Tex was halfway across the deck when his sensors picked up the detonation.

  He stopped.

  Just for a beat.

  No words. No ceremony.

  Only a quiet, private wish that wherever Susan Durant was headed, it was better than here.

  Then he moved again.

  Back toward the front of the ship, boots clanking against metal as he walked the long stretch of the Ark’s landing strip.

  The deck was littered with husks—old analog aircraft, prop planes and jet fighters rusted down to their bones. Time had turned them into carcasses.

  He paused beside one.

  Ran a hand over its weather-pitted fuselage.

  The Black Suns roundel was still barely visible on the underside of the wing—ghosted under years of grime. The upper surface had crumbled, held together by little more than memory and rust.

  It was like staring into the face of a corpse.

  He shivered. Servos twitched beneath his frame.

  Then turned his gaze forward—toward the control tower at the far end of the runway. A monolith in silhouette. A forgotten nerve center.

  The walk took time. The wind howled faintly overhead.

  When he reached the entryway and stepped inside, the light cut out behind him.

  Darkness swallowed the hall.

  Only the Ark’s long, aching groans remained. Metal shifting against metal. A sleeping colossus in pain.

  Ahead, a light.

  Warm. Inviting.

  He made his way over, entering the room slowly.

  “Thank the Makers,” he muttered, leaning against the doorway. A small smile flickered across his face.

  The mess hall was quiet, but still well-lit. Dusty 50s-style diner booths lined the space—worn but sturdy. A few vending machines sat dormant along the wall.

  And there, miraculously, a jukebox. Still humming. Still alive.

  Tex drifted toward the vending machine first, scanning the faded drink options. He pressed a finger to the reader, submitted a transfer, and tapped the button.

  With a clunk, a can dropped.

  He picked it up, reading the wild retro art as his Geiger counter gave a friendly little growl.

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  “I didn’t know how much I missed this swill…” he murmured with a faint grin.

  Drink in hand, he walked to the jukebox.

  Number 44.

  He punched it in and watched the cassettes cycle—gears clicking, old belts whirring.

  “Fly Me to the Moon,” by Frank Sinatra.

  The tape warped slightly with age, the crooning vocals wavering now and then—but it was sound. Beautiful, imperfect sound.

  Noise he could take solace in.

  Tex made his way to a booth. Sat down slowly, the seat groaning under his weight. He cracked the can and took a sip of the old reactor refresher.

  Sweet, sweet nuclear fuel.

  It tasted awful.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  Sure, the fight was still on.. but he had just stepped outside for a smoke. After all the shit he had to put up with today? He had earned it.

  He took another sip. Let it sit on his tongue. Metallic. Bitter. But warm.

  “Still tastes like old coolant and battery acid…” he muttered.

  He leaned back in the booth, the jukebox warbling through the second verse, letting Sinatra do the talking for once.

  The lights overhead buzzed softly. Faint, steady. Like a heartbeat.

  For a moment, just a moment—Tex felt human.

  Then the radio clicked.

  “Y’know,” R/CO’s voice drifted in, “this is the part where I’d usually tell you to keep moving. Something about forward progress, objective chains, whatever.”

  Tex didn’t move. Just watched the soft lights reflect off the rim of his can.

  “But not this time.” A pause. “This time... I’m letting you breathe.”

  Tex gave a tired smile. “You’re gettin’ sentimental.”

  “I’m not sentimental,” R/CO shot back. “I’m smart. You burn too hot, too long, you melt your own fuses. Even a war machine needs a smoke break.”

  Tex chuckled. It sounded more like a loose bolt rattling in his chest.

  “I appreciate it,” he said.

  There was a long pause on the line.

  Then, softly—genuine:

  “I miss him too.”

  Tex didn’t answer.

  Didn’t have to.

  The music played on.

  There was a soft hum on the line—just ambient bleed from R/CO’s end. Maybe fan noise. Maybe just a breath caught in a digital throat.

  “Yeah…” he finally said. “She was a relic. But not obsolete.”

  Tex let the silence stretch a little, tilting the can between his fingers, watching the way the light played off the label.

  “She chose how it ended,” he said. “Not many get that.”

  “Not many get remembered either.”

  That one cut deep. Tex didn’t say anything right away. Just let the weight of it settle. He glanced at the rusted jukebox, now cycling through to the next cassette—a grainy instrumental track with too much hiss and not enough fidelity.

  But it was still music.

  Still noise.

  Still something.

  “I’ll remember her,” Tex said finally, almost under his breath. “As long as my clock ticks.”

  “That’s enough.”

  There was no directive. No new waypoint. No mission log update.

  Just presence.

  And that, too, was enough.

  He reached into his pocket, pulling out his comfort screw, and gently tucked it into the corner of his mouth, just slowly rolling it between his teeth like some kind of cigar, just giving slow, subtle chews as he said, "Fuck, man... so... who else have we got on the docket?"

  "You might not have long to wait... I've got a radar contact in a landing pattern. So you might have company soon." He said as he added, "It's Sky Knight."

  Tex scoffed, "That fucking guy? He's so far up the Entente's ass I'm surprised he can still see!"

  "Yeah, well... guess who's still got the cleanest armor and an ego polished to match?" R/CO replied, tone dry.

  Tex bit down lightly on the comfort screw, letting it click against his teeth.

  “Let me guess—still delivering monologues like he’s auditioning for a propaganda reel?”

  "Hasn’t skipped a beat. He’s broadcasting on wideband already. Want me to patch you in?"

  Tex groaned like a rusty bulkhead. “Please don’t. Last time I listened in I thought my ears were gonna file for conscientious objection.”

  "Noted. But keep your eyes sharp—he’s not flying a patrol vector. That’s a challenge run. Straight for the tower."

  Tex leaned forward in the booth, eyes narrowing.

  “Of course it is.”

  He spat the comfort screw into his hand and tucked it back into his pocket with care—ritual complete.

  “Alright, Sky Knight. Let’s dance.”

  He could already hear the engines screaming on approach.

  A battle he wasn’t built for…

  But he’d fight it anyway—

  Just to shut the bastard the fuck up.