form.

“I’m real worried about her,” he said in a hushed tone. “Jim is all she has, you know. She gave up everything to raise him. If something were to happen to him, she might…”

He trailed off, the words catching in his throat as though saying them aloud would make the unthinkable more real. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the world carried on—people chattered, carts rattled down the hall, and the faint hum of the city buzzed in the distance—but in that hospital room, time seemed to stand still. Every second stretched into an eternity.

Silver didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Jim’s face, his mechanical hand resting lightly on the edge of the bed. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath.

“Well, from what I’ve seen, she’s stronger than she looks,” he said, “And so’s the lad. He’s not going anywhere, Doc. Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

Delbert managed a small, grateful smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I hope you’re right,” he murmured, “I really do.”

Meanwhile, across town, B.E.N.’s head swiveled from side to side as he carefully scanned the shelves of the gift shop. His glowing eyes darted over the colorful array of trinkets and toys, his mechanical fingers tapping against his chest as he muttered to himself.

“Alright, B.E.N.,” he said, his voice a little too loud for the quiet shop. “Time to find the perfect gift. Something that says, ‘I care about you, but also, let’s blow stuff up later.’ Wait, no, scratch that last part. Focus, buddy, focus!”

The shopkeeper, a burly man with a skeptical expression, gave him a wary look from behind the counter. Clearly, he wasn’t sure what to make of the excitable robot. B.E.N., however, was too engrossed in his mission to notice. He was already rifling through a bin of stuffed animals, muttering to himself as he weighed his options.

“Hmm, let’s see… How about an orcus galacticus? Nah, too mainstream. Jim’s more of a go-against-the-grain kind of guy!” He tossed the plush back into the bin and dug deeper, his hands moving at lightning speed.

“Ooh, a honbird stuffie! Wait, no—those things are mean. Jim deserves something a bit more friendly!” He cast the honbird aside without a second thought.

Next, he pulled out an inflatroid plush, its round, balloon-like body squishy under his fingers.

“Too boring! Jim needs something with a little more… pizzazz!” He tossed it back into the bin, his gears rotating as he dug even deeper for something better.

It was then that B.E.N. spotted the perfect gift. Nestled near the bottom of the bin, partially hidden under a pile of less impressive toys, was an adorable mantabird plush. Its soft, iridescent feathers shimmered under the shop’s lights, and its big, shiny eyes seemed to stare up at B.E.N. with an almost lifelike curiosity.

“Aha!” B.E.N. exclaimed, his voice echoing through the shop as he pulled the plush free. “Now this is more like it! Jim’s gonna love you, little guy.”

He held the mantabird up, tilting his head as he examined it from every angle.

“Cute, cuddly, and—most importantly—the nurses won’t yell at me for bringing it inside the hospital. Perfect!”

The shopkeeper cleared his throat, clearly unimpressed with B.E.N.’s antics. “Are you going to buy that, or are you just going to talk to it all day?”

B.E.N. spun around, the mantabird clutched tightly in his hands.

“Oh, I’m buying it, all right! This is the one. It’s for my friend in the hospital. This is gonna make him so happy, he might even forget about the whole ‘almost dying’ thing for, like, five whole minutes! Uh, anyway, how much do I owe you?”

As B.E.N. fumbled with the coins Amelia had given him, a smooth, overly friendly voice cut through the air.

“Allow me.”

B.E.N. turned to see a man standing just behind him, his sharp eyes glinting with curiosity and his lips curled into a sly smile. He held up a few credits, waving them at the shopkeeper.

“I’ve got plenty of money,” said B.E.N., “You don’t have to—”

“I insist,” said the man, “I couldn’t help but overhear your situation. I hope your ailing friend feels better soon.”

“Oh, thank you!” B.E.N. said, his enthusiasm momentarily overriding his caution. “Jimmy’s hurt real bad, but this will definitely lift his spirits!” He paused, his head tilting to the side as his glowing eyes narrowed slightly. “Uh, who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Oscar Crowder. I’m just a friendly guy who likes to help out where I can.” He leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to something conspiratorial. “Especially when it comes to folks who might have an interesting story to tell.”

B.E.N.’s eyes narrowed, his head tilting to the side. “A story? What kind of story?”

Oscar’s grin widened, and he gestured to the mantabird plush. “Well, for starters, who’s this Jimmy person? A friend? Family? Someone special?”

Before B.E.N. could respond, a sudden spark erupted from his cranium, causing his eyes to flash erratically. He jerked back, his arms flailing slightly as he tried to regain his balance.

“What was that?” asked Oscar.

“F-f-forgive m-me,” B.E.N. stuttered, his voice glitching as he clutched the mantabird tighter. “I haven’t been upgraded in ov-ov-over a hundred years. My circuits get a little… overloaded s-sometimes.”

“A hundred years, you say!” Oscar exclaimed. “Sounds like you’ve been through an awful lot!”

“It’s a really long story,” B.E.N. said, his voice still shaky. “And, uh, kind of private.”

Oscar waved a hand dismissively, his smile never faltering.

“Oh, I understand completely. But sometimes it helps to talk about it, you know? Get it off your chest. I’ve got plenty of time if you want to vent.”

He pulled out a notepad and pen, the sight of which caused B.E.N.’s circuits to heat up again.

“W-w-wait,” B.E.N. stammered, “Captain Amelia told me not to speak to any unauthorized personnel! I’m not supposed to talk to strangers!”

Oscar chuckled, his tone smooth and reassuring.

“Then I have good news for you,” he said, his smile widening. “I am authorized personnel. The good Captain Amelia, herself, has given me permission to speak to you. She said you might have some… valuable insights.”

But… Amelia said—but—this man said—

The conflicting orders collided in B.E.N.’s neural pathways like two rogue asteroids, sending a cascade of sparks erupting from his cranium. His head jerked back, the servos in his neck whining as they struggled to keep up with the sudden surge of incompatible data. His optical sensors flickered, the glow in his eyes dimming and flaring in rapid succession, casting jagged shadows across the shop’s walls.

Inside his chest, a low, guttural hum began to build, the sound of overworked gears grinding against each other. His arms twitched, the joints creaking as his hands clenched and unclenched around the mantabird stuffie. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the seams of his torso, the scent of burning circuitry sharp in the air.

B.E.N.’s voice box crackled, spitting out fragmented syllables as his speech processors struggled to keep up with the chaos. “I—I—I—uh—uh—uh—”

Then, without warning, Oscar raised his hand and slapped B.E.N. across the face.

The sharp smack of flesh against metal echoed through the shop, the force of the blow snapping B.E.N.’s head to the side. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—the sparks, the flickering lights, the grinding gears. Then, with a sudden, jarring whirr, B.E.N.’s systems rebooted. His optical sensors flared back to life, the glow in his eyes steadying as his head swiveled to face Oscar. The erratic twitching in his limbs ceased, and the smoke from his torso dissipated, leaving only the faint smell of burnt wiring.

“Whoa!” B.E.N. exclaimed, his voice suddenly clear and chipper, as if nothing had happened. “That was… weird. Thanks for the slap, I guess? I think I needed that!” He blinked a few times, his head tilting to the side as he regarded Oscar with a newfound ease. “Now, what were we talking about again? Oh, right! Jimmy! Yeah, he’s in the hospital, but don’t worry, he’s gonna be fine. He’s tough, you know? Like, really tough. Did I ever tell you about the time he—”

Oscar’s sly smile returned, his pen poised over his notepad. “No, you didn’t. But I’d love to hear all about it.”

Amelia began to regret choosing the restaurant she currently sat in. What had seemed like a quiet, cozy spot earlier in the morning was now transforming into a bustling brunch hub. The clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air, each sound grating on her nerves. A few tables over, a group of women in elaborate dresses and wide-brimmed hats shrieked with laughter, their voices piercing as they got increasingly drunk on bottomless mimosas. The sharp, citrusy scent of the drinks wafted over, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee and baked goods, but it did little to improve Amelia’s mood.

She glanced at Sarah, who sat across from her, her posture slumped and her hands wrapped tightly around her coffee cup. The steam had long since faded, but Sarah continued to stir the lukewarm liquid absently, her spoon clinking against the porcelain in a rhythm that matched the tremble in her hands. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, stark against her pallid skin, and her gaze kept drifting toward the window. Beyond the glass, the highest walls of the hospital loomed in the distance, visible from where she sat.

The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional burst of laughter from the nearby tables. Amelia opened her mouth to say something—anything—to pull Sarah out of her thoughts, but before she could speak, the waiter appeared at their table, balancing two plates with practiced ease.

“Here we are,” he said cheerfully, setting the plates down with a flourish. “Eggs, tombird sausages, and a buttery scone for you,” he said, nodding to Sarah. “And the smoked sailfish benedict for you,” he added, placing the second plate in front of Amelia. “Can I get you anything else? More coffee, perhaps?”

Amelia gestured subtly for Sarah to go first, her eyes watching the other woman closely. Sarah hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the window. For a moment, it seemed like she might decline, but then something shifted in her expression—a flicker of resolve, or perhaps just the need for a small indulgence.

“May I have a mimosa, please?” Sarah asked, her voice soft and a bit timid.

The waiter’s smile widened. “Of course! One mimosa, coming right up.” He turned to Amelia. “And for you, ma’am?”

“Just a refill on the tea,” said Amelia. She wasn’t one for day drinking, especially not this early, but if a mimosa was what Sarah needed to take the edge off, she wasn’t about to judge her for it.

Amelia’s mind wandered briefly to the night Mr. Arrow died. She had locked herself in her cabin and taken a few shots of whiskey that night. It wasn’t her proudest moment, but it felt necessary at the time.

A few moments later, the waiter returned, balancing a champagne glass on a small tray. He set it down in front of Sarah with a practiced flourish, the stemware glistening in the soft morning light that filtered through the windows. The drink sparkled, its golden hue catching the light as bubbles rose lazily to the surface.

Sarah stared at the glass for a moment, her fingers brushing against the cool stem. She hesitated, her grip tightening slightly, as if she were dipping her toe into the edge of a cold pond, testing the waters before diving in.

Then, with a sudden resolve, she raised the glass and threw her head back, drinking down the entire thing in a matter of seconds. She set the glass back down on the table with a soft clink, her breath coming a little quicker now.

“One more, please.”

The waiter blinked, his cheerful demeanor faltering for a moment as he took in the empty glass and Sarah’s determined expression. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it and nodded, running back to the bar.

The waiter returned quickly, another glass in hand. He set it down in front of Sarah with a cautious smile, his eyes flicking briefly to Amelia as if seeking reassurance. Sarah didn’t seem to notice. Her focus was entirely on the glass, her fingers wrapping around the stem with a determination that bordered on desperation. She lifted it to her lips and downed it just as quickly as the first.

Without missing a beat, she made a small, almost imperious gesture with her hand. “One more.”

The waiter hesitated, glancing at Amelia again. But Sarah’s tone left no room for argument so he just nodded, retreating to fetch another glass. Moments later, it appeared in front of her, the golden liquid sparkling invitingly.

Sarah reached for it, her movements quick and almost frantic, but before she could lift it to her lips, Amelia’s hand shot out, her fingers closing around Sarah’s wrist.

“Slow down,” Amelia said, her voice calm but firm. “Catch your breath.”

Sarah’s defiance flared for a moment, her jaw tightening as she met Amelia’s gaze. It was as if she were teetering on the edge of pulling away, of insisting she was fine, that she didn’t need anyone telling her what to do. But then, like a wave breaking against the shore, the fight drained out of her. Her shoulders slumped, and her grip on the glass loosened. She set it down carefully, her hand trembling slightly as she did so, and she let out a long, shaky breath.

“M’sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks flushed pink, a mix of embarrassment and the faint warmth of the alcohol already coursing through her. She avoided Amelia’s gaze, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

Amelia’s expression softened, and she moved her grip from Sarah’s wrist to her hand.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, her tone quieter now.

Sarah nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, her throat working as she tried to steady herself, but the effort seemed to cost her. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached up to wipe her eyes, the gesture quick and self-conscious, as if she were trying to hide her vulnerability.

Amelia studied her face, her sharp eyes missing nothing. The silence between them stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable, as Amelia processed what she was seeing. It wasn’t just the exhaustion or the worry etched into Sarah’s features—it was something else, something she hadn’t noticed before. When Sarah lifted her hand to brush away a tear, Amelia’s gaze flicked to her fingers. There was no wedding band. Not even the faint outline to indicate she’d ever worn one—at least, not recently.

Well, shoot. Amelia’s ears twitched. She’d been calling her Mrs. Hawkins this entire time, and it was only now dawning on her that it might not be the correct thing to call her. Come to think of it, Amelia realized she didn’t know all that much about Jim’s life, and even less about his mother’s. Delbert had shared a few tidbits here and there: Jim was on probation, but he was a good kid at heart; his hardworking mother ran an inn, but it had burned down some months ago. Beyond those basic pieces of information, Amelia’s knowledge of their lives was sparse. She hadn’t thought much about it before—her focus had been on the mission, on keeping everyone alive—but now, sitting across from Sarah, she felt the weight of that ignorance.

“You know,” she said, trying to steer the conversation into lighter waters, “you look so young, when you arrived I thought you were Jim’s sister at first.”

Sarah laughed at that, though the sound was tinged with a bittersweet edge.

“Well, I was close to Jim’s age when I got pregnant with him,” she said. Then she paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass as if the motion helped her gather her thoughts. “It’s just been the two of us since his father left.”

Amelia caught the way Sarah’s eyes flickered downward, the way her shoulders tensed ever so slightly as she spoke. There was a story there—one that Sarah wasn’t fully telling. Amelia didn’t need the details to sense the weight behind those words. The way Sarah said “just the two of us” carried a quiet resilience, but also a hint of something deeper, something harder.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” Amelia said carefully. She wasn’t one to pry, but she also wasn’t one to let a comment like that go unacknowledged.

Sarah shrugged, her smile fading into something more wistful.

“It wasn’t,” she admitted, “But you do what you have to do, right? Especially when you have no other options.”

Amelia began to piece together the unspoken parts of Sarah’s story. It all painted a picture of a girl who had been forced to grow up too fast, who had to build a life from the ground up with no one to lean on. And the way she said “no other options”—Amelia couldn’t help but wonder what, or who, had been missing from Sarah’s life when she needed them most. Parents? Siblings? Aunts or uncles? Whoever it was, their absence had left a mark, one that Sarah carried with quiet dignity but also a lingering ache.

“Sweetheart…” Amelia hesitated, uncertain if she might be sticking her nose somewhere it didn’t belong. “Jim has a long road ahead, and—well… do you have any family who could come out to lend you both a hand?”

Fresh tears welled in Sarah’s eyes, and she shook her head, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.

For a moment, Amelia was at a loss for words. She couldn’t imagine the sheer grit it must have taken for this young woman to raise a child alone, to build a life from nothing, to keep going when the world seemed determined to knock you down. And now, on top of everything else, Sarah’s son had a disfiguring injury that would leave him disabled for the rest of his life. Amelia wasn’t used to dealing with emotions this raw, this personal. But she also couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

“Well then,” she said, giving Sarah’s hand another squeeze, “I’m your family now. We’ll all be your family. You’ll never have to do this alone again.”

Sarah managed a small, grateful smile, though the tears in her eyes didn’t fade. Amelia kept her hand on Sarah’s. It was an uncharacteristically tender gesture for the usually stoic captain, but it felt right in the moment. Sarah didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her hand slightly, her fingers curling around Amelia’s in a silent acknowledgment of the support being offered.

No more words were needed. The quiet spoke for them—Amelia’s resolve to stand by Sarah, no matter what lay ahead, and Sarah’s quiet gratitude for the lifeline she hadn’t realized she needed. They sat like that for a long moment, hands clasped across the table, the birth of a new sisterhood blossoming in the stillness.

Silver sat in a chair by the bed, hardly taking his eyes off of Jim. The room felt too small, too quiet, despite the faint murmur of voices from the hallway outside. The stillness was oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of Delbert turning a page in his book or the soft creak of Silver’s chair as he shifted his weight. The occasional nurse interrupted the quiet, coming in to check Jim’s vitals or to adjust his body position, but the interruptions never lasted long enough to ease the weight of the silence.

