LOG 032: Evicted I

Verilian-7: The Bastion – Draco’s Nest

Rigel avoids this section of the Bastion. She has for years. To the mechanics and officers who snap to attention as she passes, she is Admiral Waldermara, a living legend, striding down to the corvette bay. The few who have the opportunity to stand in her presence salute crisply, their deference absolute. They see the uniform, the rank, the authority.

“Please do not alert everyone. I am in a hurry,” she warns. They listen.

 They don’t see the mother whose heart tries to beat its way out of her throat.

Hers is not the heart of an Admiral. It’s a torn and desperate muscle, contracting and releasing in a desperate attempt to remember its rhythm. The last time she walked these halls, Kano was a boy on the cusp of manhood, his hand still small enough to be enveloped in hers. And Sylvia -she was a whirlwind of golden hair and bright green eyes who still looked at her with something other than resentment.

Rigel hasn’t changed much. She doesn’t change much. A curse of the Legion that he calls gifts. But she knows they have. Despite her attempts to remain separate and disconnected from the children, she has relished the information that crossed her desk about her children in the passing necessity of staying informed about system operations and events. Sylvia must be a woman now. Would Rigel even recognize her? The thought of lacking recognition of her own flesh and blood is a painful quiver in that struggling muscle within her chest. As is the knowledge that she will not be welcomed.

She walks past the bowing crew, their respect a hollow echo against her inner turmoil. Expediently, she enters the Draco’s private bay.

The ship slumbers.

Seeing the machine with her own eyes and not through the cold, tactical data of Orion’s sensors, makes Rigel take a sharp involuntary gasp. The Draco is smaller than Orion, more predatory in design, like a classic avian raptor. A coiled and resting figure of matte black alloys. She’s seen it dance and maneuver the void a thousand times, but to stand in its physical presence -to feel the low, dormant thrum of its core through the deck plating- is a reminder of scope and power. It humbles her as to her scale and ability. All ships do in person. To Rigel, they are monuments to a very old dream, in which she no longer knows whether she believes.

Sylvia is nowhere in sight. A wave of cowardly, shameful relief washes over Rigel. She doesn’t want to face her. Not alone. She needs Kano.

“Orion, are you connected with the Bastion?” A thing only she can hear denotes affirmation of her query. “Locate Kano for me,” she subvocalizes, her thoughts a prayer to her only true confidant. “Guide me.”

A faint, golden line materializes on the floor -an augmented path only she can see. It leads away from the main bay, deep into the residential and mechanical quarters of the Draco’s support team. Doors slide open ahead of her, her Admiral’s credentials a master key to every space and every private corner. The golden line ends at a simple, unadorned door marked with Sylvia’s name. Rigel’s breath catches as she pushes the button for the door to open.

The soft sound of waves lapping against a shore greets her first, followed by the gentle call of distant seabirds. Moonlight -artificial but convincingly real- casts dancing shadows across the walls. The air carries the faint scent of salt and sea breeze, the room’s systems working to complete the illusion of a peaceful beach at night. It is peaceful.

And there, beneath the small table, cocooned in stolen sheets and pillows, lies her son.

Kano curls on his side back away from the entrance. Sylvia’s electronic eye mask covering his face. Somehow, his tall frame manages to fit in the small space he’s created for himself. His boots sit neatly beside the makeshift nest. His clothes are clean but wrinkled from sleep. The Draco constellation on his forehead pulses softly in the dim light -a gentle rhythm that speaks of dreams… or nightmares.

Rigel’s lungs feel as if they’ve collapsed inward. This isn’t the casual nap of a tired pilot. This is the desperate refuge of someone drowning. A man who finds the only safe harbor he can manage. The sight of him -her baby, her grown son- hiding under a table like a frightened child, shatters something inside. For a moment, regret overtakes her panic and urgency. She wants to kneel beside him and smooth back his white hair and whisper reassurances like she did when he was small. Every maternal instinct screams at her to comfort him. To hold him. To promise everything will be all right.

