glow.

“How little I—” Stellan chuckles. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He shoots Neon a thin smile paired with an incredulous glare. “Really, how little I weighed?”

He considers letting it go, just as he originally planned—burying it for good, in case bringing it up risks someone else finding out and the humiliation spreads. But if this stays strictly between them, he might as well air his petty grievances.

“First of all, you’re lying. Second, I weigh a perfectly normal amount. You’re just out of touch.”

He shakes his head and turns back to the datapad. “Sad.” He doesn’t realize Neon is closing in until the damn poodle barks, making him nearly drop the device from the jolt of proximity. Stellan looks up, annoyed to find that, yes, Neon is fully capable of sneaking up on him. One more thing to stay alert about.

“Okay, okay!” He holds up both hands defensively. “Christ.” He grits his teeth, then takes a moment to collect himself. Straightening his jacket, running a hand through his hair, he exhales and fixes Neon with a look of barely restrained irritation.

“Please keep the dog away until I finish the report, dearest crew member. I know you’re extremely capable. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be asking you. I’ll go nowhere without your help.”

He nodded sagely, replacing a hand over the poodle's head and bringing it closer to himself. A few strokes later and the little beast was satiated, panted and drooling in his palm.

"Good boy," Neon said, though whether he was complimenting Stellan's behaviour or the poodle was uncertain.

Contented to return to the ship, Neon turned his back to Stellan with confidence and began his stride back up the ramp only to be intercepted by another dog the colour of fresh bread. Neon paused in stride and stared down at the dog, suddenly caught in a staring contest.

He took a step to the side. The dog followed. Then he took a step to the other side, and again, it followed.

For a second, Neon contemplated whether he could heft another dog in his arms before deciding that the bread dog was slightly too big for him to be juggling.

"Came here for the show, buddy?" he asked, reaching down to scritch behind the bread dog's ear with his free hand. "Sorry to say that you just missed it."

Neon glanced over his shoulder at Stellan. "Don't worry, the clown will be back in ten."

“An apt comparison.” He looks between Neon and the dog. “It must be how alike you are that makes it hard to tolerate you.” Stellan purses his lips in displeasure. “You need a leash.” He declares, then turns away. The ten foot distance between them gives Stellan the confidence to voice the catty suggestion. This time, he won’t be caught off guard if he strikes Neon’s nerves and the man decides to come after him.

“Just keep it away while I finish this stupid thing,” Stellan calls back, looking from the datapad to Neon, then back to the datapad. “It shouldn’t be as hard a task as getting your picture taken.” He continues, sarcastically, while his fingers fly between tabs and digital numpads. “Unless any simple request moves you to violence.”

"Still thinking about that, huh? Funny, I've already forgotten how little you weighed," he pointed out casually, the little poodle nestled contentedly in his palm still. Neon kept petting the dog as if it were an extension of Stellan himself. Small, ineffective, and easily tamed. The little poodle's tail continued to wag happily so long as he was stroking it, beating softly against his forearm.

He let the silence breathe before speaking again in his lazy cadence as he approached Stellan in slow, measured steps until their shadows bled together. "You're right, though. Some things are hard for me. Like following orders that sound more like tantrums. Where I'm from, we call that bad manners."

Then, he lifted the poodle toward Stellan, holding it between them like a threat. The pup kicked its little legs, resuming it's barking from the absence of petting.

“I won’t hold back,” Irina warned him, giving him the opportunity to back down. She had been itching for a fight. Between the stupid dinner and the nerves of the upcoming journey, it had taken a lot out of her to remain calm and not damage any property or persons of importance to the mission.

 Her hands began to shake slightly, the promise of violence electrifying her. As her instincts took over, her eyes scanned his form for clues of where his weak points might be. Evidently, Neon was a blend of man and machine, and visibly so, but Irina wondered how deep his circuits went; how much of him was still organic? She knew that if she was reckless, her knuckles might meet steel and suffer the consequences. A grin spread across her face at the thought. 

She lunged, her movement almost too quickly to process, her fist aiming for a hit on his diaphragm.