With nothing else to do, Silver took in the sight of the room, which was unlike any hospital he’d ever seen the inside of before. The place was old. Very old and very grand. The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of a stained glass window set high in one of the stone walls, casting a kaleidoscope of blues, purples, and golds across the room. The walls themselves were made of aged stone and wood, their texture softened by the warm light and intricate brass piping that snaked along the edges like the veins of some great mechanical beast. The floor was worn smooth by years of foot traffic. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from the center of the vaulted ceiling, its candles replaced with glowing orbs of gaslight that flickered gently.

The room felt almost church-like in its solemnity, the arched doorways and stone columns lending it an air of reverence. Yet, the presence of modern medical equipment—gleaming brass and copper devices with gears and dials—reminded Silver that this was no sanctuary. It was a place of healing, where the old world met the new in a delicate balance of tradition and innovation.

Jim lay in the bed, covered in crisp white sheets, his frame dwarfed by the bulky medical equipment surrounding him. His hair was still a bit damp from when his mother had washed him earlier, and his face bore the faint sheen of someone caught between sleep and wakefulness. His hands rested at his sides, fingers twitching occasionally as if chasing some distant dream. The blanket covering him was tucked neatly around his chest, though one corner had come loose, revealing the edge of a hospital gown that looked several sizes too large. His breathing was steady, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible beneath the layers of fabric.

Silver frowned. Something felt off. While Jim’s breathing was steady, there was a tightness to it. And his skin—when Silver brushed a hand over Jim’s forehead, the heat was unmistakable. Not scorching, but warmer than it should be.

If it were something to be concerned about, one of the nurses would have said so… right? Silver tried to rationalize his feelings, but his gut churned all the same.

Delbert cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence as he reached for his coffee mug on the nightstand. He took a careful sip, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps.

“Never been a fan of hospitals,” he admitted, his voice tinged with unease. “The last time I was in one was for a… well, a rather invasive procedure. A colonoscopy and an upper endoscopy. At the same time, no less. Imagine that! One camera down my throat and another up my rear.”

“Ah, the ol’ Corn On the Cob!” Silver said with a hearty laugh, slapping his knee.

Delbert’s eyes widened, and he nearly choked on his coffee.

“Mr. Silver!” he exclaimed, his voice rising an octave. “That was crass!”

Silver doubled over, laughing at his own joke. “It’s too bad Jim’s asleep. He woulda loved that one! Kid’s got a naughty sense of humor, he does.”

Delbert adjusted his glasses, his cheeks flushing pink.

“Well, I’d prefer it if we kept that particular joke to ourselves,” he said primly, though the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile. “Some of us have reputations to maintain, you know.”

Silver chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, fair enough. But don’t think I won’t remind ye of it every chance I get!”

Delbert sighed, shaking his head, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Silver said with a wink, his laughter subsiding into a warm grin. He turned his attention back to Jim, who quietly groaned and stirred in his sleep. “I wonder if the doctor will let him wake up soon.”

“I bumped into him in the hallway earlier,” said Delbert, “He’s hopeful that they can start weaning him off the sedatives tomorrow. Then it’ll be up to Jim when he wants to wake up.”

Silver studied the dark circles around Jim’s eyes. He may have been sedated this whole time, but he still looked so exhausted. Silver knew from experience how useless it was to try to ‘rest’ in a hospital, even while sedated. It was damn near impossible to get a proper sleep. The boy’s brow furrowed, his breath hitching slightly.

“Aye, the lad’s been through the wringer. He’ll wake when he’s ready.” He paused, his eye catching the way Jim’s fingers twitched slightly, as if reaching for something only he could see. “Still, I hate seeing him like this.”

Delbert opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the heavy wooden door to the room burst open with a loud bang. B.E.N. barreled in, his metallic limbs clattering noisily as he waved his arms in excitement.

“Hey, guys! Guess what I found at the gift shop!” he announced, his voice far too loud for the quiet, solemn atmosphere of the room.

Silver winced, his mechanical eye narrowing as he shot B.E.N. a glare. “Keep it down, ye clankin’ scrap heap! Can’t ye see the lad’s trying to rest?”

B.E.N. froze mid-step, his glowing eyes flickering as he processed Silver’s words.

“Oh. Right. Sorry!” he said, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was still far too loud. He tiptoed—or at least attempted to, his movements more of a comical shuffle—closer to the group, holding up a small, brightly colored object. “Look! I got Jim a mantabird stuffie! Isn’t it adorable?”

Silver shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“Ye’re a piece of work, B.E.N.,” he muttered, “but I suppose the lad’ll appreciate it.”

B.E.N. beamed, his glowing eyes flickering with pride. He shuffled over to Jim’s bedside, his mechanical limbs whirring softly as he moved. With surprising gentleness, he lifted the edge of the blanket and tucked the mantabird plush under Jim’s arm, arranging it so the creature’s big, shiny eyes peered up at the boy.

Jim’s fingers spasmed then curled instinctively around the soft plush, his grip tightening ever so slightly. A faint sigh escaped his lips, as if the simple act of holding the toy brought him some measure of comfort. Even Silver had to admit the sight was kind of cute. It was a small, human moment in the midst of all the pain and sickness. It was a reminder that, although he had faced down pirates and survived the unthinkable, Jim was still just a kid. The sight of Jim—clinging to a child’s comfort thing like he was eight years old again—made Silver's throat constrict.

B.E.N. stepped back, his head tilting to the side as he admired his handiwork.

“Aww,” he said, his voice softer now. “Now he’s got a friend to keep him company.”

Silver glanced at Delbert, who was watching the scene with a small, bemused smile.

“Well,” Delbert said, “I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”

“Aye,” Silver agreed with a soft chuckle, “I reckon he'll deny this ever happened when he wakes.”

B.E.N. gasped, his hands flying to his face. “Oh no! Do you think I overdid it? I don’t wanna embarrass him!”

Silver chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, he’ll be fine. Kid’s got a heart bigger than he lets on. He’ll probably just grumble about it for a bit, then keep the thing anyway.”

Delbert cleared his throat, steering the subject. “I hope it wasn’t too busy down there, B.E.N.”

“Oh, it was a little crowded, but nothing too terrible,” said B.E.N., “I actually met some really nice people! There was this one guy, Oscar Crowder—”

“What!” Delbert was suddenly on the edge of his seat, his glasses slipping down his nose as he stared at B.E.N. in alarm. “B.E.N., please tell me you didn’t speak to him!”

A tiny spark shot out of B.E.N.’s cranium, his head jerking slightly as his circuits whirred.

“I—uh… uh… But he told me Captain Amelia authorized him to talk to me…” his voice faltered as he processed Delbert’s reaction.

Silver’s stomach dropped, his mechanical hand clenching into a fist.

“Uh, lad… He lied to you,” he said, his tone grim. “Crowder’s a reporter. He’s been sniffing around trying to get a story out of us.”

B.E.N.’s yellow eyes turned a shocking white, another spark erupting from his head as his systems struggled to process the betrayal.

“Lied to me…” he said, his voice hollow, as if he could barely comprehend the words. “Why would he do that?”

Silver couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the little robot. B.E.N. sounded genuinely hurt, his usual exuberance replaced by a quiet, almost childlike confusion. But that sympathy was quickly overshadowed by frustration and fear. If Crowder had gotten B.E.N. to spill anything about the mutiny—and Silver’s involvement—it could spell disaster for all of them.

Delbert leapt to his feet, his hands gripping B.E.N.’s shoulders as he nearly shook the robot.

“B.E.N., I need you to focus and tell me everything you said to Crowder!” he demanded, his voice rising in panic. “Every word, every detail—this is important!”

B.E.N.’s head swiveled erratically, his circuits overheating as he tried to recall the conversation.

“I—I don’t know! He was so nice, and he bought the mantabird for me, and he asked about Jim, and I—I think I might’ve told him about the explosion, and the pirates, and—”

“Blast it, B.E.N.!” Silver cried, “Ye can’t go blabbin’ our business to every stranger who flashes a smile at ye. Crowder’s not our friend. He’s looking for a headline, and ye just handed it to him on a silver platter.”

B.E.N.’s eyes dimmed and his head drooped, weighed down by guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small. “I didn’t know. I thought he was authorized. I thought he was… nice.”

Delbert released B.E.N.’s shoulders, running a hand through his hair as he paced the room. “This is bad. This is very, very bad.”

Silver sat stiffly in his chair, a question simmering under the surface, one he was almost afraid to ask but couldn’t ignore. His voice was low, careful, as he turned to B.E.N.

“What did ye tell Crowder about me?”

B.E.N. blinked, his glowing eyes flickering as he tapped his head with a metallic finger, as if trying to jostle his memory circuits into action.

“About you? Uh…” He paused, his head tilting to the side. “I mean, there’s not much to say. I told him how you saved Jimmy from bleeding out by cauterizing his wound. I told him that you were the one who went out on the longboat to rescue him after the explosion… What am I missing?”

Silver’s jaw tightened, his mechanical eye narrowing as he leaned forward. He’d been dancing around the real question, but there was no point in delaying it any longer.

“Did ye tell Crowder I was the pirate who led the mutiny?”

B.E.N.’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening to an almost comical degree as he pointed at Silver.

“You’re a pirate?”

Silver and Delbert exchanged a look, their expressions a mix of disbelief and exasperation.

“Did ye forget?” Silver asked, incredulous.

“I thought you were just the cook!” B.E.N. exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch. “That’s what Jimmy said back on the ship! He said you were just the cook, right? He wouldn’t lie about such a thing!” His cranium sparked again, a small puff of smoke curling upward as his circuits overheated. “Agh! My head! I’ve been malfunctioning all day! My memory chip keeps erasing stuff.”

Silver pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, slow breath. “So ye told Crowder I was just the cook?”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Mr. Sterling!” B.E.N. said, his tone apologetic but still far too cheerful. “You deserve a much more dignified title than that—”

“No, no, no! That’s fine!” Silver interrupted, holding up a hand to stop B.E.N. before he could dig himself any deeper. Then he realized something. “Did ye just call me Mr. Sterling?”

“Well, yeah—I mean, that’s your name, silly!”

Silver exchanged a relieved look with Delbert, who sank back into his chair, his shoulders sagging with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. The canid heaved out a deep sigh, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off an impending headache.

“I suppose all is not lost,” Delbert said, his voice tinged with cautious optimism. “Still, we must tell Amelia as soon as she gets back. Having the press on our tail is going to be a problem now that they know about the Treasure Planet mission.”

B.E.N. looked between them, his head swiveling awkwardly as his circuits continued to whir.

“I’m really sorry, guys,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost sheepish. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just—I have a hard time with… certain things.”

Silver sighed, his irritation fading as he looked at the little robot.

“I know, lad,” he said, his tone softer now. “Just be more careful. Not everyone is as friendly as they let on.”

Just then, Jim stirred. His eyelids fluttered, the faintest hint of movement breaking through his sedative-induced stillness. For a moment, Silver’s heart leapt, a flicker of hope surging through him as he leaned forward in his chair.

“Jim?” he said, his voice low and steady. “Can ye hear me, pup?”

Jim’s eyes opened, but they were glassy and unfocused, his gaze darting around the room as if he were seeing something far beyond its stone walls and stained-glass windows. His lips moved, dry and cracked, but the words that came out were slurred and disjointed, like fragments of a dream spilling into the waking world.

“The… the map… it’s in the… the…” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper, the sentence left hanging in the air like an unfinished thought.

Silver exchanged a glance with Delbert, who was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping against the floor as he got closer to Jim’s side.

“Jim?” Delbert said, his tone gentle but urgent. He hovered over the boy, his hands fluttering uncertainly before settling on Jim’s shoulders. “It’s us. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”

But Jim didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were wide and wild, his breathing quickening as he struggled to sit up, his movements weak but frantic. Silver held him down, not wanting the boy to break his stitches.

“No, no, stop…” Jim’s voice cracked, raw and desperate, and he began to thrash, his thin frame trembling under the strain. The blankets tangled around his body, and the mantabird plush tumbled to the floor as his hands clawed at the air, as if trying to fend off some unseen threat.

Delbert cupped Jim’s face in his hands, his touch firm but gentle, as tears began to stream down the boy’s flushed cheeks.

“Jim, look at me,” Delbert said, his voice quiet and soothing, like he was calming a frightened child. He wiped his thumbs under Jim’s eyes, brushing away the tears that clung to his pale skin. “Can you understand me?”

Jim’s lips moved, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, struggling to form words, but all that came out was a faint, broken sound.

“Mm… Ma…”

“He wants his mum,” Silver murmured.

“I can go find her!” B.E.N. said, already turning toward the door, his metallic limbs clattering noisily. “I’ll be back in a flash!”

“No!” Silver’s voice cut through the room like a whip, his hand shooting out to grab B.E.N.’s arm before the robot could take off. “Let the poor woman have a minute to herself! Jim will be fine with us.”

Delbert, his attention still fixed on Jim, grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and gently wiped the boy’s face.

“Your mum just stepped out for some air,” he said, his tone soft and reassuring. “She’ll be back at any second.”

Silver’s eye caught the deepening flush on Jim’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the pink hue now a more pronounced, feverish red. Concerned, he reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Jim’s forehead. The skin was warm—too warm. Silver uncovered his mechanical eye, the lens whirring softly as he scanned Jim’s body. The heat signature confirmed his fears: Jim was running a low-grade fever, his body fighting something beneath the surface.

“He’s got a bit of a fever,” Silver said, his tone grim. He turned to B.E.N., “Go tell a nurse to come in here. Quick, now.”

“On it!” B.E.N. replied, his voice a little too loud as he hurried out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

With Delbert’s help, Silver carefully slipped the blankets and hospital gown down Jim’s body, uncovering as much skin as possible while still maintaining the boy’s modesty. The cool air of the room hit Jim’s feverish skin, and he shivered violently, his thin frame trembling under the sudden exposure. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the faint sheen of sweat glistening in the soft light of the gaslit chandelier.

“Sorry, pup,” Silver said, his voice low and apologetic as he adjusted the blankets to cover Jim’s lower half. “Gotta cool ye down. Just hang in there, alright?”

Delbert grabbed a cloth from the basin on the nightstand, wringing it out before gently pressing it to Jim’s forehead. The boy flinched at the touch, his eyelids fluttering, still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

“Easy, Jim,” Delbert murmured, “We’re just trying to help. You’re going to be okay.”

Jim’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His hands twitched at his sides, pale fingers curling like autumn leaves as he tried to grasp something—anything. Silver reached out, his mechanical hand resting lightly on Jim’s arm. The moment Silver's fingers brushed Jim's skin, the boy's reaction was instantaneous. His hand shot up with surprising strength, fingers locking around Silver's mechanical wrist in a desperate grip that belied his weakened state. The sudden contact sent a faint vibration through Silver's prosthesis.

“We’re here, lad,” Silver said, his voice catching in his throat. “Ye’re not alone.”

The door swung open, and B.E.N. hurried back into the room, a nurse close behind him. The nurse moved with the terrifying efficiency of someone who'd seen death win far too many times. Her starched white cap sat perfectly straight above a face lined with years of hard-won experience. Without ceremony, she pressed the back of her hand to Jim's forehead, then his neck, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Definitely febrile,” she confirmed, retrieving a thermometer from her apron pocket. The delicate instrument whirred to life as she inserted it in Jim's ear, its tiny gears visible through the glass housing. Silver watched the mercury climb past the etched markings—101... 102… each degree marked by a nearly imperceptible tightening of his mechanical fingers around Jim's hand.

Then it hit him - that smell. Not just the sharp bite of antiseptic, but something deeper, darker. The cloying sweetness of infected flesh barely masked by camphor and lye. His augmented senses amplified it tenfold, flooding his nasal receptors with the stench of dying tissue.

The nurse's head snapped up like a hound catching scent. Her eyes locked onto Jim's bandaged abdomen where a telltale yellow-brown stain was blooming across the linen like some grotesque flower.

“God preserve us," she muttered, the first crack in her professional armor. She was already halfway out the door, her starched skirt rustling like parchment. "We'll need to check his surgical sites for possible abscess. I’ll fetch Dr. Lockwood."