But she can’t, Rigel realizes. She probably hasn’t the right to do so. Remembrance comes of her purpose here. She is here as Admiral Waldermara, and she is on a mission that can’t wait for healing or reconciliation. 

The Orion’s voice, her only anchor, speaks in her mind. It is a deep, steady presence.

The past can be mourned later. For now, the mission. Messer’s pilot will not wait forever. We must mobilize Sylvia. Whether Kano wants to help or not is irrelevant. He is a soldier. You are his commanding officer.

The words are cold, logical, and exactly what she needs. The mother’s heart bleeds, but the Admiral has a duty. She is here to save a daughter, not to mourn a son.

She memorizes the sight of him the moment before she touches him. At rest but not at peace. An image that will haunt her. Her steps are measured as she approaches, her heart struggling to find its strength to contract in each one. She reaches down, hand hovering over his shoulder, trembling for a fraction of a second before she steels herself.

She shakes him. Once. Firmly, but not roughly.

“Kano.”

His eyes fly open behind the mask, confusion and disorientation clouding his features. The gentle beach sounds continue around them, a surreal backdrop to the moment. He pulls off the eye mask, blinking in the moonlit projection, and then his gaze finds her face.

For a split second, there’s nothing but shocked recognition. Then his focus sharpens. She sees the transformation in real time -the vulnerable young man disappearing behind the hard mask of the combat pilot. Confusion vanishes, replaced by a flash of something raw, full of old pain and fresh fury, that strikes Rigel with greater precision than the words that follow.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” he snarls, his voice venomous. He doesn’t move from his nest, but his body coils with sudden, defensive tension.

Rigel forces herself to remain standing and to not recoil from the wave of animosity. The beach sounds seem to mock the moment -peaceful waves against a shore of broken family bonds. She is not his mother right now. She is his Admiral. She has a mission.

“I have to be brief.” Her voice is curt. All business. A shield against the pain in his eyes. She hesitates for only a beat of her straining heart, the mother warring with the soldier, before the soldier wins. “I need your help to bring Sylvia to Photheus-2, where she can be shipped off the station.”

Kano startles, pushing himself out of his cubby, the sheets falling away. The haze of sleep and artificial serenity is gone, replaced by sharp, alert confusion. “Photheus? Shipped off? What are you talking about?”

“There was an incident in the Regenesis,” Rigel says, delivering the intelligence report with brutal efficiency. “It made Sienna and Shimmer activate latent telepathic abilities. It was a one-in-a-billion situation. Impossible separately, but together they became dangerous. Are dangerous.” She pauses, the memory of the data flashing in her mind. “Even though no one died. Even though… no one… died.”

She sees the flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knows what “dangerous” means in their world.

“The Zybiria tactical team handling the quarantine might already be wary,” Rigel continues, pressing on, “but Verilia, and soon the UA, will follow. It’s only a matter of time before it all links back to me. To the Legion.” Her gaze hardens. “He must know by now, and we both know what that means.”

The unspoken threat hangs between them: reclamation, experimentation, and weaponization.

Kano’s face pales. His anger is momentarily eclipsed by cold, familiar fear. He looks away from her, his eyes finding a random point on the wall where moonlight dances with shadow. His jaw works silently.

“Sylvia will hate this,” Rigel says, her voice softening almost imperceptibly -an admission of the pain this will cause. “But she can’t stay. They won’t stop at just Sienna and Shimmer. HE won’t stop.”

She takes a step closer, her voice dropping, becoming more personal, more urgent. “Unfortunately, you’re a pilot. You belong to the UA, just like I do. You are part of this system, and we can’t escape it.” She meets his gaze, forcing him to look at her. “But we can do everything in our power for the girls.”

She hasn’t asked him as a mother. She hasn’t appealed to him as a son. She’s stated a tactical reality to a fellow soldier, appealing to the one thing she knows he still values: his protective duty to his sisters.