"Nice," he chuckled. Before she could yank her hand back, his cybernetic fingers closed around her wrist firmly, feeling the tremor of adrenaline under skin. Then, just as quickly, he let go, giving her a guiding push to the side as he took a half-step back and reset the space between them.

He pounded his chest with his own fist, producing another dull, metallic sound. "But you're hitting the chassis. All reinforced alloy and shock absorbers in here. You could break every bone in your hand before you'd so much as bruise me." His neon purple eyes glowed intensely, holding a flicker of something wild.

"You want to make a dent?" He tapped his own jawline, just below his ear. "You gotta aim higher."

There was a flash in him now, something ravenous and oddly delighted. The faint sting had done what adrenaline always did: sharpened him and made him bright. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders into a loose, ready stance that wasn't show so much as invitation.

"You went off in the mess hall earlier," Neon said, voice lowering, teasing. "Don't come here half-charged." He cocked his head, grin widening into something boyish and dangerous. "Make me feel it. Promise I won't tell the Captain you pulled the trigger early."

Prior to picking a specialty, Hyesung had trained in EM for about a year and been assigned his fair share of DNR patients: elderly people with fragile bones that wouldn't heal from chest compressions; terminally ill people near the end of their lives; people with underlying health issues that would be significantly worsened by a resuscitation attempt. The process was straightforward, in theory: papers were turned over, IVs were hooked for managing symptoms, the patient and family were given privacy, and that was that. In practice, it got dragged out by bureaucracy, making it stressful to work through, to witness. Even so, for each of his past cases, he could rationalize why it had been the sensible choice, could advocate and make peace with it. But Neon, as it turned out, was intent on setting himself apart, if only as a source of constant headache. 

Still, couldn't he do that from further away? Hyesung grit his teeth but years of not flinching from discomfort made him stay put even as Neon leaned close enough Hyesung could spot the faintly glowing patterns of circuits visible on his temples, his cheek. How odd it was, to be able to see through him still.  "It's not dedication, it's the standard follow-up," he corrected, matter-of-fact but for a slight edge of disapproval at the crude comparison, not at all modified by the change in attitude, the soft words wrapped in barbed wire. "You're a patient like any other to me. I'm not treating you differently". Regardless of whether you believe you should be, he didn't say. Then, in a tone both quieter and firmer: "And you're owed bodily integrity. That's not conditional on not having artificial parts to it. Many people do too, and they're more for it, not less."

Neon ought to know; they'd had plenty of arguments about that in the past. He opened his mouth to say as much— but, at Neon's insinuation, the downwards flick of his gaze, he clicked it shut and just stared at him wordlessly for a moment, expression cautiously blank. Perhaps the other had the right idea when he said they should leave the past behind, if the alternative was dealing with this. Absurd as it was, Hyesung forced himself to address the clear provocation, if only to nip the idea in the bud. In a calm, measured voice, he said, "People won't talk over me asking you questions pertinent to your health as your doctor. This, however—" he gestured at the space (or significant lack thereof) between them before continuing. "Might raise some eyebrows. Which is what you want to avoid, isn't it?" Shoving his hands into his pockets, he added, a tad more gravely, "If you don't want a line crossed, then don't cross it. I'm mindful of where I stand."

"You're gonna stand there and lecture me about lines? Don't insult my intelligence, Doc." The words weren't accusing. If anything, they were entertained, as though the hypocrisy was a familiar story he'd been expecting to hear again. "All those unsanctioned late-night visits. The extra therapy you insisted on doing yourself... The mornings I woke up with you holding my hand. Was that mindfulness too?"

For a flicker of a moment, the hard edge in his gaze softened, the neon glow dimming as a memory superimposed itself over the present. He wasn't seeing the stiff, professional man in front of him, but a younger version. A resident, barely older than a kid, with a desperate need to prove himself hidden behind a flimsy shield of protocol. A man who'd stayed long after his shifts had ended, who'd held a broken pilot together with little more than stubbornness and a quiet, aching loneliness that Neon recognized even then.

In his weakest moments, he saw a friend but now, he could only see it for what it was: a project. A crutch. He was a rung on someone else's ladder of self-esteem and every unnecessary concern now felt like a hammer trying to nail him back underfoot.