As the door slammed behind her, Silver's mechanical eye whirred into diagnostic mode, its lens telescoping to reveal the horror beneath the bandages—the telltale crimson halo around the edges of the wound, angry red striations radiating from the suture line, the skin beneath blistered and taut with pus

Jim chose that moment to stir, his head tossing weakly on the sweat-dampened pillow.

"N-no... let… let’m go…” Jim's words dissolved into wet, hacking coughs, each spasm making the wound weep fresh streaks of yellowish-red fluid.

“On second thought, B.E.N.,” Silver murmured, “Go fetch the lad’s mum. She and the captain went to some restaurant ‘round the corner. Molly’s, I think.”

“On it!” B.E.N. was out the door in a flash with Morph following close behind.

Moments later, the door burst open again, revealing the nurse and a harried-looking man in a long, white coat. He was a different doctor than the one they’d met the day before. Dr. Lockwood’s spectacles gleamed as he bent over Jim, his hands moving with precise urgency.

"Elevated heart rate, pupils reactive but sluggish," he muttered, peeling back the bandages to reveal the angry red wound below Jim’s navel. The sutures pulled taut against inflamed skin, and Silver’s gut clenched when he saw the faint yellow tinge at the edges. “Anja, ice packs to the major arteries—wrists, neck, groin. I’ll prepare a blood sample. I want a full sepsis panel."

Nurse Anja moved like a whirlwind, uncovering Jim’s body with clinical detachment. Silver barely had time to register the jarring sight before the nurse began to position ice packs at the pressure points. Jim cried out when a cold pack touched his inner thigh, his remaining leg jerking involuntarily.

Silver was at his side in an instant, his organic hand cradling Jim's head while the other pinned his shoulders to the bed.

"Easy, lad," he murmured, "Easy now."

Dr. Lockwood snapped open a polished mahogany case, revealing an array of gleaming instruments. The syringe he selected had a brass plunger and a glass barrel, the needle catching the light as he inserted it into the crook of Jim’s arm. Dark blood spiraled into the chamber.

"Subcutaneous abscess formation," Lockwood muttered, pressing two fingers to the angry red halo around Jim's stitches. A bead of yellow-tinged fluid welled up between the sutures. "Signs of early necrosis—and I don't like how quickly it's set in.” The needle-nose pliers he grabbed next were straight out of a nightmare, their articulated joints hissing with pneumatic precision. "If this is gas gangrene seeding, we'll need to debride within the hour."

Silver's organic hand found Jim's shoulder. "Ye heard the man, lad. Grit yer teeth."

The probe went in.

Jim's back arched off the bed with a strangled scream that Silver felt in his own bones. The boy's free hand scrabbled at the sheets, tendons standing out like rigging lines in a storm. Silver pinned him effortlessly, his cyborg strength suddenly a gift rather than a curse.

"Nearly done," Lockwood lied smoothly. Another twist of the probe. Another guttural cry.

Silver's voice came out shredded, "He was doing better this morning! What happened?!”

Lockwood tossed the contaminated swab into a biohazard tray with a wet plink.

"Sometimes the body fights the healing as hard as it fought the injury.” He flipped through Jim's chart, his frown deepening. "Though this progression rate is... unusual."

Delbert's ears flattened. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Silver snarled, the realization hitting him like a boarding axe to the chest, "that thrice-damned vermin Scroop probably had enough filth under his claws to poison a battleship."

His prosthetic fingers nearly dented the bed rail. He was flooded with rage, fear, and guilt that he hadn’t connected the dots sooner.

Jim chose that moment to choke out a single, slurred word: "Hurts..."

It shattered what was left of Silver's restraint. He rounded on Lockwood, his mechanical eye whirring to a lethal focus. "Ye got yer samples. Now fix him."

The doctor didn't flinch. "Antibiotics first." He nodded toward Anja, who was already preparing an IV bag of cloudy violet fluid. "This will burn going in."

Silver barely registered the warning. All he saw was Jim's sweat-slick face, the tear tracks cutting through the grime, the way his fingers still spasmed around empty air—searching for any shred of comfort that eluded him.

Somewhere in the cosmos, Silver hoped Scroop's ghost could feel the white-hot promise of his rage. If that bug-eyed bastard weren’t already space dust, Silver would kill him all over again.

Lockwood snapped his case shut, the polished mahogany clicking into place with finality, “Prep him for OR Three. I’ll notify the surgical team.”

As he rushed from the room, Nurse Anja flicked open a package of antiseptic wipes. The astringent scent of ethanol bloomed in the air as she scrubbed Jim’s chest in widening circles, the grime of feverish sweat giving way to pallid skin.

“I’ll need to shave everything from the chest down.” She placed an oxygen mask over Jim’s face. “I’ll be right back.”

She yanked a thin cotton sheet over Jim with one practiced motion—not for modesty, Silver realized, but to shield the now-open wound from the air. Her shoes clicked against the floor as she hurried out, leaving behind the chemical reek of antiseptic and the too-quick beeping of Jim's heart monitor.

The silence lasted exactly four heartbeats. There was a crash from the hallway like a tray of instruments hitting the floor. The door burst open to reveal B.E.N. backpedaling wildly, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to regain his balance.

“I found them! Well, technically Morph found them because he smelled the scones, but—”

Sarah Hawkins blew past him like a storm surge breaking through a bulkhead. Her neat chignon had come half-undone, and Silver couldn’t help but notice the tell-tale pink flush to her cheeks. She fell to her knees beside Jim's bed with enough force to make the IV bags sway, her trembling hands cupping his face as she began to rattle off.

“Jim? Sweetheart? What’s happening—why is he like this?!”

Amelia materialized behind Sarah like a ship gliding into port, her usual crisp authority softened at the edges. Silver watched her hesitate for just a fraction of a second before resting a tentative hand between Sarah’s shoulder blades.

“Delbert.” Amelia’s voice was low, measured. “Explain.”

Delbert flinched, startled as he tried to recount the absolute tornado of events that had just taken place. “Th-they—that is, Dr. Lockwood believes—no, wait, he confirmed—there's an infection in the abdominal cavity! Possibly anaerobic! They're saying they have to operate within the hour!”

Silver's mechanical eye narrowed with a soft hydraulic hiss as he cataloged each telltale sign of Jim's unraveling—the twitch of tendons in the boy's wrists as his fingers spider-walked across sweat-damp sheets, the oxygen mask fogging in staccato bursts that mirrored Silver's own quickening pulse. When Jim's body writhed against the sheets, a full-body shudder rolling through him, Silver's organic hand spasmed against his thigh. The old scars there—jagged lightning strikes of pain from collarbone to hip—burned with remembered agony.

The hospital air suddenly thickened with the ghost of that dingy Ursid port infirmary. It all flooded back in an instant—the coppery stench of half-cauterized stumps, the sour tang of whiskey used to wash down bitter medicine. Silver's vision doubled for a terrible moment: Jim's thrashing form overlaid with his own younger body strapped to a blood-crusted cot, screaming himself hoarse as phantom limbs twisted in nonexistent fire. The whine of bone saws. The scream that ripped through him—he could still taste it, that raw, animal sound torn from him as surgeons sawed through shattered bone.

Then a familiar face swam into focus. Someone he missed dearly.

“Mackenzie…” Silver whispered so quietly, no one should have heard him.

His brother's features were waxy with blood loss. That apologetic whisper—"We gave it everything, Johnny..."—as the light drained from his eyes like the tide retreating from shore. Silver's mechanical fingers spasmed, the servos whining as they mimicked his brother's final convulsive grip on his arm—

“Mr. Silver!” Delbert's voice sliced through the memory like a cutlass. His paw gripped Silver's shoulder tight and trembling. "You're—you're crushing the bed rail!"

Silver blinked. His prosthetic hand had twisted the iron rail into a corkscrew spiral, flakes of peeling paint dusting his knuckles. Jim's ragged breathing, the beeping monitors, the sterile present rushed back in a wave.

CRASH!

B.E.N. stumbled into an instrument cabinet, sending trays clattering to the floor. The noise detonated in the close space.

Jim's eyes flew open—wild and unseeing—as he tore the oxygen mask away with a gasp.

"They're killing him—!” he rasped, arms flailing toward some phantom vision only he could witness. His IV line snapped taut, the catheter in his upper arm threatening to rip free.

Sarah moved like gravity itself, intercepting Jim's lunge with the full weight of her body. She folded around him, one hand cradling his head against her shoulder, the other pressing his trembling form against her chest.

"It’s okay, Jim,” she whispered into his sweat-damp hair, rocking him back and forth. "Mama’s got you, you’re going to be okay.”

For one fragile moment, Jim stilled. His glassy eyes tracked across the room—over Silver's frozen stance, past Delbert's raised paws—almost recognizing, almost lucid. Then the fever reclaimed him. With a whimper, he buried his face in Sarah's neck, as if seeking coolness against his burning skin.

Delbert's paw brushed Jim's forehead and recoiled. "By the stars—he’s burning up! I swear it’s gotten worse!” He whirled toward the door. "Where are those blasted—?"

“What if they give him another dose of the fever medicine?” B.E.N. asked.

"B.E.N." Amelia ignored B.E.N.’s attempt to help—her eyes fixed on Jim’s heaving form. There was no more time to waste. "Fetch the nurse. Now."

B.E.N. rocketed from the room with a startled yelp, nearly taking the door off its hinges.

Silver turned his attention back to Jim, his organic hand—still flecked with residue from the destroyed bed rail—coming to rest on Jim’s lower back. The heat radiating from the boy’s bare skin could have blistered paint.

"Let's get him settled back," he murmured to Sarah, his voice roughened by the memories of his own fever dreams.

Sarah nodded, her arms trembling from the strain of holding Jim's thrashing weight. Together, they guided Jim back onto the sweat-dampened sheets. Silver's hand remained suspended above Jim's heaving chest, his fingers spread like a ship's net ready to catch and contain if Jim tried to lunge again.

With shaking hands, Sarah replaced the oxygen mask. The plastic fogged unevenly at first until she adjusted the strap with a tenderness that belied her trembling fingers, her thumb brushing a strand of hair from his burning forehead.

“Easy now,” she whispered as the mask's rhythmic hissing slowly synced with Jim's slowing breaths.

The door burst open, and suddenly the room was a storm of white coats and clattering wheels. Silver barely had time to step back before orderlies swarmed Jim’s bed. Their movements were quick and practiced as they moved Jim’s limp form to a gurney, secured his limbs with padded restraints, and wheeled the oxygen tank alongside like a dutiful sentry. Jim didn’t stir, his fever-flushed face slack beneath the oxygen mask, but his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven hitches.

Amelia voice cut through the chaos, “How long might this take?”

Dr. Lockwood didn’t pause as he adjusted the IV drip. "Two hours. Perhaps three if we find necrotic spread." His gaze flicked to Sarah, who stood frozen, her knuckles white where they clutched the front of her dress. "Anja will bring you updates."

And then—just like that—they were gone, the double doors swinging shut with a hollow boom that echoed through the suddenly cavernous room like a cannon’s aftershock.

Silver's mechanical eye tracked the abandoned mantabird stuffie where it had fallen during the commotion, its feathers dimmed by the shadows cast on floor. He crossed the room and knelt with a soft metallic click. He cradled the toy with unexpected reverence, brushing invisible dust from its wings with his organic thumb before setting it carefully on the nightstand—positioned just so, where it could await Jim’s return.

For a long moment, no one moved. No one spoke. They could hardly breathe.

Suddenly, a zapping noise followed by the croaking groan of metal-on-metal caught everyone’s attention. They all turned as one to see B.E.N. slowly begin to collapse as smoke billowed from his chest.

“B.E.N.!” Delbert cried, rushing over to catch the robot before he hit the ground. Amelia was already moving.

“All of you stay here,” she ordered, striding toward the door. "I’ll fetch a technician.”

Amelia threw the door open—

—and immediately slammed into Oscar Crowder.

The reporter lurched back, but not fast enough. Silver caught the glimpse of the notepad clutched in his grip, the hurried scrawl of fresh ink. Eavesdropping. The bastard was eavesdropping.

Amelia’s fur bristled, her voice dropping to a snarl. “You!”

Crowder had the audacity to smile. "Captain! What a coincidence—"

"Coincidence!” Amelia shouted. "You were listening at the door like a common gutter-rat! This is a private medical matter involving a child! How dare you!”

Crowder’s sickening grin didn’t waver.

"The public has a right to know about the boy who survived the journey to Treasure Planet!” His gaze slid past her, lingering on Jim’s empty bed. “Jim Hawkins, the boy who outran pirates and claimed Flint's Loot of a Thousand Worlds—now that’s quite the headline!”

Something in Silver snapped.

He crossed the room in three strides, his gloved mechanical hand taking a swipe toward the notepad in Crowder’s hand. The man dodged Silver’s attack, smiling although a there was now a glint of fear in his eyes.

"Listen here, ye ink-stained vulture," Silver growled, taking another step toward Crowder. "That boy is fighting for his life. Ye so much as whisper his name in one of yer filthy rags—”

Amelia shot her hand out in front of Silver, stopping him from taking another swipe at Crowder.

“Don’t give him another headline.”

"You can't silence the truth!" Crowder wagged his finger at Amelia. "The galaxy will know how Captain Amelia let pirates infiltrate—"

"SECURITY!" Amelia's shout could've peeled paint.

Two burly guards came at a run, their bulk blocking the hallway light. Crowder barely had time to yelp before they seized him and dragged him down the hall.

"This isn't over!" Crowder shrieked as they dragged him away. "I have sources! The Admiralty will hear about this!”

Amelia watched him get dragged away until he disappeared around the corner, her ears twitching with anxiety the whole time. Wasting no time, she grabbed a passing nurse by her arm.

“We need an android technician. Now.”

The nurse gaped at B.E.N.’s twitching form, still cradled in Delbert’s arms. "I’ll fetch the on call engineer right away!”

Amelia waited for the nurse to leave, then she turned, her gaze locking onto Silver.

“Crowder found out about the Treasure Planet mission? How?!”

Delbert wrung his paws, “B.E.N. may have, ah… spoken to him earlier. At the gift shop.”

B.E.N.—on the verge of shutting down from overheating—slurred his words as he spoke up. “M’so sorry, C’pain… thought he was authooorriii…”

Silver’s jaw tightened. “The little fool told Crowder about the mutiny.”

Panic flashed across Amelia’s expression. "How much does he know about you?”

"Not enough," Silver assured, keeping his voice low. "B.E.N. couldn’t even get me name right—called me 'Mr. Sterling' like I’m some damn accountant."

A beat of silence. Then Amelia snorted as she allowed a tiny smile to cross her features.

"Small mercies,” she said, her gaze dropping to B.E.N. as smoke curled from his chest cavity. "But if Crowder’s already got a story, we’re in for a rough time.”

The door creaked open after what felt like a lifetime.

Silver’s head snapped up from where he’d been hunched in the chair, his back stiff from hours of waiting. The steady tick-tick-tick of the wall clock had been his only company—that, and the quiet whisper of Sarah praying as she paced the room.

Dr. Lockwood stepped in, still in surgical scrubs, his spectacles slightly fogged from the transition between sterile cold and the warmth of the hallway. His expression was weary but calm.

“He’s stable.”

Sarah let out a shuddering breath, her hands pressed to her mouth—not to stifle a sob this time, but as if holding back a wave of dizzying relief. Amelia’s shoulders dropped, the rigid line of her spine finally loosening. Delbert made a small, punched-out noise—half laugh, half gasp—and clutched his book to his chest.

Silver didn’t realize he’d been holding his own breath until his lungs burned.

Jim was wheeled in on a gurney, his body limp beneath fresh white sheets and a clean hospital gown. The nurses had clearly tended to him—his skin, though still pale and waxy under the dim gaslight, was free of the grime and sweat from earlier. His hair, now brushed back from his forehead, lay slightly damp at the temples, not from feverish sweat but from the careful sponge bath they must have given him after surgery. The oxygen mask obscured the lower half of his face, but his closed eyes and slack expression spoke of deep, drug-induced rest.

The orderlies moved with practiced ease, their hands steady as they lifted Jim's limp form from gurney to bed—one supporting his shoulders while the other carefully slid an arm beneath his remaining thigh, their movements synchronized to avoid jostling the fresh amputation site. Silver's mechanical eye whirred as it tracked their every motion, watching and judging everything they did from how they kept the stump elevated on a pillow down to how as they adjusted the IV lines that snaked from Jim’s arms like lifelines.