Kano is silent for a long moment, the war of emotions playing across his face -hatred for her, fear of their father, and a deep, ingrained loyalty to his sisters. The gentle beach sounds continue, waves against a shore that exists only in projection and memory. Finally, he pushes himself out from under the table fully, his movements stiff and deliberate. He doesn’t look at her as he reaches for his boots.

“Where is she?” he asks, his voice rough. He begins pulling on his boots with sharp, angry movements. The peaceful beach projection stands in stark contrast to the tension in the room.

“Inside the Draco, possibly,” Rigel replies, her voice remaining level and professional. “She’s been ignoring attempts to contact her.” She takes a breath, moving to the next phase of the plan. “I need you to convince her to check the messages Sienna sent. To both of you.”

Kano pauses, one boot half on, and finally looks up, his face a mask of confusion. “Sienna? What do the messages have to do with this?”

“Everything,” Rigel says. The cryptic answer is a necessity. “The message is a pretext. A digital breadcrumb that will eventually justify Sylvia’s transfer to Photheus. When you two are together, you must react to the message. However, you want -be annoyed, be amused, be dismissive -but you must acknowledge it. It needs to be on your local devices.”

She sees the suspicion warring with comprehension in his eyes. He hates her, but he’s a soldier, and he understands the mechanics of a cover story.

“You must trust me as your Admiral on this,” she says, her voice leaving no room for argument. Then, she offers him a piece of the truth -a calculated risk to secure his cooperation. “My father… my father’s AI, Theseus. He’s assisting in mobilizing all the girls as inconspicuously as possible. But Sylvia is here. In the Bastion. Under my direct command.”

The mention of her mysterious, almost mythical father —Dr. Walder— makes Kano go still. It’s a part of their history he knows exists but has never fully understood.

“We both know she won’t listen to me,” Rigel continues, her voice dropping, the Admiral’s mask cracking just enough to reveal the desperate mother beneath. “She won’t follow me. I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe, even if she fights me every step of the way. But you… You have to convince her to go. She trusts you. She’ll listen to you.”

She watches him process the information, his tactical mind piecing together the fractured parts of the operation. He doesn’t have the whole picture, but he has enough.

“Sienna and Shimmer are safe. Sadie is already there. Sophia and Stella are busy, but Theseus will manage,” she adds, giving him a sense of scale and urgency. “Selene and Sydney are complicated, but their extractions are in progress. Sylvia is the last, most difficult piece of the puzzle.”

She’s laid it all out. She’s given him a direct order as his Admiral, a mission as his brother, and a sliver of a hidden truth as a gesture. Not of trust. Necessity.

Kano finishes lacing his second boot and stands to his full height, towering over her in the small room. The moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, and for a moment, Rigel sees not the broken young man who hides under a table, but the commanding Lieutenant he has become. He still doesn’t meet her eyes, but his posture has changed. The raw anger is replaced by grim, focused resolve. 

“I’ll get her,” he says, his voice flat and professional. “But you stay out of sight. Your presence will only make it worse.” He grabs his jacket from where it hangs on a chair. “Wait for me. Here.”

He is stunning. For a moment, the Admiral’s mind gives way to the mother’s, and Rigel sees him not as a subordinate, but as her son. He has all the beautiful, sharp features she remembers -honed by age and pain. In retrospect, Kano looks more like a male version of herself than of the Legion. He doesn’t carry that monstrous perfection in his face, and that, she thinks with a pang of fierce pride, is a gift.

“Shore, beach, day,” he says to the room’s intelligence as he moves toward the door. The projection shifts from moonlit night to bright sunshine, the sound of waves becoming more cheerful, more alive. He pauses at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe.

“She’ll want to say goodbye to the Draco,” he says without turning around. “Let her.”

Rigel simply nods, though he can’t see it. That is all she can do. She has to trust her soldier. She has to trust her son.