"You've been crossing the line since we met but now that I can move my body, you want to lecture me on boundaries? What's the matter? Are you scared of what your hands have taught mine to do?" Neon leaned in just enough for his words to brush his cheek, intimate without warmth. "Don't worry, Doc. I know what a line is, and if I decide to cross it, you won't have time to question it."

He straightened up then, peeling himself away from the suffocating proximity he'd created. The shift was abrupt, a casual dismissal that belied the intensity of the moment. With a shrug that was all performance, he turned and started down the corridor the way he'd come. He didn't look back, but his cool arrogance was punctuated by the robotic eyes of the logo on the back of his jacket pinning the doctor in place with accusation.

“Sit—ouch!” The miniature poodle playfully nips at Stellan’s ankles as he tries to walk away, forcing him into a clumsy dance of sidesteps and half-jumps. He swats at the air with one hand, attempting to shoo it away, with his datapad wobbling in the other. “I said sit! Stop—sit!” He was trying to start his planetary report when the dog bounded up to him with a level of enthusiasm Stellan was wholly unprepared for. 

He’s clearly no dog person. His commands are vague, half-hearted, and repeated like a broken record: sit, no, stop. No follow-through. No authority. Just a poor man hoping the animal will get the hint and leave him alone. This is why he doesn’t do pets. Too much energy. Too many interruptions. He just wants to work, for once in his life. 

Stellan finds himself drifting back toward the Supernova—and, unfortunately, Neon. He’s been avoiding the pilot ever since the camera incident, and he’d rather deal with ten dogs than talk to him right now. But the poodle won’t quit. 

Finally, at his wit’s end, Stellan locks eyes with Neon. “Stop! Go bother him—” He points sharply at the pilot, then glares at the poodle, “—him! Bother him!”

"Not a fan of your own medicine, huh?" he called out, voice dripping with amusement.

The dog yipped, darted in again and Stellan flinched like it had drawn blood. Neon finally abandoned the hatch control panel and approached the ramp, not to help, but to savor the view up close, like a man wandering toward a street act he'd already paid for.

When Stellan finally snapped and jabbed a finger at him, the poodle froze before bolting straight to Neon's boots. With lazy ease, Neon crouched, scooped it up one-handed like a football, and scratched under its chin. The little beast melted instantly, tail wagging with approval.

He gave the poodle a casual pat before glancing back at Stellan. "Can't handle half a man, can't handle half a mutt. What can you handle?"

Hyesung, a junior resident at the time, had been one of the few assigned to the case alongside chief and senior doctors due to his facility at handling patients of similar anatomy, down to its brand-new components, but he struggled to treat it with as much impartiality. It could be the arguably fewer degrees of separation between him and the subject of study and the memories it brought to the surface, or it could be that, so early in his career, he was just that much stupider about managing personal stakes over his patients' recovery. Either way, when they had stood across from each other for the first time in many years in the brief room, it wasn't the eerie, artificial glow of his eyes that made the man so recognizable but the glare of them.

Every day for the nearly five months of his rehabilitation, Hyesung had been levelled with that glare, for crimes that ranged from assisting him on sitting up or holding a steadying hand when his body faltered to simply being in the same room with the intention to help him. Beneath the glare though, there was always a tiny, stubborn spark of grim determination in him. That had mattered to Hyesung — so much he'd arrive earlier at work, take longer shifts, skip intervals, argue with co-workers, let his scrubs stain with both sweat and engine oil alike and let himself be used as both a metaphorical and literal clutch, all to keep it from fizzling out. Back then, that had mattered to him more than almost anything. 

He was faced with neither the glare nor the spark now, but something more guarded, deliberate — a man in possession of his own body again. The difference was stark, and only emphasized the time and circumstances between then and now. A small world indeed, made smaller by strictly timed, conveniently arranged "coincidences". "So it seems. It's Neon, right?" The name that flashed across his mind at the sight of him might be another, but he'd ditch it if the man wanted him to. He was, as far as Hyesung was concerned, overdue for the choice of choosing which parts of himself to keep.