The sight of it all sent phantom fire lancing through the old amputation scars along his own limbs—he could feel the ghost of rough hands hauling him onto cold surgical tables, smell the burning flesh as they'd cauterized his wounds. His remaining eye narrowed to slits, tracking the way the younger orderly's fingers pressed too firmly against Jim's residual limb as they adjusted the pillow.

“Mind the damn sutures,” he barked before he could stop himself, his voice rough with remembered pain. The orderly flinched, hands lifting in reflexive surrender. Silver's augmented vision picked up on the slight tremble in their fingers—not carelessness, he realized too late, just exhaustion. The same bone-deep weariness he'd seen in battlefield surgeons after too many hours of stitching boys back together.

"Ah...apologies, lad," he muttered, the anger draining as quickly as it came. He swallowed hard. "Just..." His voice caught as he pointed to where the pillow had slipped. "Angle it higher. Takes the pressure off the tender bits."

The orderlies exchanged glances, but to their credit, they took his advice without argument. Silver hovered like a restless shadow as they worked, briefly peeling Jim’s gown down to adhere electrode pads to his chest. When they finally stepped back, Jim lay properly settled—stump elevated, sheets smooth, no lines tangled.

Dr. Lockwood rubbed his temple.

“The surgery went as well as we could hope. We removed all necrotic tissue and irrigated the wound cavity thoroughly,” he said, his voice weary. “The infection had created some adhesions between the muscle layers, but we were able to separate them without compromising the repair. His vitals are strong—better than I'd expected given everything he’s endured.”

Sarah swayed where she stood. “So he’s… he’s going to be alright?”

Lockwood’s gaze lingered on Jim’s bandaged abdomen. “Yes, but his recovery will be longer than we initially thought.” He stepped closer, gloved hands hovering over the dressings without touching. “The infection destroyed nearly forty percent of the muscle fascia here.” His finger traced a line just below Jim’s ribs. “We had to excise all necrotic tissue, which left a deficit too large for primary closure.”

He pulled a surgical pen from his coat, sketching quick lines in the air. “We took a split-thickness graft from his right thigh—shaved off the top layers of skin—and transplanted it here, over the repair.” The pen tapped where Jim’s belly button would be beneath the bandages. “The graft acts as a biological scaffold. But it’s fragile. The blood vessels need time to reconnect.”

Silver’s mechanical eye zoomed in on the dressings, imagining the raw, stippled patchwork beneath—pink flesh stitched to pink flesh, the grafted skin thinner and shinier than the surrounding tissue.

Lockwood pocketed the pen with a snap. “If he strains? The graft could shear off like wet parchment. We’d be back in surgery debriding dead tissue, applying synthetic mesh—” His jaw tightened. “Weeks of recovery, wasted. We’d be back at square one.”

“What do we do the prevent that?” Sarah asked.

Lockwood didn't soften the blow. He counted off each restriction on his fingers like a judge delivering a prison sentence. “No bending. No reaching. No sitting up unassisted. No twisting. No laughing or crying too hard, or coughing without support. Nothing that engages his abdominal muscles—at all—for at least four weeks. Possibly longer. We’ll reassess when that time comes.”

The doctor glanced at Jim’s unconscious form as he flicked through the pages of his chart. “Given young Jim’s… documented combativeness, I assume keeping him compliant will be a challenge.”

Understatement of the century.

Like keeping a supernova contained in a glass jar, Silver thought. He could already picture it—Jim’s stubborn jaw set, his eyes flashing with frustration as he tried to push himself up, only to gasp in pain. The entire time he’d known Jim, the boy refused to be weak. Now, he’d have no choice.

“Pain management?” Silver asked, his voice rough.

“Manageable. We’ll keep him on a steady regimen. The real battle for now will be keeping him still for a whole month.”

Sarah sank into the chair beside the bed, her fingers brushing Jim’s wrist—careful of the IV line. “He’ll follow the rules. I’ll tie him down if I have to.”

Lockwood almost smiled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He turned toward the door. “Rest is the best thing for him now. I’ll check in again in a few hours.”

As the doctor left, the room settled into a fragile quiet.

Amelia straightened her sleeves with a crisp tug as she headed toward the door. “I suppose I'd better check on how B.E.N. is doing.”

The door hissed shut behind her, sealing everyone else in the quiet. Silver turned to find Sarah's gaze locked onto him, her fingers frozen mid-motion against Jim's pulse point. Her eyes—the same sharp blue as Jim’s—tracked from Silver's mechanical leg to his augmented arm.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, “what do I need to know that the doctors aren’t telling me?”

Silver's neural interface chose that moment to flare—a phantom ache shooting through limbs he hadn't possessed in decades. The timing was almost poetic.

“The pain never really goes away.” He said, his voice roughened by memory. His mechanical fingers absently stroked Morph, who had curled up inside his coat pocket and fallen asleep. “Ye just learn to live with it.”

The servos in his mechanical knee whispered as he lowered himself into the chair beside Jim’s bed. With deliberate care, he tucked the mantabird plush back beneath the crook of Jim’s arm, its iridescent feathers catching the dim light. His organic hand brushed through Jim’s hair with a tenderness that belied the roughness of his palms. When the boy instinctively leaned into the touch, Silver’s breath caught. The faintest smile tugged at his lips, there and gone like sunlight through storm clouds.

“It’ll be difficult,” he continued, “Poor kid’s gonna need a lot of help for a long time. With just about everything. Taking a piss, getting dressed, rolling over in bed. He’s not gonna like it.”

Delbert, who had been quietly wringing his hands near the foot of the bed, made a distressed noise. “Surely there must be—that is, perhaps specialized equipment—”

“Equipment breaks over time.” Silver's gaze never left Jim's face. “What he'll need are some cheats to manage the pain.”

Sarah's breath hitched, but she didn't look away. Silver pointed to the IV line.

“They'll wean him off the good painkillers too soon. Teach him this trick—press here,” he guided her fingers to a specific point on Jim’s thigh, avoiding the graft site. “When the cramps hit, dig yer thumb in for ten seconds, then release. Short bursts overwhelm the pain signals.”

His hand lingered a moment too long before pulling away. The unspoken truth heavy on his mind—every technique he demonstrated, every trick he shared, was another goodbye in disguise. Amelia's unspoken promise echoed in his skull like a death knell: He would have his farewell with Jim. Then justice would take its course.

Sarah surprised him then. She caught his retreating hand—the flesh one—and squeezed. “You’re not leaving anytime soon, are you?”

The smart woman she was—definitely Jim’s mother—though she didn’t know the full story on Silver, she had picked up that something was amiss.

“Sarah, I—” The words turned to ash in his mouth.

How could he explain that every moment here was stolen? That the only reason he hadn't been dragged away in irons was Amelia's temporary mercy? But looking down at Jim's pale face, still slack with sedation, the words reshaped themselves.

“Aye. However long it takes.” The lie tasted bitter, but the promise behind it was real. “I’ll see him through this. Every damn step—literally and figuratively.”

Delbert’s head swiveled, the lenses of his glasses flashing as he glanced between Sarah and Silver. “Ah, perhaps we should—er—consider the practical—”

Sarah's hand came down hard on the bedside table, causing Morph to leap from Silver’s pocket and hide behind his neck.

"Enough." The single word cut through the hospital quiet like a knife. Her eyes—those sharp Hawkins eyes that missed nothing—locked onto Silver's face. "There’s something you’re not telling me. Whatever you're hiding, say it now. While he's still sleeping."

The heart monitor beeped steadily in the silence that followed. Silver exhaled through his nose, the scent of antiseptic and fresh bandages suddenly overwhelming. He could lie. Could spin some half-truth about urgent business elsewhere. But Jim's mother deserved better.

So he told her. All of it.

The mutiny. Scroop's long history of brutality under his command. The deal with Amelia—justice delayed, but not denied. His voice never wavered, even as Delbert fidgeted with his cuffs and Morph dissolved into anxious plasma droplets against his collar.

When he finished, the quiet stretched taut between them. Silver braced for the slap. The screaming. The rightful fury of a mother whose child had nearly died because of his choices.

Sarah’s hands found his instead.

Her palms told the story of her life—callouses from hauling kegs and scrubbing tankards at the Benbow Inn, and from holding onto a boy who’d always been half-wild, half-wind, forever straining against gravity’s pull. Her fingers curled around both of his, flesh and metal alike, as if there were no difference at all between the two.

“You kept him alive. You brought him home to me.” A single tear tracked down her cheek, but her voice never broke. “And, from what he wrote in his letters to me, you mean an awful lot more to him than you realize.”

Somewhere in the corridor, a clock chimed the hour—each note reverberating through Silver's bones like a depth charge. Time, that relentless tide, was pulling him away even as he stood here. Yet when he bowed his head, it wasn't in surrender, but in silent oath. His mechanical eye whirred softly, capturing this moment in perfect focus: the way Sarah's work-worn hands cradled his, the steady rise and fall of Jim's chest beneath white sheets, Morph cooing softly on his shoulder.

This, he realized with aching clarity, is what Flint's treasure could never buy.

And when Sarah's gaze met his—those Hawkins eyes, bright with unshed tears yet unbroken by the storm—Silver understood exactly where Jim had learned to stare down the universe and dare it to prove him wrong.

Chapter Text

Day three.

Amelia threw the newspaper on the end of the bed with a light slap. Sarah and Silver dove for it, their eyes locking on the headline:

LEGENDARY TREASURE PLANET FOUND? READ THE EXCLUSIVE TOMORROW

Silver's mechanical fingers crumpled the edge of the page before he could stop himself. The article beneath was all smoke and no fire—there were some details regarding the explosion and its connection to “a naval ship,” vague mentions of “multiple deaths” and “a child in critical condition at Crescentia Royal Naval Hospital,” but no names, no damning photos. At least, not yet. Just Crowder's poison wrapped in pretty insinuations for tomorrow’s bombshell article.

“Looks like we have one more day of peace,” Amelia muttered, her claws tapping a staccato rhythm against her coffee mug. The steam curled around her muzzle. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Outside the window, the first gawkers had already gathered. Silver counted three starry-eyed teenagers, a cluster of naval cadets pretending not to stare, and one enterprising vendor looking to cash in on the burgeoning crowd.

Silver couldn’t get his mind to stop conjuring up images of Crowder, somewhere in the city, choosing what salacious rumors to print. Deciding how to carve up Jim's trauma for public consumption, how to dehumanize him and reduce him to a myth or cautionary tale. His grip on the newspaper tightened, cheap ink smearing on his fingertips like soot.

He forced himself to look at Jim instead. It was impossible to get used to seeing the kid like this. Jim lay so still he might’ve been carved from marble, if not for the faint fog of breath that filled the oxygen mask. The boy who’d once vaulted across the Legacy’s rigging with reckless grace now lay pinned beneath a spiderweb of medical tubing and wires. IV lines taped to the insides of his elbows, EKG wires snaking across his chest, the oxygen mask strapped too tight across his nose and mouth. The plastic had left angry red creases on his cheeks, the kind that would’ve made Jim curse and paw at his face if he’d been awake to feel them.

The steady rise and fall of his chest held Silver's gaze, each breath its own quiet miracle. Unassisted, unfaltering, the rhythm as sure as the tide against the shore. The deathly waxen sheen had begun to retreat from his skin, leaving behind the familiar sun-kissed olive tones that Silver recognized. Still too pale by half, the hollows under his eyes shadowed like old bruises, but he was undeniably Jim again.

Faint pink lines traced where the emergency intubation had bitten into the corners of his mouth—angry red welts softened overnight into memory. Silver's thumb twitched with the phantom ache of wanting to smooth balm over those marks, to erase every last trace of pain etched into the boy's face.

Morph had pressed himself flat against Jim’s cheek, his gelatinous form pulsing in slow waves of pink and pearl. He trilled a little song in the secret language of his species.

The door hissed open, interrupting the fragile peace. Dr. Lockwood entered, clipboard tucked under one arm while his free hand adjusted his spectacles. He gave the room a brief nod as he moved to Jim's bedside.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said as he pressed his stethoscope to Jim’s chest. Lockwood's eyebrows lifted slightly as he listened, moving the instrument across Jim's ribs with care.

“Lungs are clear,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone, “No fluid buildup. That's one less thing to worry about.”

Sarah reached out—almost automatically—to push Jim’s hair back, her fingers lingering at his temple and tracing a fading bruise there.

Lockwood stood back up and flipped through his clipboard. “Excellent news—this morning’s neural scans show completely normal brain activity. No swelling, no abnormalities.” He tapped the chart with his pen before continuing. “I’ve got more lab work here too—liver enzymes are normal. Kidney function is—”

“Doctor,” Sarah interrupted, her hand stilling on Jim's face. Her thumb brushed the feeding tube taped to his cheek. “I know we've talked about the recovery. The grafts, the muscle loss…” She took a shaky breath. “But what comes after all that? When he's... when he's healed as much as he can be?”

What is his life going to be like?

The question hung in the air, and everyone had their eyes on Dr. Lockwood. Even Morph went still, his pink surface going glassy. For a long moment, the doctor just stood there, staring at Jim—really staring—like he was struggling to figure out where exactly to start.

“Right,” he said, rubbing his chin, “The abdominal trauma will be the most problematic, in my opinion. We had to excise nearly forty percent of the infected muscle tissue during yesterday’s procedure.” He flipped to a surgical diagram in Jim's chart, the cross-section showing angry red shading radiating outward from below the navel. “See these jagged margins? That's where necrotic tissue met viable muscle. We salvaged what we could, but this much fascial loss means the structural scaffolding of his core is permanently compromised.”

Sarah's fingers dug into the bedsheets, the fabric twisting like a tourniquet around her knuckles. Across from her, Delbert’s teacup rattled against its saucer.

Lockwood turned the page to reveal a post-op scan. “The remaining musculature simply won't have the same tensile strength. No more rotational capacity—forget climbing or heavy lifting. Basic functions will be challenging.” He pressed his hand against his own abdomen, as if in sympathy. “Sitting upright unassisted? Maybe five minutes before muscle fatigue sets in. And something as simple as a sudden cough or sneeze—” He caught Sarah's flinch and modified his phrasing, “—will require bracing. Hernia risks will be lifelong.”

He closed the chart with a snap. “When he's ready to sit up, he'll need a reinforced corset. Not as a fashion statement, but medical necessity. Think of it as an external muscle. To keep everything contained.”

“Contained…” Sarah’s face had gone pale, her fingers spasming against the sheets as if physically restraining the image of her son's body held together by external constraints.

Amelia’s claws extended slightly, pricking at the wood arm of the chair she sat in. “And the amputation?”

Lockwood exhaled through his nose. “That’s where it compounds. Normally with a prosthetic, one could rely on core strength to compensate for the lost limb.” He demonstrated by letting his torso sag unnaturally. “But without that? Every step will cost him three to four times the energy it used to. He’ll fatigue faster, and he’ll be a major fall risk. Now obviously, I don’t want him walking for a few months, but when he get’s there, he should practice falling safely so he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Sarah's hands flew to her mouth, then dropped with sudden conviction. “He's good at falling! He's been solar surfing since he was little. It's his passion—he's won races!” Her voice cracked on the last word, the desperate pride crumbling even as she spoke.

“Solar surfing, huh?” Lockwood's pen stilled against the chart. The silence stretched like a noose before he said quietly, “I hate to say this, I really do… but he can kiss that hobby goodbye.”

“Oh!” Sarah gasped, pressing her hands to her heart. Then she whispered, “Oh, god. I—I didn’t even think of that…”

Silver hadn’t thought of it either, but the sudden realization broke his heart into a million pieces. Memories flashed—he was with Jim in the Legacy’s engine room, the kid’s eyes alight as he talked Silver’s ear off about torque ratios. He had grinned with such pride as he described his junkyard escapades, scavenging for parts to refurbish and repurpose. Silver admired his resourcefulness, his ability to take someone else’s garbage and turn it into something amazing.

The boy could recite solar wind patterns like poetry and rebuild a pulse engine while blindfolded. He had been doing so since he was only eight years old. A prodigy! Like Sarah said, he’d won races and rubbed elbows with some of the most talented surfers on Montressor. Sure, he’d gotten in trouble with the cops a number of times, solar surfing in places he shouldn’t have, but that didn’t seem to dampen his spirit.