She watches him go, his stride urgent but controlled. She knows the trauma still lives in his bones, a ghost he carries. But for now, it’s caged by purpose. The mission gives him a focus she hasn’t seen in years.

As the door closes behind him, Rigel sinks into Sylvia’s chair, surrounded by the artificial moonlight and the scent of sea breeze. For just a moment, she allows herself to relax. She trusts Kano to do his duty to his sister. In that trust, she finds some hope.

—

Kano strides through the Bastion’s corridors, his bearing one of sharp clarity. He ignores the salutes from passing crew members, his path a straight line through the station’s arteries. He finds Sylvia exactly where he knows she’ll be: within the Draco, her hand resting on a dormant console, her tablet glowing with diagnostic readouts only she can see through her AR glasses. Surprisingly, she looks up as he approaches, and her expression immediately shifts from concentration to concern.

“Hey,” she says, her voice warm with the easy affection they shared just hours before. “You look better. Did you manage to get some rest in my-” She stops, tilting her head, studying his face. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

Kano’s demeanor is entirely different from the playful brother who had hugged himself and teased her about self-love not long ago. This is a face she rarely sees. Mission focus. Combat-ready. His voice, when he speaks, carries an authority that makes her straighten instinctively. “Sienna has been texting you.”

Sylvia blinks, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift. The context of why a communication should carry this ferocity of tone is lost on her. Her response is slow and confused, “She always does. Some stupid message, nothing relevant.” She studies his face more carefully. “Kano, what’s going on? You’re acting… different.”

“This one is,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to read it. Now.”

That makes her stand up, her golden hair catching the dim light of the bridge. “What?” she asks, shocked. It’s like talking to a different person. This is someone giving orders, someone who expects immediate compliance. “Kano, you’re scaring me. What happened to ‘Hello, what are you doing? I slept well, thanks.'”

He walks over to her workstation, beginning to search, but can’t find the discarded ytterpulse. “Where is it?” His voice is demanding. Almost angry.

“My ytter isn’t here,” she weakly protests, still trying to process the transformation.

“Then connect it to your tablet like a normal person,” he snaps, his patience already worn thin.

Sylvia stares at him, her green eyes wide with confusion and growing alarm. “Seriously, what is wrong with you? Earlier, you were asking for access to my room so you could hide and sleep, and now you’re…” She gestures at him helplessly. “This. You need to explain this to me.”

“Sylvia,” he punctuates his point with tight, controlled urgency, “This is an emergency. Answer the stupid message.”

The use of her full name instead of ‘Sylvie’ jerks at her throat. Her brother never calls her Sylvia unless something is seriously wrong. “You’re terrifying me right now.”

“Answer. It. Reply to it. Anything. But do it now.”

“Fine… Fine!” she huffs, snatching the tablet. Her hands shake slightly as she connects to the discarded ytterpulse and opens the message, sees the cat GIF, and sends back a quick, annoyed thumbs-up. “There. Happy?”

Kano, watching over her shoulder, does the same on his own device, though his fingers burn slightly from having been clenched. A tremble is the only sign of the vulnerability she saw earlier. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice dropping, the false authority cracking to reveal real fear. “But… something happened. It’s bad.”

“Kano,” Sylvia’s voice is hitched with worry now, the familiar brother finally visible beneath the officer’s mask. “Is Sophie okay? I knew it. She’s been too quiet.”

“Sophia, Stella, Shimmer,” his eyes meet hers. “All of you are compromised,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You must go, Sylvie. I need you to trust me, okay? That Regenesis thing? You must have heard by now. It was Sienna and Shimmer. They have abilities. Abilities that activated together. I won’t pretend to know what that means. But the UA is all over it. After them. If they manage to access our genetic files, it’s only a matter of time before they find the link to the rest of us. To him.”

Sylvia staggers, struck by the reality, reaching out for something to stabilize her. “No. This is a bad joke. Kano, this isn’t funny. We are not like him. He tested us. Sophia, you, me. We are not telepaths. Please tell me you’re making a bad attempt at a joke.”