"The medical history of a patient is relevant to healthcare professionals assigned to them and otherwise confidential," he offered in lieu of an agreement. Taking a small, measured step backwards, he lowered his datapad to give the other his full attention before evenly adding, "It may come up during your mental and physical health check-ins, though. I assume it would not be a problem then".

Suddenly, he was reminded he had meant to speak to the man earlier. His gaze dropped to a spot above the man's shoulder. "By the way, has the new implant given you any discomfort?" In a tone somewhere between apologetic and annoyed, he explained, "The procedure happened so shortly before our departure they allowed me no time to check in with you after the procedure. If you have any complaints, I can take a look at the implant and see what can be done to help".

Neon had already half-turned, the set of his shoulders communicating a finality that needed no words after being satisfied with the doctor's compliance to his demands. The line was drawn and now he was going to walk away from it.

But then Hyesung's voice piped up, professional and persistent, and the muscles in Neon's back went rigid. The question about the implant was like a phantom limb itching. It was the same tone of clinical concern that had followed him for months, a constant reminder of his own fragility. He stopped, but didn't turn around immediately. He wanted the good doctor to read the bold D.N.R emblazoned on the back of his jacket and be reminded that he was well enough now to make decisions.

When he pivoted back to Hyesung, the easygoing demeanor he wore looked sharpened like a honed blade as he closed the gap in two strides and leaned in, crowding Hyesung's space.

"Doc," he said, soft enough to sound fond, though the edge was impossible to miss. "I admire the dedication, but let's get something straight. That wasn't a procedure. They slotted a chip into a port. You don't ask your data pad if it's uncomfortable when you slide in a new memory card, do you?"

He held Hyesung's gaze, the silence thick with unspoken history. "You keep fussing over me like this and people are going to talk," he murmured, his tone shifting from menacing to teasing. A deliberate and destabilizing change of tactics.

"Or worse," he added, his gaze dropping to Hyesung's lips for a split second before rising again, "I might start to think you actually missed me."

She briefly blinked in surprise when she noticed that the room wasn’t empty. ‘Shit.’ she swore internally, not expecting anyone to have been here this time of night. She’d wanted to beat the crap out of a punching bag in solitude, but it looked like she was in for some company. She briefly assessed the person before her for any sign of threat, relaxing only slightly when she recognized the man’s face. She vaguely remembered him from some unimportant meeting she had mentally checked out for. 

Her eyes didn’t leave Neon’s as he approached her, her posture as unfriendly as her expression; normally, this would be enough for people to feel self-conscious under her glare, to break first and look away. That didn’t seem to be the case with the man before her, as he held eye contact as easily as he held out his hand. She briefly considered not taking it. She would’ve brushed him off, had his confidence not intrigued her. Odd, for someone who wasn’t a soldier.

A brief pause, then Irina grabbed his hand steadily, responding with a handshake that was a bit too firm for comfort; a show of dominance. A test.

“Depends. What’s your idea of a hard time?”

It was as much of a test as it was them meeting in the middle. She was a force, and he, an immovable object.

He met her challenging stare with placidity, his neon eyes holding hers without a flicker of intimidation or aggression. She was a coiled spring, wound tight with an energy that vibrated in the air around her. He recognized it. It was the same restless energy that hummed under his own skin, the kind that found stillness intolerable and sought release in motion. The corner of his mouth ticked upward in a little smirk, pleased that she was exactly as advertised.

Taking a half-step back, Neon created a sliver of space and nodded towards the row of bags swinging gently in the draft of the gym's ventilation. It was a dare wrapped up in an invitation. "My idea of a hard time starts with seeing if you can actually hit something that doesn't just hang there and take it." His eyes never left hers, the violet sparking with the same interest he had while staring down solar flares. He cracked his knuckles, the sound of his organic hand popping sharply, followed by the softer, metallic click of his cybernetic one.