Then the visceral memory of watching Jim surf through hell itself. Silver hadn’t realized it would be the only time he’d get a glimpse of Jim’s incredible talent. He had been mesmerizing to watch—the way he weaved through fire and tumbling rock. Even with a dying limb, Jim had moved with the effortless grace of a solar phoenix riding stellar winds. It was so much more than just skill. It was like freedom and flight were woven into his very soul.

To take that away from him was just cruelty beyond belief. Like clipping a wild bird’s wings. It was blasphemous.

The doctor continued gently, “Then there’s the pain, the nerve damage, phantom limb sensations…” As if summoned, Jim's remaining foot spasmed violently, the hospital blanket rippling like something trapped beneath ice—a cruel preview of the neurological torture to come. “And that’s just the physical toll.”

Delbert's spectacles slipped down his nose as he swallowed hard. His fingers trembled as he pushed them back up. “The psychological impact—”

“Will be substantial.” Lockwood nodded. “Be on the lookout for symptoms of PTSD. And depression.” His gaze moved from Sarah to Jim's still face, then back. “He won’t ever heal completely, Mrs. Hawkins, but he can still live a normal, fulfilling life. He’ll just have to reinvent himself.”

Just. If only it were that simple.

Silver's grip on Jim's hand tightened involuntarily, his own phantom pains flaring in sympathy as he remembered his early days—collapsing in crowded docks, unable to push himself up, people stepping around him like he was an inconvenience, the humiliation burning worse than the pain.

He remembered too well the underground boxing rings he'd been barred from, the way referees would cross their arms at the sight of his augmentations. “Unfair advantage,” they'd say. Like his body's betrayal was somehow his fault.

Being an Ursid added another layer of problems for Silver, but that was a whole other can of worms.

Jim’s recovery journey was shaping up to have its own unique set of challenges and heartbreak, but Silver knew the quiet bigotry he would inevitably face. The patronizing “you're so brave” platitudes. Silver knew the script by heart: The performative sympathy masking barely-concealed irritation when Jim needed extra time or another accommodation.

Silver had seen it in every port—how society loved the idea of disability (the inspiring stories, the tearjerker holovids) but hated the reality of disabled people actually existing in their spaces. The way accessibility was always an inconvenience meant to be dealt with by someone else at some other time. And, boy, do people hate being inconvenienced.

He could already hear the whispers: “Such a shame for someone so young” (as if Jim had died rather than adapted). “Maybe he should try [insert quack remedy]” (because obviously disabled people just haven't tried hard enough to be “fixed”). The endless parade of strangers feeling entitled to his medical history, his trauma, his body.

Worst of all? The way Jim—bright, headstrong, unstoppable Jim—might start believing their bullshit. How Jim's brilliant mind might turn inward, that stubborn spark dimming as he learned to fold himself smaller. How his glorious, uncontainable spirit might start sanding down its own edges just to exist in a world that refused to make space for him.

Silver wouldn’t let that happen if Amelia allowed him to stay longer—

But the cold truth settled in his joints like frost. Amelia's protection had an expiration date, and it was best to quit hoping for anything different. Soon enough, it would be lights out for Silver.

The thought hit like a hull breach—one moment pressurized, the next gasping in vacuum. No. Not now. Silver needed to pull himself together and be present for Jim when he woke up. He tried to think of what he could say to him to make everything okay. What words could he possibly string together that would work as a shield for Jim’s spirit? What armor could words forge against such a cruel universe?

His throat tightened around unformed comforts. Would Jim even want them from the man who'd helped put him in that bed?

Sarah's hands clenched around Jim's wrist. “There must be something more we can do for him.”

“Well…” Lockwood spoke slowly, “there is a new implantable device that’s still going through trials, but Jim may be a good candidate for the treatment. I happen to know one of the guys that’s been working on it.”

The room collectively leaned forward.

“What is it?” Sarah asked.

“It’s… well, it’s a bionic mesh that get’s placed under the muscular wall,” he said. “Titanium filaments woven with synthetic myofibrils. It would integrate with the remaining tissue to act as a structure for—” He caught their blank stares and simplified. “It would give his abdomen something to work with, and it could perhaps restore some of his core strength.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Sarah asked.

“Because it's brand new, high-risk, and not a perfect solution.” Lockwood held up a warning hand. “Twenty percent complication rate—rejection, mesh erosion, infection. And there's only one surgeon on Montressor qualified to do it. Even then, Jim is too weak for a surgery that major. He’ll need at least six months of baseline healing first. This isn't a quick fix.”

“Well, who’s the surgeon?!” Sarah demanded.

“I’ll give you his contact information,” said Lockwood, “Nano-Reconstruction Specialist, Dr. Levi Blum.”

Sarah made a sound like she'd been gut-punched, her hand slamming over her mouth. Delbert had a similarly panicked reaction, choking and nearly dropping his tea.

Silver and Amelia shared a confused glance.

“Problem?” Silver asked.

Sarah shook her head too quickly. “No! No, it’s just—” She pressed her lips together, then forced out, “it’s nothing. Really.”

“I—uh—surely, there must…” Delbert fumbled over his words. “You say he’s the only qualified surgeon for this on Montressor, but what about Verdania? Ellenwood? Pelsanor must have—?”

“None qualified for this specific procedure,” Lockwood cut in, frowning at their reactions, “and certainly not for a pediatric case. Blum’s the only one in this corner of the galaxy with the proper license.” He hesitated. “Is… there something wrong?”

Delbert looked like he was about to say something before Sarah hushed him.

“No,” she said. Her hand found Jim’s ankle—the one still there—and squeezed. “Nothing that matters more than Jim’s well-being.” There was some discomfort in her voice. “If this ends up being what he wants to do, then we’ll discuss it. When he’s ready.”

“Alright then,” Lockwood said with a nod, “I’ll be back with that info.”

The doctor’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving behind a silence thick enough to choke on. Sarah’s breath hitched—just once, sharp and stifled—before she turned abruptly toward the window. The thin strip of light from between drawn curtains caught the suspicious shine in her eyes, the way her fingers dug into her knees like she was clinging to a cliff’s edge. A tremor raced through her, too sharp for exhaustion, too violent for grief. It was the kind of shudder that came from a wound prodded after years of pretending it didn’t exist.

Silver opened his mouth, but Amelia’s elbow jabbed into his ribs—a warning, a threat, a plea. His jaw snapped shut.

Delbert's eyes fell on the mantabird plush still perched on the side table, and he turned to Amelia, obviously desperate to change the subject.

“So!” he blurted, his voice cracking. “How—ah—how is B.E.N. doing this morning?”

Amelia’s ear twitched, her gaze lingering on Sarah’s rigid back for a heartbeat longer before she answered.

“He’ll survive.” She sighed, rolling her shoulders like they were sore. “The engineer said he needs a complete reboot. Could take another twenty-four hours.”

“That bad, eh?” Silver forced a chuckle.

“With no maintenance for over a century,” Amelia muttered, “it’s a miracle he’s functional at all.”

The crunch of crumpling paper jerked everyone’s attention back to Sarah. She hadn’t moved, but the newspaper in her hands was now a ruined thing, the headline twisted beyond recognition. She swiped at her cheek with her index finger, smearing a streak of kohl under her eye. Then with sudden violence, she hurled the ruined paper toward the trash bin. It missed, bouncing off the wall and skidding across the floor, landing too far away for anyone to read the crumpled text, though a fragment of the headline still peeked through: “—LANET FOUN—”

The silence that followed was thick and prickled at Silver’s skin. No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the faint rasp of Sarah’s thumb rubbing over her fingertips as she scrubbed away the ink-stained evidence of her outburst.

Silver scratched at the stubble on his chin. Whoever this “Dr. Blum” was to Sarah, the mere mention of his name was apparently enough to turn her world to ice. He had seen the look before—deckhands who'd caught an unexpected whiff of a home port they'd sworn never to return to, pirates who'd flinched at the wrong alias in a crowded tavern. Silver knew the rules of moments like this. You didn't ask. You didn't poke. You let a person rebuild their walls in peace.

Silver's fingers twitched toward his waistcoat pocket, before realizing he’d left his flask in his nightstand at the inn. Instead, he reached for the engraved carafe on the bedside table, its surface beaded with condensation from the ice chamber beneath. The crystal tumbler chimed as he filled it, the half-melted cubes bobbing against cut glass.

He set it beside Sarah's elbow with a quiet click, the moisture already pooling on the polished surface. The morning light caught the tumbler's facets, casting prismatic shards across her folded hands.

“Thank you.” Her voice was softer than the hiss of the nearby oxygen regulator. She didn't reach for it yet, but the corner of her mouth lifted just enough to crinkle the kohl-smudged skin beneath her eye.

Some things weren’t meant to be shared. At least not yet. For now, the quiet friendship between them was enough.

Day four.

The inn’s staircase groaned under Silver’s weight as he descended, each step a symphony of protesting floorboards and the quiet hydraulic whine of his mechanical leg. The air smelled of damp oak and lamp oil, the walls pressing in with their patchwork of exposed stone and crumbling plaster, their jagged edges catching the dim, flickering glow of the wall sconces.

He ducked beneath a low-hanging beam—thick as a mast and just as unyielding—and for a heartbeat, he could almost hear Jim’s voice, sharp with laughter: “Guess giants aren’t welcome here!” The phantom jab lingered in the air, too bright for the gloom of the morning.

When he finally stepped into the common room, the silence hit him like a closed fist.

Sarah sat at the rough-hewn table, her hands wrapped around a mug gone cold. Delbert’s fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against his knee, his spectacles catching the flicker of the hearth. Amelia stood near the window, her silhouette rigid against the dawn-gray glass.

And on the table between them, splayed open like a gutted fish, was the latest edition of The Crescentia Star Press.

TREASURE PLANET’S ‘GOLDEN BOY’ LEFT MUTILATED AFTER PIRATE ATTACK

The headline screamed in 96-point font, the words dripping with faux concern. Below it, a full-color photograph consumed half the page—not just a picture, but a violation rendered in halftone dots and lurid contrast.

The focus algorithm of Silver's cybernetic eye rotated as the image sharpened against his will, catching every exploitative detail:

The image was snapped from a low angle, as if the photographer had crouched in the hospital corridor, lying in wait. Jim's unconscious form dominated the frame. His head lolling to one side, lips parted under the oxygen mask, skin pale as the sheets beneath him. The hospital gown gaped at the collar, revealing the mottled bruising that crept up his neck like ink in water. His right arm hung limp over the gurney's edge, the IV line drooping like a frost-blighted vine.

But it got worse.

The sheet had slipped during transport, revealing too much—the stump wrapped in gauze, drainage tubes seeping pink fluid onto the sanitary pad beneath his body. The photo had been taken at the exact moment a nurse reached to adjust the sheet, as if the cameraman had waited for the reveal.

It was all so sick, twisted, perverse.

Silver’s mechanical eye zoomed in on the article.

“Is Hawkins a hero or a cautionary tale? Young James Hawkins, 15, purported hero of the ill-fated Treasure Planet expedition, was rushed into emergency surgery this Wednesday following catastrophic injuries sustained during a violent mutiny aboard the RLS Legacy.

“Sources confirm the teenaged amputee (see shocking photo, left) remains in critical condition following what insiders describe as a ‘bloodbath’ aboard the Legacy. Captain Amelia of the Royal Interstellar Navy, who led the mission, has refused to comment on rumors that Hawkins may have conspired with the very criminals who nearly killed him—”

A sound like shearing metal cut through the room as Silver's fist impacted the table. The wood splintered beneath his augmented strength, sending hairline fractures radiating outward. Coffee sloshed from forgotten mugs, the dark liquid creeping toward the newspaper like blood toward a drain.

“That vulture,” Silver growled, his voice vibrating with barely restrained violence. His ocular implant flickered between targeting modes, unconsciously marking weak points in the walls, the furniture, the bones of a man not currently present. “I don’t remember seeing a damn camera! I’d have shoved it down his throat!”

Sarah's stillness was more terrifying than any outburst. Her fingertip traced the edge of the photograph with dreadful care, coming to rest over Jim's exposed face. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the quiet lethality of a guillotine's drop:

“I want to find him.”

Delbert shot up from his chair, hands fluttering like startled birds.

“Now, now—let's not be hasty!” His spectacles slid down his nose as he glanced between Sarah’s icy stare and Silver’s vibrating fury. “This is precisely what Crowder wants! A reaction! If we go charging after him, we legitimize his—his tabloid theatrics!”

Amelia stepped forward, her voice low but edged with command.

“Doppler’s right. The Admiralty already has eyes on this situation.” Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Silver’s gloved hands, the high collar of his coat hiding his augmentation ports. “If ‘Mr. Sterling’ starts breaking noses over bad press, someone will ask why a simple cook cares so much.”

Silver’s mechanical fingers twitched, the leather gloves creaking.

“Ye can’t spin this forever, Captain.” The words landed heavy between them. “Every day this lie walks around breathing is another day it can trip and break its damn neck.”

Amelia’s ear twitched once—the only thing that gave away her own anxiety over the situation. Then she snatched up the paper, her claws pricking the pulp as she flipped to the next page.

“No,” she said, “but we can buy some more time.”

She stabbed a paragraph with one sharp fingernail:

“The Hawkins boy owes his life to one crewman, Mr. Sterling, who reportedly cauterized the teen’s wounds mid-battle. ‘Without Sterling’s quick thinking, Hawkins would’ve bled to death,’ claims one knowledgeable insider…”

Delbert adjusted his glasses. “Oh! Well, that’s… that’s almost accurate reporting!”

“It’s a good thing B.E.N.’s memory broke down,” Amelia said coolly. “For now, ‘Sterling’ is just a background character—a harmless, homely cook who did his duty. But you have to play the part, Silver, understood?” She folded the paper under her arm. “Start smashing presses, and suddenly the Admiralty wonders why some rum-soaked galley chef can bend iron bars with his bare—”

“Homely?!” Silver’s voice cracked, while his organic hand flew to his chest. “I’ll have ye know I was voted ‘Most Dashing Scoundrel’ in three separate ports!”

Delbert choked on his coffee. “That's... not actually a recognized—”

“And rum-soaked?” Silver's glove creaked as he gestured to his (admittedly rum-stained) waistcoat. “This here's twelve-year-old Ellenwood reserve! A man's got standards!”

Amelia didn't blink. “Your standards include treason and mutiny, but by all means—” She flicked the newspaper at him. “—defend your vanity.”

“So we do nothing?” Sarah’s knuckles whitened around her mug. “Crowder wins?”

“We do what survivors always do.” Amelia’s ears flattened. “We control the narrative. Issue a statement through proper channels. Let the navy’s PR machine crush Crowder’s credibility.” She eyed Silver. “And you? Stay scarce. The coat and gloves must stay on.”

A muscle jumped in Silver’s jaw. Through the window, the newsboy’s cry continued: “Pirate conspiracy aboard the Legacy! Read the exclusive!”

Morph, quivering on Silver’s shoulder, formed into a tiny pistol.

“Later,” Silver muttered, pressing the shapeshifter back into a harmless droplet.

Sarah's fingers curled against the fogged windowpane as she watched the chaos metastasize outside. The hospital courtyard had transformed into a bizarre carnival—part treasure fever, part public dissection of her son's trauma. The warped glass distorted the scene like a funhouse mirror, bending the mob's frenzy into something even more nightmarish.

A vendor in a moth-eaten pirate costume banged a rusted cutlass against his cart, sending flakes of gold-painted engine parts scattering. “Genuine Treasure Planet artifacts!” he crowed, his voice raw from hours of huckstering. “Certified by Flint's ghost hisself!” The cart groaned under its load of bootleg merchandise and fake maps stamped with a garish red “FLINT'S SECRETS REVEALED!”

Near the fountain, a wild-eyed man wearing a tin hat harangued passersby. “They're weaponizing spacetime!” he shrieked, shaking a sign reading “PORTAL TECH BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE!”

Sarah's breath hitched as she spotted the cluster of teenage girls at the hospital steps. One had climbed onto her friend's shoulders, waving a sign that screamed “MARRY ME JIM” in glittering pink letters.