“I know. But something happened. It’s still happening.” Kano’s voice is raw, pleading. “He must be hunting Sienna and Shimmer by now. Do you want the tests? Do you want him to experiment on us… again? Because that’s what’s going to happen. He’s probably already thinking about it. We are on borrowed time.” He takes a step closer. “Fortunately, he can’t touch me. I’m active duty UA Fleet. It would be too messy, it would expose everything. But you? Sophia? Stella? Civilians. You can disappear in a station this big without a ripple.”

“No!” Sylvia’s voice is fierce, her denial a shield. “I can’t! I worked so hard for this life! For the Draco! You can’t just ask me to abandon everything! I already did that! I had to start over!”

Kano’s face softens, the anger gone, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. “Sylvie, your life is over. You just haven’t been evicted yet.” The words are brutal, but they are honest. “Telepath or not, you are his daughter. You are linked. There’s no coming back from what just happened. Now it’s just a matter of time before he comes to test you, to see if you’re like Sienna, or like Shimmer, or stronger… and once he does, you’re a possession. A toy. An extension of his bidding. Is that what you want? Are you willing to gamble your sanity and safety on that?”

He lets the terrible question collapse her hastily assembled defenses.

“Inside this station, there is nowhere for you to run,” he says softly. “Only with her.”

Sylvia looks up, squinting suspiciously. “Her? With whom?”

“Rigel.”

The name lands like another blow. She’s being pummeled by a past she’s long since buried but is seemingly clawing up from the crypt. Sylvia’s face hardens. “Rigel?”

“She’s getting you out,” Kano insists. “I know you hate her.”

“I… don’t… hate her,” Sylvia says, her voice defensive. The lie is unconvincing.

“You dislike her.”

“I don’t have a bond with her. We have no connection. I respect her as the Admiral. That’s all,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Whatever,” Kano says, his patience frayed. “She’s the one who is risking everything to get you out. You must trust her. You must follow me. Now.” Kano’s words attempt to be absolute in the sterile air of the bridge.

But Sylvia just shakes her head, a violent, jerky motion. “No.” The word is a choked whisper. “No. I won’t.”

She backs away from him, her hands coming up as if to ward off a physical confrontation. Her carefully constructed life: the ship, the routine, the hard-won peace she carved out for herself, is dissolving before her eyes. She stumbles backward and collapses into the pilot’s command chair, her body trembling. A sob tears from her throat, raw and unrestrained.

“No… he can’t…” she cries, her face in her hands. “I’m nobody. I’m just a mechanic. He left us alone. He doesn’t care about us. That was the only decent thing about him; his disinterest.”

Kano’s face, so recently twisted with his own fear and anger, softens completely. He kneels before the command chair, his movements hesitant, unfamiliar. It has been years since he offered comfort. He reaches out and gently places a hand on his sister’s guarding hand. “I know,” he says, his voice quiet, stripped of all urgency, leaving only a deep, shared sadness. “I know, Sylvie. It’s terrifying. It’s unfair. It’s unbelievable.”

She looks up at him, her green eyes swimming with tears and utter denial. “But we’re not like him, Kano. We’re not.”

“The truth is,” he says softly, his grip on her hand steadying her, “he left you and me alone for a long time because he was disappointed we weren’t like him. But we were just… lucky. We don’t share the horror stories that Sydney and Selene do.” He pauses, his own memories a cold shadow in his eyes. “But that doesn’t make him any less of a menace. It just means we were the failed experiments he discarded. Now that Sienna and Shimmer have proven the experiment can work, he’ll want to re-examine his old data. He’ll want to see if he was wrong about us. And nothing in this universe, he hates and excites him the most, is being proven wrong.”

He squeezes her hand gently. “Whatever is out there, Sylvie… it can’t be as terrible as being here, locked in this station with him, waiting for his curiosity to fall upon you again.” He takes a deep breath. “If Rigel is risking this much to get you out, all of you out, it’s for a damn good reason.”