"Your call, but you should know that I expect my gunners to be able to hit a moving target."

her eyes flick shut. for a moment, she lets herself imagine what it would be like if she gives herself permission to trust, to let go of the reins, to let someone else shoulder the weight for once. the thought is terrifying. the thought is intoxicating. when she turns back, the starlight cuts across her features, softening them despite the iron in their posture. “it’s not about liking it,” she says, steady but quiet, the words dragging from somewhere deeper than orders or protocol. “it’s about whether i can afford to trust you when the line between brilliance and recklessness is razor-thin.”

she lets that hang for a beat before stepping closer again, her gaze catching his. “you want me to believe in you? then stop hiding behind the grin and the theatrics. show me the part of you that isn’t trying to outrun ghosts.” her voice dips lower, almost a whisper now, the kind of honesty she rarely lets slip. “because the crew may need your genius. but i-” their breath catches, jaw tightening around the words she doesn't quite want to name, “-i need to know the man we’ve put at the helm won’t burn us all down just to prove he can rise from the wreckage.”

the silence that follows is heavy, but not hostile—an opening, carved sharp and vulnerable between them.

He'd heard it a hundred times, in a hundred different voices. They saw the cybernetics, the reckless flying, the disregard for laws be it the Republic or nature itself, and they pieced it together into a story they could understand: a broken man trying to prove he was still whole. The irony was as bitter as it was funny. They couldn't possibly comprehend that he wasn't trying to prove he was whole. He was celebrating the fact that he was fundamentally broken. No sane man came back from the dead and thought to run right back into the arms of the very thing that killed him in the first place.

"Oh Captain," he sighed, leaning back casually in his chair as if he were settling in to watch a particularly interesting stellar phenomenon. "If I needed to prove anything, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'm not the kind of guy who waits around for opportunity."

 He tapped his own chest with two cybernetic fingers, the sound a dull click-click of metal on metal. "Trust me, the part where I rise out of the ashes has already been written."

The pilot's chair groaned under him as he stared out at the endless, star-dusted void. Light caught in his violet eyes, softening the glow and folding it into the darkness like it belonged to the cosmos itself. His grin softened into something quiet and reverent, an echo of the boy he once was. "You've got it twisted if you think this is about my ego. I'm not running from anything, I'm running towards it. Every time I take the throttle, it's a love letter to the same abyss that keeps chewing me up and spitting me back out." The silence in the cockpit swelled around them as his eyes traced the stars. "And I'll keep writing them, over and over, until there's nothing left of me to give."

“you think that’s funny?” lina asks, voice low, cutting. she steps closer, enough for the light of the console to catch in the steel of their gaze. “that’s not just you out there playing hero or martyr. that’s all of us.” her hand brushes the chair back as she moves past him toward the viewport, needing the stars in their sightline instead of his grin. the longer she looks at him, the less she trusts herself. out there, endless black and glittering light stretch in every direction. it should make them feel small. instead, it reminds her just how much rests in her hands, and how badly part of her wants to let go of the controls, just once, and fall with him.

she exhales, slow and deliberate, before speaking again, quieter now. “don’t make me the bad guy, neon. not tonight.”

"It's the truth," he said, tone dropping to a lower register, his arrogance pared back to something colder. "I've known what the stakes were since the day I first wrapped my hand around a throttle, Captain. Don't mistake me for someone who's forgotten what happens when things go wrong."

They passed him on the way to the viewport, and for a moment he let them have the silence and the stars. He studied her backlit outline against the darkness, tense and heavy with a burden that he could almost feel. It was same one that gnawed at him each time he sat in the pilot's seat, the weight of failure perched on his shoulders and whispered in his ear.

But that was also where they differed. Risk sharpened him, made him bolder. He ran towards it and embraced it with both arms like a partner. Every close call, every brush-with-death maneuver wasn't defiance, it was devotion to the space that thought it could deter him from loving it. And if he was reckless, it was because he'd already learned the cruel fact of the matter: guilt wasn't an emotion dead people could feel. "Blame me for enjoying the job if you like, but it's this insanity that's going to keep us ahead of the Blight if it chases us," Neon said, finally turning his eyes to the viewport. The Supernova sailed smooth and steady through the black, Argos a distant sparkle ahead.