A different group marched in grim formation, their signs bearing itemized lists:

“Window replacements - 200 credits”

“Roof repairs - 1,500 credits”

“HAWKINS PAY UP!”

The press corps had formed a bristling phalanx at the entrance, their telescopic lenses extending with mechanical hunger. Above them, a Crescentia Star Press drone hovered like a carrion bird, its camera lens irising as it focused on the third-floor windows—Jim's floor.

“I need to get over there,” Sarah whispered. Her breath fogged the glass, momentarily obscuring the nightmare outside. “But how?”

The innkeeper materialized at her shoulder with the quietness of a man who'd spent decades eavesdropping on sailors and scoundrels. Silver caught the telltale blue pulse of his cybernetic hearing aid as he leaned in, a smudged beer tankard still rotating in his rag-swaddled hand.

“Cellar's got a service tunnel,” he murmured, his voice rough as salt-cured rope. “Leads to the old coal chute behind the smithy. Gets you right to the hospital's ambulance dock without waltzing through that three-ring circus out there.”

Silver's mechanical eye clicked through three distinct focus settings as he studied the man's hearing augment.

“Just how much of our private business have ye been privy to, mate?”

The innkeeper shrugged, the motion making his hearing aid flicker.

“Your captain there paid me triple my usual silence fee.” He nodded toward Amelia, who was methodically loading rubber rounds into her pistol. “Smart woman. Knows the price of discretion in a port where the walls have ears and the ears have price tags.”

Silver turned slowly toward Amelia. She didn't look up from her weapon, but the safety clicked off with eloquent finality. “Don't. Ask.”

Sarah clasped the innkeeper's hand between both of hers. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Kid's got spirit, your boy.” The old man’s eyes crinkled. “Reminds me of my grandson. And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe the negative things the Star said about him. It’s a rubbish tabloid anyway.”

The tunnel exhaled its centuries-old breath—a lungful of damp stone, rotting oak staves, and the vinegary sting of ale barrels long since soured. Rusted pipes wept condensation in slow, metallic tears, their iron tang sharp enough to taste. Each downward step wrenched fresh protests from the warped stairs, their groans swallowed whole by the hungry dark below.

Delbert's sneeze tore through the silence, ricocheting off the moss-slick bricks. Somewhere in the void, claws skittered across stone as a rat retreated in panic.

“Quiet!” Amelia's sharp whisper could have stripped barnacles from a hull, her feline pupils flaring in the dark.

Silver led with his mechanical arm thrust forward like a schooner's prow, the faint luminescence of his augment staining the passage in ghostly cerulean. The light licked over fossilized coal dust pressed into brickwork, over mortar fractures where gnarled roots had forced their way through like skeletal fingers. Sarah followed close behind, one palm skating along the sweating walls while her other hand strangled the newspaper like she meant to whack someone with it.

Morph bobbed ahead as a tiny lantern, his glowing form casting jumpy shadows that slithered along the walls like living things. The light caught the occasional flash of graffiti—a crude starship here, a profanity there—left by generations of smugglers who'd used this passage, the edges softened by decades of condensation and neglect.

They burst into the alley like divers surfacing from deep water, gulping the comparatively fresh air. The narrow passage stank of rotting produce and the acrid bite of lye soap from the adjacent laundry. Discarded packing crates formed a haphazard maze, their splintered edges catching at Sarah's skirts as they hurried forward.

From the main thoroughfare, a voice rose above the din like a rusty nail dragged across slate: “THAT EXPLOSION COST ME A YEAR’S PROFITS! HAWKINS OWES ME COMPENSATION!” The crowd’s roar swelled in response—less agreement than collective bloodlust, a sound that raised the hairs on Silver’s neck.

Morph’s lantern form blurred mid-air, his pink gelatinous body contracting into a quivering teardrop before slamming into Silver’s collar. Silver felt the little blob’s vibrations through his augments, rapid as a hummingbird’s heart. Silver adjusted his high-necked greatcoat and gave himself a once-over, ensuring the glint of his mechanical parts stayed hidden beneath layers of waxed canvas and leather.

The service entrance loomed ahead, a once-bright red cross now weathered to the color of old blood. The door's iron surface bore the scars of countless emergencies: deep gouges from gurney impacts, smears of sweat and ether where nurses and orderlies had steadied themselves, and around the brass handle, a constellation of scratches left by trembling, blood-slicked hands in too many midnight crises.

They were three strides from sanctuary when a splintered wood crate screeched across the cobblestones, barricading their path. A jackal-lean reporter in a dirtied press jacket launched forward, recorder extended like a weapon.

“MRS. HAWKINS!” His voice shredded itself on the title, raw from hours of lurking in the hospital's frigid shadows. “Is it true your son conspired with pirates? Were you aware of his criminal connections before—”

Silver moved faster than humanly possible, the reporter's questions dissolving into a choked gurgle as three hundred pounds of pirate muscle sent him sprawling into a stack of empty ether canisters. The metallic crash still echoed as Silver bodily turned Sarah and the others toward the door, his whisper a steam-valve hiss: “Move. Now.”

The reinforced door slammed shut behind them with the finality of a tomb seal, its brass fittings still vibrating from the impact. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing echoing through the sacred geometry of the hospital's bones—the arched stone ribs above, the polished hematite floors below, the gas lamps hissing along the walls.

Then—movement.

A white-coated orderly wheeled a medication cart around the corner, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor. He did a comical double-take, nearly upending his tray of glass vials.

“Bloody hell! This is a restricted—!”

Sarah stepped forward, tucking a lock of her four-days-unwashed hair behind her ear. “I’m Jim’s mother!”

The orderly's protest died in his throat as recognition flashed across his face.

“The Treasure Planet kid?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he fumbled for his keyring. “Take the service lift. The main gallery's swarming with newshounds and their damned flashbulb contraptions.”

Somewhere above, the distant roar of the main stairwell crescendoed—a cacophony of shouted questions and clicking cameras descending like locusts. The orderly's key scraped against the lock with painful slowness before finally catching and turning with a satisfying clunk of tumblers.

“Go!” The orderly urged, bracing himself against the wrought-iron gate to shield them from the approaching mob. As the lift moved upward, Silver could hear the first flashbulbs popping like distant artillery as it echoed down the hallway.

The lift slowly carried them to the third floor, where the air was cooler, quieter—like the eye of a storm. It was a calm, blessed kind of quiet. A tired nurse at the station glanced up, her fingers pausing over a stack of incident reports.

“Reporters haven't made it past the second floor security checkpoint, and we intend to keep it that way,” she said before anyone could ask. Then she nodded down the hall with a smile. “You know where to go. He’s doing well this morning.”

Then they were moving again, past doorways where other patients slept or murmured behind half-drawn curtains. The distant roar of the crowd was just a dull hum here, muffled by foot-thick stone walls and the rhythmic hiss-click of steam vents.

They entered Jim’s room, and the world outside ceased to matter.

The dawn painted Jim in fractured light—violet and amber spilling through the stained glass window, pooling across the white sheets like liquid treasure. The colors danced over his hospital gown, catching on the raised edges of bandages and the new nasal cannula that looped beneath his nose, its twin prongs feeding him a steady, precise stream of oxygen. No more bulky mask now, just this fragile-looking tube taped to his cheek, making his face seem even younger than his true age.

He still looked heartbreakingly small in that bed, his frame barely making an impression beneath the thin blanket where it draped over the absent leg. But the color had fully returned to his skin—that death-pale quality that had haunted Silver's nightmares these last few terrible nights was no more. Now Jim's chest rose and fell in easy rhythm with the sighing oxygen tank, his breathing as steady as solar sails catching a favorable wind.  In this suspended moment, Silver could almost believe Jim was merely napping after another reckless adventure on the skiff, about to wake with a smartass remark on his lips.

Some diligent soul had taken care of him—washed him, changed him, and laid clean sheets—the scent of hospital soap clinging to his skin but unable to mask the essential Jim-ness underneath. Silver's eye zoomed in on the intimate details: the precise fold of medical tape on Jim's cheek, its edges fraying from restless movement; the pulse oximeter's crimson glow through the thin membrane of his fingernail; the subtle twitch of his remaining foot beneath the blanket—tiny muscle spasms that spoke of dreams where he still ran, still flew, still stood whole beneath open skies.

Morph oozed out of Silver’s pocket, a pink wisp of worry and affection. He hovered just above Jim’s face, a tiny, glowing ember of warmth, pulsing gently in time with the boy’s breathing. He didn’t dare touch. Not yet.

“We’ve dialed back on the sedatives this morning,” said a nurse as she adjusted the brass regulator on the IV drip, “He may try to surface, although mentally—” she made a tilting motion with her hand, “—he’s not all there. He’ll be disoriented for a while.”

She held up a copper-cased plunger connected to the IV by coiled tubing.

“This delivers a precise dose of pain relief,” she explained, her gloved thumb brushing the release valve. “If you see his breathing turn ragged, tension in his body, or any other signs of distress, press this button firmly. Don't wait for him to cry out—we want to keep him as calm and comfortable as possible.”

Sarah accepted the device, her fingers curling instinctively around its cool metal casing. As she settled into the chair beside Jim's bed, her touch drifted to his wrist—light but steady, an anchor point in the storm of machines and medicine surrounding them. The contact was gentle and careful; not the frantic grip of fear, but the quiet assurance of presence.

Silver lingered at the foot of the bed, his systems cataloguing every small improvement—the steadier beep of the heart monitor, the absence of fever-flush on Jim’s neck, the way his sleeping face momentarily tightened at some dream-sound before easing again.

Alive. Healing.

Above Jim, the medical apparatus sang its mechanical lullaby—the rhythmic hiss of the oxygen pump, the soft ping of the vitals tracker, the whisper of pressurized fluids through tubes. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass window, scattering jewel-bright shards across the floor, turning the room into something almost magical.

For the first time since the mutiny, the constant grinding tension in Silver's mechanisms eased. The pistons in his leg didn't feel like rusted traps, the servos in his arm no longer felt like they were chewing through his bones.

The impulse hit him like a rogue wave—to sweep Jim up, to fold that too-thin frame against his chest, to wrap his arms (one flesh, one forged steel) around the boy and hold him like the precious thing he was—tubes and monitors be damned. To prove through sheer contact that Jim had survived the impossible.

But he kept his hands to himself.

Because the machines were still humming. Because Jim was still healing.

Because some things, even a pirate knew, were too fragile to risk.

Instead, he simply raked his clawed fingers through Jim’s hair and whispered, “Mornin’, pup.”

A twitch. Then a tiny whimper. The barest flutter of dark lashes against pale cheeks—one slow, sticky blink, like a child fighting off sleep. The heart monitor stuttered its rhythm. Silver's own breath stuttered in answer.

Again. Another blink, longer this time, lashes clinging together like they'd forgotten how to part. Jim's brow furrowed slightly, the ghost of confusion passing over his face before smoothing away.

The room became a frozen tableau—Sarah’s fingers tightening around Jim’s wrist, Delbert and Amelia’s ears snapping forward. Even Morph stilled mid-float, his tiny form flickering between a question mark and an exclamation point.

Then—

A shuddering inhale. The faintest groan, more vibration than sound. And slowly, so slowly, like dawn breaking over a frozen sea—Jim's eyes opened.

Not the sharp, clever gaze they knew, but something hazy and faraway, his pupils blown wide with lingering sedation. He stared, past Sarah, at the ceiling as if it were a sky he couldn’t recognize. His gaze drifted lazily across the stained-glass reflections painting the walls. When Sarah leaned into his line of sight, his eyes slid toward her, heavy and half-lidded—not recognition, exactly, but a quiet, drowsy oh, hi there before sliding away again. Detached from reality.

“Jim?” Sarah whispered. Her thumb brushed his cheek, feather-light, as if afraid he might dissolve under her touch. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

His lips parted—dry, cracked at the corners from days of oxygen masks and unconscious dehydration. A sound escaped, barely more than a sigh: a soft, wordless exhale, the kind a child makes when roused from deep sleep. His fingers twitched against the sheets, clumsy as a kitten’s paws.

Silver’s chest ached at the sight.

He crouched beside the bed, his mechanical joints creaking, and carded his fingers through Jim’s hair again.

“There’s my lad,” he murmured, pitching his voice low and warm. “No rush, now. We’re right here.”

Jim’s brow furrowed slightly—not in pain, but confusion, as if trying to place the voice. His eyes found Silver’s face and lingered for a moment, then his attention drifted away from him to the window, where the morning light spilled gold across the floor. A tiny sigh whispered from his lips, his body sinking deeper into the pillows as his unfocused eyes tracked unseen movements across the ceiling.

No spark of recognition yet. Just the quiet wonder of a mind still tethered between worlds, studying Silver with the same detached curiosity one might give a figure from a particularly vivid dream—familiar yet impossible to place.

A sound cut through the quiet—not from Jim’s lips, but from his stomach. A small, plaintive grumble, barely audible, but Silver’s sensitive ear caught it instantly. His heart clenched. Four days. Four days of IV drips and forced nutrients through a tube in Jim’s nose, four days of his body cannibalizing itself to heal. The poor kid had to be starving—as hollow as a derelict ship’s hull.

“I’ll bet ye’re hungry.” Silver’s voice was a rough whisper.

Jim’s eyebrows twitched upward—just a fraction, just enough for everyone in the room to notice. Delbert let out a wet, startled chuckle, hastily muffled behind his hand. Amelia’s ears flickered, her usual harshness melting into something unbearably fond. Sarah pressed her fingers to her lips, her shoulders trembling with the ghost of a laugh, as if she couldn’t decide whether to cry or cheer.

It felt like reaching the edge of a forest after days of stumbling through choking undergrowth—where the trees finally thin, where the air loses its damp, claustrophobic weight and opens into golden light. The kind of meadow that blooms unexpectedly, carpeted in wildflowers that sway under a forgiving sun. There was no fanfare, no sudden rush of triumph—just the quiet, staggering relief of realizing the worst was behind them. Jim wasn’t healed, not by a long shot. His body was still a battleground of grafts and missing pieces, his breath still measured by machines. But this tiny flicker of awareness, this almost-response was the first undeniable sign that he would—against all odds—be okay.

“I’ll ask the nurse if he can have something,” Sarah said, already turning toward the door, her voice light with joy.

“Aye, something with iron,” Silver added, his thumb brushing absently over Jim’s forehead, careful of the tiny bandage over his eyebrow. “Gotta rebuild some of that spilled blood.” Then, because he couldn’t help it, because the room felt lighter now, because Jim had heard him—he grinned, wide and excited. “But what ye really need is some of me bonzabeast bone broth. Cured many a battle-wounded spacer, it has.”

As Sarah left the room, Silver and Delbert moved in unison—the canid’s careful hands supporting Jim's neck while Silver slid his hand beneath his shoulders. Jim stirred with a soft grunt, his remaining leg tensing as he tried in vain to push himself upright. A sharp hiss escaped his clenched teeth as the movement pulled at his abdominal graft.

“Easy, lad.” Silver murmured, firmly pressing Jim’s chest down. “Let us move ye.”

Jim's body surrendered with a shuddering exhale that seemed to come from his very bones. As they raised him, Silver watched the play of agony across Jim's face—the bitten-off gasp, the way his remaining foot dug into the mattress, the involuntary tears that welled in his eyes. His mechanical eye whirred softly as it tracked the device the nurse had given them, his thumb firmly pressing the release. The medicine entered Jim's bloodstream like a tide smoothing over jagged rocks, the tension in his frame gradually ebbing.

“There now,” Delbert whispered when they'd finally settled Jim against the pillows. His hand lingered, smoothing Jim's hair back from his forehead with a tenderness that contradicted his usual clumsiness. “Back among the living!” He waved his hand in front of Jim's unfocused eyes, then sighed when they tracked nothing. “Well... sort of.”

The moment of quiet camaraderie shattered like glass.

A mechanical buzz—the angry hum of some insectoid creature—filled the room. Outside the window, a black-and-gold news drone hovered, its lens irising open like a mechanical pupil. The Crescentia Star Press insignia gleamed mockingly in the morning light as the device adjusted its focus with a series of precise clicks—capturing the vulnerable moment.