Sylvia finally lets her tears flow. The more he speaks, the more she pleads. “But… Sophie?”

“Sophie and the others will meet you soon. I’ll wait for you here for when this is all over,” Kano says, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. “I’m a Lieutenant. He can’t touch me without starting a war he doesn’t want yet. I’m within the command structure and have comrades -a ship full of friends- who would notice my disappearance.”

Her gaze drifts past him to the silent consoles of the bridge. “And the Draco?” The question is a child’s plea.

Kano’s heart aches. He knows the ship is her only real family. “The Draco will miss you too,” he says, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely allows himself. “Deeply. But this isn’t forever. Once this is over, once we find a solution… you’ll be back making sure the ship hums to perfection.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “But for now, Sylvie, we have to take the opportunity. The bay is nearly empty. The shift change is in an hour. This is our only window.”

He looks into her terrified eyes, no longer an officer giving a briefing, but a brother begging his sister to save herself. “Please, Sylvie. We have to go. Say your goodbye to the Draco, now.”

—

The walk back to Sylvia’s quarters feels like a death march. Kano’s stride is measured, controlled, while Sylvia moves beside him like a sleepwalker, her green eyes catching the dim corridor lighting. She falls behind a few steps and jogs to catch up, only to fall behind and need to repeat the process. The hangar’s ambient hum has given way to the sterile silence of the residential section, where crew members sleep in their rooms, unaware that one of their own is about to disappear forever.

Rigel is waiting when they arrive, standing by a window projecting the star-scattered void. Her petite frame is silhouetted against the endless, but she turns as they enter, her blue eyes immediately assessing Sylvia’s tear-streaked face and trembling hands.

“She’s ready,” Kano says without preamble, his voice flat and professional. “What’s the next step?”

Sylvia is more beautiful than Rigel imagined. The dossiers and surveillance images haven’t prepared Rigel for this -her daughter transformed from a gangly child into something breathtaking. The luminous eyes, now red-rimmed from tears, the ethereal bone structure her father passed down like a gift and a curse. It is seeing him in those tear-stained features that nearly breaks her, as if the universe has saved it all for this moment, for this daughter, and for this exquisite torture.

Rigel nods once, her expression remaining carefully neutral as she studies Sylvia and Sylvia studies her in return. There is no acknowledgment of the devastation written across her daughter’s tear-streaked face, no maternal comfort offered. Rigel must be an officer in this moment; focused entirely on the mission parameters even if her heart wants to betray her.

“I need two containment suits from your crew members,” Rigel says, her tone crisp and businesslike. “Something that fits Sylvia’s and my height and complexion. We’re going to do an unauthorized spacewalk outside the biodome. There won’t be an alert regarding our movement, so if we’re wearing unmarked maintenance suits, we’ll blend just fine.”

Both of Rigel’s children stare. Kano’s eyes widen, and Sylvia actually takes a step backward, her hand reaching for the wall to steady herself.

“What?” Kano’s voice is sharp with disbelief. “A spacewalk? That’s insane. Any movement of Sylvia outside the hangar can be authorized by Commander Thomir. There’s no need for—”

“All authorizations from Thomir flag the Legion,” Rigel cuts him off, her voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “He’s the StarShade Governor; next to Thomir, he’s the highest authority. Right now, the moment Sylvia’s biometrics appear on any official manifest, duty roster, or transport log, he’ll know we’re moving her. He will call his dutiful and private off-the-books Zybirian team. And then this opportunity disappears.”

“Nope,” Sylvia says, her voice rising with panic. “No, no, no. I’m not doing a spacewalk. I’m not qualified. I’m not trained. I’ll die out there.”

“You’ll know unimaginable pain if you stay. Whatever prodding and experimentation you remember from childhood, your father will make a fond memory as he attempts to recreate Shimmer and Sienna’s effect with brutal efficiency and sadistic tenacity,” Rigel replies with brutal honesty. 