"You don't have to like how I fly," he added, quieter. His thumb brushed the throttle with unconscious tenderness. "You just have to believe I'll get us home."

esme’s grin faltered for a second when neon’s eyes locked on hers, that heavy seriousness threading through his words. then…snap her smile was back, brighter than before, like she could bulldoze through the weight of his tone with sheer force of personality.

“damage the ship?” she gasped, clutching the squid balloon dramatically to her chest as it deflated another pitiful wheeze. “neon, please. do i look like someone reckless enough to mess with your baby?”

behind her, one of the clones snorted way too loud. the other tried and failed to keep a straight face.

she leaned forward on her toes, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial. “relax. I’d never hurt the ship. She’s your girl, and I know better than to mess with her. I was just gonna…” She trailed off, her grin tugging wider. “let’s call it… mood enhancement. Nothing a mop can’t fix.”

she reached out and tapped the frying pan still in his grip with her fingertip, her smile softening just a touch. “besides… if i was gonna start chaos, i’d want you on my team. you’d make a killer partner-in-crime. you’ve got the whole broody cool thing down, i’ve got the sparkle. perfect balance.”

the clones nodded in unison behind her, a chorus of esmes backing up her pitch.

“c’mon, neon,” she teased, eyes glittering. “don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to see dessert time get a little… explosive.”

"Explosive, huh?" he said finally, voice flat but carrying a note of dry amusement. "Careful throwing that one around in front of me. I don't do party tricks, Pipsqueak. When I light a fuse, something's not coming back in one piece."

He let the silence hang for a second, letting the implication settle as ominously between them as the frying pan in his hand.

"...So what exactly were you planning on detonating with no fire?"

For someone who spent their whole lives flying solo, that fact didn't sit well with him. The reckless, slapped together mech suits he built in his youth with Hakkun had room for exactly one person. Later at the academy, he tolerated a wingman or two in the backseat, but they were strictly ornamental. He did all the work and they tried not to puke. That was how he liked it. Piloting wasn't a duet and the Supernova already had a navigator, Captain and whatever that man who reeked of alcohol was supposed to be.

Exactly how many people was he supposed to squeeze into his cockpit?

So there he was, walking into the mess with one lonely custard on his plate and a plan. He spotted her, Lilith, at a table, looking like she was fighting a war between ambition and stomach capacity.

Neon didn't answer right away when she looked up at him. He just slid into the seat across from her and set the custard down between them like a chip at a poker table. Leaning back, he folded his arms across his chest as he leveled her with a flat stare. "I came to barter a deal," Neon stated, point-blank. "But since you seem to have gotten ahead of yourself, let's make this simple: I fly and you save the galaxy. Got it?"

finally, her eyes cut back to him, the burn of adrenaline still hot and restless under her skin. “barely,” she says, her voice rougher than she means it to be. she straightens, forcing their hands to unclench, forcing her spine back into something resembling command even though their legs still hum from the rush. she should be furious. she should call him reckless, call him out for gambling with more than his own life, lay down the kind of law that the captain should. but instead, the corner of their mouth twitches. it's not quite a smile, not quite surrender, but something that betrays the truth she hates most: she’d loved every second of it.

lina shakes her head, exhaling sharp through their nose. “you’re insane,” she mutters, though the words land closer to admiration than condemnation. her gaze lingers on him a fraction too long, on the tremor in his human hand, on the way his grin had shifted from predator to something far younger, rawer, unguarded. she hates how much that version of him draws her in, how it cracks the armor they've worked so hard to keep sealed. stepping back from the console, lina folds her arms again, as if trying to rebuild the distance she’d just let slip. “don’t make me regret letting you keep the wheel,” she says finally, though her voice is softer, the edge dulled by the echo of their own heartbeat still racing to match his orbit.

"Relax, Captain. I've only shaved ten minutes off our ETA to Argos," he said, his voice lazy and satisfied. "Insanity would've cut at least twenty." He ran his tongue over his teeth, the picture of unbothered confidence. Most pilots saw a ship's limits as a wall. Neon saw them as a starting line. Just the thought of chaining gravitational assists from planet to planet like a ping pong ball made his fingers itchy.