Amelia moved like a striking panther, her boots barely making a sound as she crossed the room in three strides. She quickly rasped the curtains shut, but not before she caught a glimpse of the spectacle below.

“Great Clarke’s Nebula!” The exclamation tore from her throat with enough force to make Delbert jump. Her ears lay flat against her skull.

Delbert nearly upset the bedside tray in his alarm. “What? What is it?!”

Amelia's nose wrinkled in disgust as she secured the drapes with unnecessary violence.

“Some young woman just—” She made a jerking motion with her claws. “Flashed her... assets at Jim’s window! Like some dockside brothel!”

Beyond the curtains, the crowd's roar surged like an angry tide. A rhythmic chant of “Haw-kins! Haw-kins!” pulsed through the glass, underscored by the tinny cry of a vendor: “Genuine battle relics! Get your authentic mutiny souvenirs!” The world outside had turned their pain into carnival fare.

Silver's grip tightened on Jim's shoulder as he felt the boy's body begin to tremble. Not the shivers of cold, but the awful, involuntary vibrations of an overtaxed, overwhelmed system. Jim's glassy eyes, clouded with medication, darted toward the window with the panicked look of a caged animal. His breathing hitched in that terrible way that preceded either tears or hyperventilation.

In one fluid motion, Silver positioned himself like a fortress wall between Jim and the window, his broad shoulders eclipsing the last slivers of daylight sneaking past the curtains. His shadow fell over Jim like a protective cloak as Morph—ever attuned to his boy's distress—flowed up to press against Jim's cheek, his gelatinous form pulsing in a slow, rhythmic pattern that seemed to synchronize with Jim's faltering breathing.

“Pay no mind to that lot, Jimbo,” Silver rumbled, carefully adjusting the blanket over Jim's body and tucking it around his shoulders. His hands made quick work of smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. Each motion served as both comfort and distraction. “Just gulls fighting over scraps.” The comparison felt apt—the scavengers outside were no better than birds circling a dead whale.

Beneath his ministrations, Jim's tremors gradually lessened, though Silver could still feel the tension thrumming through him like overtightened rigging. Morph's color deepened to a calming violet, his form molding perfectly to the curve of Jim's neck as if trying to absorb the fear through sheer proximity.

The door hinges creaked as Sarah returned, her hands cradling a steaming bowl like sacred offering. The thin porcelain contained what might charitably be called food—a pallid rice porridge that would have offended Jim if he had any awareness. Silver's nose wrinkled at the scentless steam rising in lazy curls. Hospital gruel, barely a step above nutrient paste, designed to nourish the body without inspiring the tastebuds.

His mechanical eye zoomed in on the pathetic contents, the gears rotating softly as he calculated the calories. Barely enough to sustain a ship's rat, but for Jim's traumatized digestive system—with its fresh lattice of sutures and angry, healing grafts—even this meal might prove too much for him to handle.

Sarah perched on the chair's edge, her fingers cradling the spoon with elegance.

“Alright,” she murmured, blowing gently across the spoon's surface, “open up, hun.”

Jim's nose crinkled before the spoon even reached his lips—some deep, instinctual rejection of this affront to his palate. A recent memory flashed in Silver’s mind: Jim leaning over a pot of stew in the Legacy’s galley, wrinkling his nose in that same exact way before declaring, "This needs more heat! At least throw in some garlic, Silver, sheesh!” The phantom echo of his voice—bright, teasing, alive—clashed violently with the suffering child in the bed before him.

Still, Jim’s lips parted on some primal instinct, his face twisting in sleepy displeasure as the bland mush entered his mouth.

“That’s it,” Sarah coaxed, using her thumb to swipe a stray droplet from his chin. “I know it’s not what you’d pick, but it’s something. Just a little more—”

“M-mom?”

Jim’s voice was a wreck—dry and cracked, like a splintered hull scraping against barnacle-crusted stone. The sound of it sent a visible jolt through the room, and everyone collectively held their breath.

Was this it? Had he finally rejoined them?

That hope lasted all of two seconds.

“Where’s Dad?”

Sarah froze. The spoon slipped from her fingers, clanging against the bowl. For a heartbeat, she looked like she’d been struck—eyes wide, lips parted in a silent gasp. Then, just as quickly, she crumpled inward, her shoulders bowing under the weight of a grief.

Suddenly, Jim wasn’t fifteen anymore. He had transformed before their very eyes. The hard-won years of cynical bravado had melted away, leaving behind only the raw, trusting little boy who still believed fathers came home. His remaining foot shifted under the blankets with the restless energy of a child waiting by the window, asking the same questions that had broken Sarah’s heart a hundred times before. Where’s Dad? When’s he coming home?

“Oh, sweetheart, I—” she appeared to search her brain for an answer that turned up nothing, “I don’t know where Dad went.”

The devastating truth, plain and simple. Silver knew it as well as she did.

But Jim didn’t understand. His brow furrowed—not in pain, but innocent childlike confusion, as if the years had collapsed beneath him and left him stranded in memory. His breath hitched, a wet, wounded sound that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“H-he said he was gonna take me to the lighthouse…”

The words hung in the air, fragile as glass. Too young. Too raw. A wound ripped open after years of scar tissue. His weak fingers twitched against the blanket, grasping at nothing, searching for a hand that had never stayed long enough to hold his.

Sarah’s face crumpled.

For a terrible second, Silver thought she might collapse—her breath caught, her lips trembling, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

But then she exhaled—slow, shuddering—and cupped Jim’s face with both hands. Her thumb brushed the hollow under his eye, wiping away a tear that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I know he did,” she said softly, her voice frayed at the edges, “If you want… I’ll take you there when you’re better. Just you and me. We’ll watch the ships come in.”

Jim didn’t respond. He just lay there, limp against the pillows, his lips pressed into a thin, dissatisfied line. The promise didn’t soothe him. It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same.

Sarah’s smile wavered. Desperation flickered in her eyes.

“Or—or Delbert can take you!” she offered, too bright, too forced. “He’d love to. Wouldn’t you, Delbert?”

Delbert, caught off guard, fumbled with his spectacles. “Oh! Y-yes! Absolutely! I’ve got—ah—extensive notes on Montressor’s coastal topography—”

A single tear traced a slow path down Jim’s temple, disappearing into his hairline. He sniffled as his throat worked around something unsaid, something that might have been “That’s not what I meant.”

Sarah’s face fell, her fingers trembling as she reached for the damp cloth on the nightstand. With infinite care, she blotted the moisture from Jim's lashes, her touch so light it might have been the brush of a ghost. Each pass of the fabric seemed to etch another line of sorrow into her face.

Silver's jaw twitched. The words burned in his throat—I’ll take ye to the lighthouse, Jimbo. Just say the word and we'll go—a promise so sweet it turned to ash before it could reach his tongue. His ocular implant whirred softly as it focused on Jim's face, capturing every detail: the way the boy's breath hitched, the faint tremor in his bottom lip, the way his fingers still twitched and stretched across years toward someone who would never come back.

Another lie would be cruelty. Another broken vow in a life already littered with them. Silver knew with cold certainty that when Jim fully woke—when the drugs cleared and the world came into sharp, painful focus—their time together would be measured in hours. Just long enough for proper goodbyes before Amelia delivered him to the Admiralty's justice.

The bed creaked as Silver leaned closer, close enough to smell the soap in Jim's hair, the lingering copper tang of dried blood and bandages. His organic hand hovered over Jim's shoulder, aching to bridge that final inch, to offer some comfort. But what right did a mutineer have to soothe the wounds he'd helped inflict?

Morph, ever attuned to the quiet tremors of Jim's heartache, snuggled against his cheek, his pink form melting into the exact curve of Jim’s jawline as if he’d always belonged there. A sound escaped the little creature—not his typical playful chirping, but a mournful, melodic hum that rose and fell like a lullaby.

Silver’s breath caught.

He watched as Morph—who had been his best friend in the loneliest of times—poured every ounce of comfort his simple being could muster into that single point of contact. The boy’s lashes fluttered, his breath hitching—not in pain, but in unconscious recognition. Somewhere in the fog of sedation and grief, he felt it.

And for the first time since this all started, Silver felt something twist in his chest.

This was Morph’s new home.

When chains and warrants and naval justice tore them apart, when Silver was nothing more than a shadow in Jim’s past—Morph would still be here. Warm against Jim’s skin. Humming in the dark. A living, breathing piece of the love Silver could never properly give.

“Morphy,” said Silver. The little shapeshifter peeked up at him. “Ye’ll take good care of this pup for me, will ye?”

A beat. Then—

Morph stretched upward, his gelatinous form quivering like a candle flame in the draft. For a heartbeat, he pressed against Silver’s knuckles, a silent vow etched into the space between them. Then he melted back against Jim’s cheek, his hum deepening into a resonance that thrummed through Silver’s augments like a ship’s engine at full sail. Steady. Sure.

The peace lasted exactly three seconds.

The sound of heavy, authoritative boots filled the hallway, accompanied by anxious murmurs and the sharp clatter of a dropped tray. Silver's ear caught the subtle creak of leather holsters and the jingle of military-grade armaments before the nurses' tense whispers even reached him. His mechanical fingers moved on instinct, adjusting the bandana over his ocular implant with the practiced ease of a pirate who'd spent a lifetime hiding in plain sight.

The door exploded inward with enough force to make the walls shake. Morph dove for cover under Jim’s pillow.

A hulk of a man filled the room’s entrance like a stormfront. His salt-and-pepper beard—trimmed with parade-ground exactness—couldn't disguise the tension in his jaw, the vein throbbing at his temple. But it was his eyes that chilled Silver most: pale as arctic ice, scanning the room with the detachment of a man who had committed atrocities only the gods above knew about.

Amelia instantly went rigid. Silver saw the exact moment her military bearing locked back into place—shoulders squaring, claws retracting, becoming the perfect soldier before their eyes.

“Admiral Gatson! I can expl—”

“Front page news, Captain.” Gatson's voice was a depth charge of concussive force. He flung a crumpled edition of the Crescentia Star Press onto the foot of Jim's bed. The headline screamed above the photo of Jim's unconscious face: ‘GOLDEN BOY’ LEFT MUTILATED. “While I had to learn of your return from this gutter press.”

Silver became a statue. Not just still—absent. The way prey animals freeze when the hunter's shadow falls across them. Even his breathing stopped, lest the telltale hiss of pneumatics betray what his disguise couldn't hide. The heart monitor's steady beep now marked time like a firing squad's drumroll.

Amelia’s spine locked into a parade-perfect salute, her muscles coiled so tightly she could’ve snapped a steel cable.

“My deepest apologies, Admiral.” The words tasted like bile—Silver could see it in the tightness around her feline eyes. “I became unavoidably detained by a medical crisis.” Her ears twitched against her head, the only betrayal of fear as she gestured to Jim's ruined body. “My cabin boy required immediate—”

“Your cabin boy,” Gatson interrupted, “is a material witness to the largest pirate incursion in a decade.” His gloved finger tapped the photo of Jim's unconscious face. “And thanks to this media frenzy, every pirate from here to the Coral Galaxy knows about it before Naval Intelligence.”

Gatson didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.

Three strides—each one shaking the floor like artillery fire—and he loomed over Jim’s bed, his shadow smothering the boy in darkness. Before anyone could react, his gloved hand shot out, seizing Jim’s jaw in a vise grip hard enough to make the heart monitor spike. He wrenched the boy’s face upward, forcing his glassy, drug-dilated eyes to meet his own.

“State your name for the record, Hawkins.” Each syllable landed like a rifle butt to the ribs, meant to shock the system into obedience.

Jim flinched as if struck. His breath hitched—a wet, panicked sound—and his pupils, still blown black from painkillers, flickered like candle flames in a storm. His lips moved, forming silent, aborted words.

Gatson’s grip tightened.

“I said state your name!” With his free hand, he produced a recorder, its red light blinking like a targeting laser. He twisted Jim’s face toward it, uncaring of the hurt whimper that escaped the boy’s throat.

Then—

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SON!”

Sarah’s fingers locked around Gatson’s wrist like iron shackles. She didn’t pull. She wrenched him off, her muscles corded with the strength of a woman who’d spent years hauling drunk brutes out of her inn by their collars. The admiral staggered back, his polished boots skidding on the floor.

For a heartbeat, the room froze.

Sarah planted herself between Gatson and her son, her shoulders heaving, her hands curled into fists. She wasn’t tall. Wasn’t broad. But she was solid, a storm wall against the tide. Her eyes burned with a fury that could have ignited dynamite.

“You touch him again,” she hissed, “and I don’t care what uniform you wear—I’ll break every bone in that hand.”

Gatson’s lip curled. “You’re interfering with a military investigation, woman.”

“I’m protecting my child,” Sarah snarled, “and if that’s a crime, arrest me.”

“Your child,” Gatson spat with venom, “has been accused by the press of being involved in the worst mutiny since—”

“Admiral, he was not involved—”

“Speaking out of turn, Captain?!”

“With respect, Admiral, Hawkins acted with exceptional valor during the crisis. His injuries were sustained defending the Legacy and—”

“Spare me the hero's commendation, Captain,” Gatson said. Then he gestured toward Sarah. “And control this woman or else I’ll arrest her for obstruction.”

Sarah didn’t flinch. She stepped forward instead and defiantly stood before Gatson, arms crossed, chin lifted.

“Try it.” Sarah's voice was low, dangerous, the way the air stills before a hurricane hits. “See how fast the press gets wind of an admiral bullying a sick child.”

Behind her, Jim gasped—a raw, shuddering inhale—his fingers clutching weakly at the sheets. Silver moved instantly, his massive frame eclipsing Jim's view of Gatson as his hands worked in tandem: organic fingers carding through Jim’s hair while his mechanical ones found the medicine plunger. He depressed the button without looking, watching instead for Jim's lashes to flutter as relief entered his system.

“Easy, pup. Easy does it.”

Every instinct screamed at him to stand between Sarah and danger, but Jim's weak grasp on his sleeve anchored him in place. Protect. Shield. The boy came first. From what he could see, Sarah was perfectly capable of handling beastly men.

Gatson's gloved hand twitched toward his sidearm. For three terrible seconds, the only sound in the room was the distant roar of the crowd outside. Sarah didn't blink. Didn't breathe. The pulse in her throat beat visibly against her skin as she held Gatson's glare, her knuckles whitening at her sides. Somewhere beyond the window, a news drone swept across the curtains, throwing sharp shadows against the opposite wall.

The faint whirring of mechanics from Silver—

Then Gatson's head snapped with predator certainty, his nostrils flaring as some buried instinct recognized something far more interesting than the defiant mother in front of him. His head moved like a heat-seeking missile locking onto its target, his pupils contracting as they fixed on the Ursid.

Silver paid him no mind. His entire world had narrowed to the slowing of Jim's breath, the gradual unclenching of small fingers from his sleeve. The medicine slowly working.

“Well now,” Gatson purred, a mocking lilt in his voice, “An Ursid crew member? How progressive of you, Captain.” His fingers tapped against his belt where his service pistol rested. “Though, I suppose someone has to peel the potatoes.”

Silver didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to the bait. His organic hand stayed wrapped around Jim’s. His thumb traced slow, grounding circles over the boy’s knuckles, committing them to memory, the way a condemned man memorizes the last light of the stars before the dungeon seals him in darkness. His uncovered eye lingered on Jim’s face, memorizing it as well as he could, like it was the last time he’d ever see him.

Because it was. This was it.

The moment he’d dreaded since he carried Jim’s unconscious body onto the Legacy. The moment Amelia would have no choice but to surrender him—to spin some tale about how the notorious pirate captain, John Silver, had been holding them all hostage, how she’d been waiting for backup—

Silver bent low, pressing his nose against Jim’s temple and fighting back tears.

No proper goodbye. No last words.

“That Ursid,” Amelia’s voice cut through the silence, crisp and confident, “is Mr. Sterling, our galley chef. His service record is immaculate.”

The world tilted.

Silver’s breath stalled in his lungs.

Mr. Sterling.

Not Silver. Not the mutineer. Not the man whose name should be spat in dockside taverns for generations.

She lied.

For him.