As the visions begin in Sylvia’s mind, Rigel offers the way out. “A pilot will be there to extract you. He is trustworthy and skilled. The rendezvous point is outside the biodome’s sensor grid. It’s the only way.”

“No!” Sylvia’s denial is fierce, desperate. “There has to be another way. I can’t -I won’t-“

“Yes,” Rigel says, the single word cutting through Sylvia’s protests like a blade. “You will. Because it’s the only option that keeps you safe in the long term.”

“No—”

“Yes.”

The exchange continues, a verbal ping-pong match of denial and insistence, until Kano finally steps between them. His tall frame blocks Sylvia’s view of Rigel, forcing her to look up at him instead.

“Sylvie,” he says, his voice gentler than it has been all day. “She’s right.”

“Kano—”

“She’s right,” he repeats, his dark eyes holding hers. “Look, I know it’s terrifying. I know it seems impossible. But think about it logically. An unauthorized spacewalk? That’s exactly the kind of thing that no one investigates. It’s just done. The exact kind of thing they won’t expect from you, because they don’t think you can. Can’t imagine you would.”

Sylvia’s face crumples. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying it’s the cleanest escape route you have,” Kano says, his voice steady despite the fear he is trying to hide. “Official channels create trails. Trails lead to him. This… this is invisible. A pilot will be there. You’ll be in a suit. You’ll be safe.”

“You don’t know that,” Sylvia whispers.

“No,” Kano admits. “I don’t. But I know what happens if you stay. And that’s not uncertainty -that’s a guarantee.”

Rigel watches the exchange with the patience of someone who has orchestrated countless extractions. She understands the psychology of fear, the way it needs to be acknowledged before it can be overcome.

“The suit will be a perfect fit,” Rigel says, her voice softer now, almost reassuring. “Standard EVA gear, full life support, emergency beacon. The pilot being sent is experienced in this kind of operation. You’ll be in good hands.”

“But Kano, the Legion will know you helped.”

“He’ll suspect,” Kano corrects. “But he won’t be able to prove it. And even if he could… some things are not worth enough for him to risk.”

Rigel feels something twist in her chest at those words -pride, perhaps, or recognition of the man her son has become despite everything. But she pushes the emotion aside, focusing on the tactical requirements.

“We need to move soon,” Rigel says. “The longer we wait, the more variables we introduce. Sylvia, I need you to gather only the essentials. Nothing that can’t fit in a small bag. Nothing that would be missed if it disappeared.”

“Kano…” Sylvia insists.

“This isn’t goodbye, it’s see you later,” Rigel replies.

“Can you promise that?” Sylvia says, but there is resignation in her voice now, the exhausted acceptance of someone who has run out of options.

“No,” Rigel agrees. “I don’t. But I know that staying here guarantees you’ll never have the chance to find out.”

The room falls silent except for the low hum of the station’s life support systems. Through the projected window, stars wheel in their ancient dance, indifferent to the human drama playing out in the small quarters.

“The suit,” Rigel says finally, breaking the silence. “Kano.”

“I have someone in mind,” Kano replies. “Someone who won’t ask questions and will pretend to remember not having the conversation afterward.” He looks at Sylvia. “But first, I need to know you’re committed. Once we start this, there’s no going back.”

Sylvia’s breath catches, a shuddering inhale that seems to draw in more than just air. Her shoulders curve inward as if she is folding around some invisible wound, and for a long moment she stands with her eyes pressed shut, tears still wet on her cheeks. When her lashes finally lift, something fundamental has shifted. The tears remain, but behind them her green eyes have gone distant -not empty, but focused on something far beyond this room, beyond this moment. Her spine straightens with the terrible grace of someone who has just made an irrevocable choice.

“I’m committed,” she says quietly. “I’m terrified, but I’m committed.”

“Good,” Kano says. “Then let’s get you out of here.”