But the adrenaline faded fast, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The hum of the engines suddenly sounded too much like the silence that came after the explosion. For a flicker of a moment, he wasn't in the Supernova. He was back in a shattered cockpit, the air thick with the smell of burning metal. His grin stiffened, a shadow brushing across the corners of his eyes. He drew in a long, careful breath, as if it could chase the memory away.

"Thing about these missions is that they don't mean a damn thing if you don't bring the ship home," he said, his voice stripped of its earlier swagger, leaving something quieter in its place. His bionic hand caressed the console it was attached to, his fingers fondling the wires and the ports with a strange, loving tenderness. "Lucky for this crew... I'm real good at making it back."

Neon tipped his head back against his chair, a glint of mischief returning to his eyes as he looked up at them again. The mask of the reckless thrill seeker slid back into place, but the fit wasn't as perfect as before. "Besides, if I screw up from here on out, you won't be around long enough to regret it anyway."

"Noted," she gulps, her attempt at 'hazing' the new kids with some gentle teasing a resounding failure. However, if she viewed the interaction a litmus test she'd gather all the information necessary. Neon was not to be questioned and not to be disturbed. If any of the other crew members reported issues with him, it would require very little explanation.

"Your lesson in nutrition is appreciated," she replied and took a step back so that her back was flush with the wall, providing him ample space to leave.

her arms tighten over their chest, but it feels less like armor and more like restraint. she hates that. she hates the part of her that wants to step closer, to test whether his bite is as dangerous as promised. the hum of the engines fills the pause she lets stretch between them. her eyes flick to the cable fused with his hand, the faint glow of the console lights threading through him as if the ship itself recognizes him. it makes something knot tight in her chest, a reminder of how precarious this all is—not just him, not just her, but everyone sleeping in their bunks depending on her to keep them alive.

“i’m not here to make a dog out of you,” lina says, stepping inside at last, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss. “but if you think i’m going to let you drag this crew into your orbit without consequence, then you don’t know me as well as you seem to think you do.” she stops just short of the pilot’s chair, close enough to catch the reflected starlight in his eyes, far enough to keep herself from being pulled entirely into his gravity. her jaw tightened, but there's a flicker of something else in their gaze. hunger, yes, but laced with restraint so taut it aches.

“show me why i should trust you,” lina says finally, voice dropping into something sharper, daring in its own right. “and maybe i’ll let myself enjoy the ride.”

He settled back into the chair, his posture shifting from a casual slouch to something more symbiotic. It was as if the chair became a part of his spine, his hands moving over the controls with the speed of intuition and the certainty of skill. The Supernova responded instantly, a deep groan shuddering up from the ship's core as the inertia dampeners struggled to compensate for the sudden, violent surge of the engines.

The stars outside the viewport stretched into colourful smears as the ship screamed around them, metal shrieking under stress and the engine snarling at the pressure. Through the viewport, a field of space debris and asteroid fragments loomed before them like a glittering deathtrap.

Neon didn't slow. Instead, he accelerated, plunging them directly into the heart of it. He was a blur of motion, his eyes darting between the chaos outside and the data scrolling across the main screen. The ship rolled onto its side, narrowly avoiding a chunk of rock the size of a fighter craft. The proximity alarms blared frantically.

He felt their presence behind him but he didn't look back. The memory of Hakkun's face flickered like a warning but he didn't feel guilt or grief right then. Only the fuel of adrenaline burning cold and keeping him empty. "For the record, I love consequences," he grunted as he slammed a fist against the throttle, pushing the ship into a dive that seemed to defy physics. "Especially when they're hard and fast."

Just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The Supernova burst through the other side of the debris field into the silent black of open space. The alarms cut out one by one and the engines settled back into a contented purr.

For a moment, Neon just sat there, the tension gradually bleeding out of his shoulders. A small tremor ran through his organic hand, the only outward sign of the adrenaline that had just flooded his system. Slowly, he leaned back and swiveled around to face her again, the movement unhurried and lazy. The razor grin was back, but this time it held a different quality. It wasn't daring or warm, but rather something wild and unguarded, boyish and brilliant. His neon eyes shone brightly in the dim cockpit, seeming to cast their own light.

"Still with me, Captain?"