Amelia's betrayal of her oath manifested in the barest physical tells—the minute extension of claws drawing pinpricks of blood on her gloves, the involuntary twitch of her left ear as if wanting to shake off the ghost of her loyalty to the Terran Empire. The tremor passed faster than a shot from a laser pistol, leaving her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. But the damage was done. In just a few simple words, she'd put her career and her life on the line for someone who didn’t deserve such a sacrifice.

And there was no taking it back.

Gatson’s fingers stilled on his belt, just above his pistol. His expression hardened into something cold and mocking.

“Ah,” he exhaled, “the heroic Mr. Sterling from the article.” His lips curled around the name like it was a piece of spoiled meat. “Tell me, chef—how fortunate that you remained so… uninvolved while your crewmates plotted a mutiny right under your nose.”

“No, Admiral,” said Amelia, “Mr. Sterling had no knowledge of the plot. He’s just the cook.”

He’s just the cook. An echo of Jim’s desperate cries from mere days prior.

Silver had to force his lungs to work again.

“Aye, that’s me! Mr. Sterling,” he boomed, too loud, too jovial, his organic hand thrust toward Gatson like a peace offering. “Uh… Mackenzie Sterling, sir.”

Gatson glared at the offered hand, nostrils flaring, as if it were a cockroach on his dinner plate. For three heartbeats, the only sound was the hiss of the oxygen regulator. Then, with glacial slowness, the admiral brought his own hands behind his back, clasping them in the parade rest position. The message was clearer than any refusal:

I don't soil my hands with your kind.

Silver let his arm drop. Not in defeat, but dismissal. His hand found Jim's shoulder instead, his thumb brushing the edge of the hospital gown where the boy's collarbone jutted too sharply. A better use for these hands anyway.

The admiral’s icy stare lingered on Silver for a heartbeat longer—long enough for Silver to feel the venom of his silent rage—before snapping back to Amelia.

“First light, Captain. My office.” He adjusted his gloves with slow, crisp tugs. “Bring your logs, your manifests, and every last scrap of data that survived your little adventure.”

A pause. The air itself seemed to stiffen.

“And God help you if a single page is missing.”

His eyes flickered with warning. Then, with a whirl of his coat, he was gone—the door shuddering in its frame behind him like a gunshot's echo.

For three heartbeats, the room existed in perfect stasis—Amelia's sweat tracing a silver trail down her temple, Delbert's breath coming in short, panicked heaves, Sarah's nails embedding crescents in her palms.

Then Silver broke.

A wet, shuddering gasp tore from his throat as the reality crashed over him like a rogue wave. Alive. Unshackled. Still here. His hand convulsed around Jim's bedsheet, the fabric twisting in his grip as decades of survival instincts warred with this impossible gift. Tears blurred his vision as he stared at Amelia. This woman who'd just gambled her career, her freedom, her honor—her life!—to spare a pirate's neck.

“Captain—” The word cracked like old wood. He wanted to kneel. To swear fealty. To weep like the damned fool he was. But all that emerged was a broken, “I—”

Amelia's head snapped toward him. Her eyes burned with the same lethal focus she used to sight down a pistol barrel, but for one fractured moment Silver saw it. The flicker in her pupils, the way her skin tightened around her eyes. Beneath the steel was pure fear. No one needed to point it out: she had just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. Treason. If the truth ever got out, she’d hang alongside Silver at the gallows.

“Doctor,” Amelia's voice was suddenly hoarse, as if she'd been screaming. She flexed her claws, examining the self-inflicted punctures in her palms. “I know I said I don’t drink, but I believe I've just developed a... medical need—”

“Quite right,” Delbert squeaked, then stronger: “Let’s go. Now. Before I invent six new anxiety disorders.”

As the door hissed shut behind them, Silver felt something unravel inside his chest. The release started in his mechanical joints, servos whining as they disengaged from combat tension. Then it spread through his organic muscles, leaving them weak and tingling. His organic hand tightened around Jim's, terrified that the whole illusion would dissolve if he let go.

He couldn't trust himself to speak, not when the enormity of Amelia's sacrifice pressed against his ribs like a physical weight.

She had gambled everything. For him. A liar. A thief. A man who had never known such loyalty outside of paid crews and shallow alliances.

And for what? So he might have this. For the weight of Jim's hand in his, calloused and small and so fiercely alive. For the way the boy's breath hitched in sleep, for the unconscious grip that held on even now, as if Silver were something worth clinging to.

Silver’s throat closed. This was more than loyalty, more than guilt. The feeling lodged behind his ribs was too vast for words, too raw to examine. But when Jim stirred, when his fingers tightened reflexively around Silver's own, something in the old pirate's chest cracked open.

He wasn't just a mentor. Wasn't just a temporary ally. Somewhere between stolen moments in the galley and shared survival in the void, he'd become something else entirely. The knowledge should have terrified him. Instead, it filled the hollow spaces in him like sunlight through a tattered sail.

Sarah leaned forward, grinning as she put her hand on Silver’s. “Looks like you’re stuck with us for a while, huh?”

Stuck somewhere between laughter and tears, he brushed a strand of hair from Jim’s forehead. The words of promise came tumbling out before he could consider them. He didn’t regret it though. He knew this was a promise he could finally keep.

“Hey, pup.” His voice cracked around the nickname, rough from all the times he’d nearly lost the right to say it. “I’ll take ye to the lighthouse. I’ll get ye all the way up to the lantern room, and we’ll watch the ships come in together.”

Jim's face softened like a sunrise through the trees. His lips parted around a sigh as he instinctively curled toward Silver's touch, his forehead pressing into the cyborg's palm like a planet tilting toward its star. The painkillers continued to work through him in visible waves, his eyelids fluttering as he nuzzled unconsciously into Silver's palm. His body surrendered piece by piece the tension that had held him rigid since the admiral's visit. First his shoulders melted into the mattress, then his remaining leg stretched out with a quiet rustle of the blankets. Finally, his fingers uncurled from their white-knuckled grip on the sheets, the angry red marks left by his own nails slowly fading to pink.

Silver’s breath caught. He looked from Jim’s peaceful face to Sarah’s exhausted smile to Morph—Morph, who he wouldn’t have to part with after all—then something warm and buoyant swelled in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a second heart. He felt like he could sing.

So he did.

The first notes slipped out—the low, rumbling hum of an old spacer’s shanty about coming home against all odds. Silver's boot tapped against the floor, keeping a steady rhythm. His organic hand never stilled its motion, fingers moving through Jim's hair with the same cadence as the song's refrain about seeing a familiar port from a war-battered ship.

Sarah’s voice joined his on the second verse, softer than harbor waves lapping at a sandy shore. She rubbed the nape of Jim’s neck, her fingers tracing the same paths they had since he was small, smoothing away the last of the tension that lingered there.

Between them, Morph floated in lazy loops, his surface rippling between violets and pinks, cycling through hues that Silver somehow knew meant safe-home-family in the secret language of shapeshifters.

And for this moment—this single, stolen moment—the universe left them be. No admirals. No reporters. Just the quiet din of the hospital, the distant chatter of nurses, and two voices weaving a fragile shelter out of song and shared breath.

The inn’s common room had settled into an almost silent lull between meals, the silence broken only by the occasional clink of glassware as the innkeeper wiped down tankards (Amelia had given him a nice stack of coins to turn his hearing aid down). Delbert collapsed into a wingback chair—its cushions sagging from years of guests sitting in it—and immediately began worrying at his pipe with restless fingers. It soothed him: the tick-tick-tick of his nails against the wood bowl, the scent of aged whiskey and smoke curling around him. It was only a small comfort against the day’s tensions.

Across the table, Amelia began to lay out a daunting pile of documents. Shipping manifests, port authority records, and supply logs formed a paper fortress between them. She methodically cleared a space as if she were a battlefield surgeon, her claws scraping against the wood as she set down an inkwell, two pens, a bottle of chemical solvent that made Delbert's nose wrinkle, cotton swabs, and a set of razor blades.

Then came the star of the show. The captain's logbook hit the table with a sound like a gavel strike. Though barely six months old, the leather binding already showed the strain of constant use. Its spine had cracked like an old sailor's knuckles, and the gilded edges had worn dull from anxious fingertips. Delbert's ears pivoted forward as he read the gold-embossed title: CAPTAIN'S LOG — RLS LEGACY. Amelia wedged her claws beneath the cover and forced it open, the pages releasing the scent of good paper and gunpowder residue.

Her whiskey glass trembled as she drained it in one swallow, the ice cubes clinking against the crystal. When her tired eyes flickered toward Delbert’s pipe, he was already offering it to her with a gentle smile, his fingers brushing against hers just a second longer than necessary.

She took it with a grateful nod, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. The ember’s cherry glow softened the sharp edges of her exhaustion, casting a faint light over the tension in her jaw. When she exhaled, twin streams of smoke curled from her nostrils like dragon’s breath, and for the first time since they’d sat down, her shoulders relaxed a tiny fraction.

“Thank you, dear,” she murmured, handing the pipe back.

Delbert swallowed down the flutter in his chest. Now wasn’t the time for romantic notions—not when forgery and treason loomed over them. But still, as he took the pipe back, his voice dropped into something softer, just for her:

“Anytime you need it.”

Amelia smiled back at him before she tapped the logbook, her claw leaving a faint dent in the leather. Back to business.

“Gatson expects this on his desk by first light,” she muttered, more to herself than to Delbert. “I’ll need to… amend a few things.”

She looked at Delbert, an unspoken apology on her face. Like she wanted to ask for his help, but she didn’t want to burden him.

Before she could speak, he rolled up his sleeves. “Where do we start? I’ll stay up all night with you if you need me to.”

Relief softened her face, then she pushed a stack of papers toward him. They were supply documents from every port they had stopped at to restock on food and other necessities. Silver had been the one to sign off on all of them, his name written in full on each signature line.

“Try to scrape that off with the the razor first,” Amelia instructed, “if that doesn’t get it all off, then gently swab it with a tiny bit of solvent. If the parchment rips or puckers…” She produced a blank sheet from her folio, identical to the filled-out forms. “…then you must rebuild the page entirely.”

“I see,” Delbert gently scraped the paper with the razor, the blade whispering against parchment as Silver's signature flaked away like old paint. “Remind me, what am I to replace his name with?”

“Mackenzie Sterling, Ship’s Cook,” she replied, the alias rolling off her tongue as if it were the man’s true name. “Or just ‘Sterling’ for the shorter forms.”

Delbert dipped a pen and wrote in the signature line with fluid strokes: Mackenzie Sterling, Ship's Cook. Amelia leaned over the table, her muzzle twitching as she admired his work.

“Exceptional penmanship, Doctor.” She tilted her head, her claw tapping the unfamiliar first name. “I wonder where he pulled ‘Mackenzie’ from.”

The question sent Delbert's memory reeling back to the other day, just before Jim was rushed into emergency surgery—the sour tang of infection, the frantic beeping of monitors, Silver's massive frame hunched over Jim's fevered, writhing form. How the cyborg's breathing had hitched, his mechanical fingers twisting the bedrail when he'd suddenly gasped that name like a prayer. There had been something haunted in his eyes, like he’d seen a ghost.

Someone important to him. Someone he couldn’t save.

“An old friend, perhaps,” said Delbert.

Amelia hummed, carefully working her razor over a tiny section in her logbook. She tilted her head again.

“Speaking of old friends…” she said, her voice cautious and light, “Dr. Lockwood mentioned a specialist’s name that seemed to upset you and Sarah quite a bit—what was it—Dr. Bell?”

Delbert stilled, the razor in his hand hovering over another signature line.

“Blum,” he corrected softly, “Dr. Levi Blum.”

There was an awkward silence, interrupted only by a pop from the fire in the hearth.

“My apologies,” said Amelia, “I don’t mean to pry. If there’s an unpleasant history, I—”

“It’s alright,” Delbert said, resuming his work with the razor over the parchment. “Levi Blum… is Sarah’s father.”

Amelia’s pen froze mid-stroke. A drop of ink bloomed across the page like a bruise.

“Ah.” A look of understanding crossed her features. “She did tell me her family wouldn’t come out to help her with Jim.”

“Certainly not,” Delbert confirmed, his features twisting with remembered anger. “Sarah’s mother is just awful. Always jealous of her own daughters. A textbook example of a narcissist. And Levi… well, he’s nothing but a coward. ‘Father’ is too generous a term for a man who stood by and watched his wife throw their daughter out into the street. It’s been about… oh, sixteen years since they last spoke.”

“Since she got pregnant with Jim?” Amelia asked.

Delbert nodded slowly.

“How awful,” she said, “And now that man is the only person in the galaxy who can restore Jim’s quality of life.”

The irony was absurd. Across the street, high up in the hospital, Sarah was sitting vigil at Jim’s bedside, her son’s future about to be in the hands of the man who’d once slammed the door on hers.

Amelia flicked to another page of her logbook. “I take it Jim’s never met his grandfather.”

“No.” Delbert’s thumb brushed over the razors edge. “He thinks his grandparents are dead. Sarah let him believe that rather than explain—” he gestured vaguely, the razor catching the firelight “—their particular brand of cruelty.”

“And now fate will force them to face each other again,” said Amelia.

“Sarah would rather swallow hot coals than ask Levi for help. But for Jim?” Delbert met Amelia’s gaze. “She’ll do it. She’d walk through fire for that boy.”

Amelia's claws tapped a slow rhythm against the logbook.

“We've got six months before Jim's strong enough for that surgery,” she mused, her voice low and measured, “time enough to arrange things properly.” She lifted her gaze, feline eyes contracting in the firelight. “What if you and I handled all the arrangements with Blum? Sarah wouldn't even have to breathe the same air as him.”

Delbert’s breath caught as he perked up at the suggestion. His fingers, still gripping the razor, relaxed slightly as he imagined Sarah being spared that particular humiliation. Six months suddenly felt both impossibly distant and rushing toward them like a solar storm.

“Yes!” he said, “Excellent idea! I’ll share that with Sarah.” He nodded, more to himself than to Amelia, already envisioning how he’d present it to Sarah. Gently, carefully, making sure she understood she wouldn’t have to face Levi if she didn’t want to.

Amelia smiled again at him, her eyes glistening with affection. Her expression softened in a way he rarely saw, her usual sternness giving way to something warmer.

“You’re a good man, Delbert,” she murmured, and the quiet approval in her voice sent an unexpected warmth through him. “Seems you’ve been a better father to her than her own flesh and blood.”

Delbert’s ears flushed. He fidgeted with his cravat, suddenly self-conscious.

“Well, I—I try to help her as much as she’ll let me,” he replied with a light chuckle. “She’s rejected almost all financial help from me, so I dined at her inn nearly every night, tipped her well, and…” his voice dropped to something conspiratorial, “the money fairy may have left a few banknotes in the spice cabinet for her to find later.”

Amelia’s laughter rang out bright, unguarded, and startling in its rarity. For a moment, the heaviness in the room lifted, and Delbert found himself grinning back, the weight of the future momentarily forgotten.

Her laughter faded into something quieter, warmer. Her claws tapped an absent rhythm against the logbook's worn leather cover.

“The money fairy," she repeated, shaking her head as she resumed her work with the razor.

Delbert picked up his own razor and turned over another document, scanning it for all mentions of Silver and anything else that might give away the presence of a cyborg Ursid on their ship. His fingers moved carefully, scratching out ‘cybernetic eye lens replacement,’ altering supply manifests, erasing Silver's presence from the Legacy's history line by line.

Beyond the diamond-paned windows, a dense fog had fallen over the port. Somewhere in the soup of mist, a ship's horn groaned. Delbert sighed and reached for the next manifest, the whisper of parchment joining the inn's quiet symphony: the crackle of the hearth, the innkeeper's muffled clatter in the back room, and the intermittent plink of water droplets falling from the bar’s leaky tap into a copper basin.

The innkeeper materialized like a specter, replacing their empty glasses with fresh ones. The whiskey caught the light, amber and promising temporary relief. Delbert eyed the towering stack of documents still awaiting their turn with the razor.

“About how many pages are we looking at?”

Amelia didn’t look up from a half-altered crew log. “Enough to keep us busy through the night, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” Delbert raised his glass, watching the firelight fracture through the crystal, “to the night ahead, then.”

Amelia finally met his toast, her glass clinking against his.

“And a long nap afterward,” She took a measured sip, her feline eyes never leaving the documents. “May this fiction we’re weaving hold up better than our sobriety.”