#tsats:tlb

People have often been described as being a product of everyone who has loved them - or who have at least been in their life, for good or for bad. That their physicality is formed of stardust, but the soul is a commodity comprising all the resources of a person's history, language and culture. In short, they are who they may become each given day, not who they have been. 

Though this only reaches as far as the past will let it. Sometimes it can dig its claws in; sink its teeth into the jugular and tear the voice from the lungs; the thrumming of the heart; the listlesses and evolution of the thought. It wraps bandages around the chest; pierces the ears and churns the stomach. The past will lurk in the shadows; be otherwise harmless glances and innocuous comments. The past had its chains wrapped around his ankles, biting and heavy. 

Some days he let the weight hang from his shoulders. It was easier that way - to him it was, anyway. Therapists had been offered and subsequently declined as far as his limited rights to consent could manage. What good could they do if the people paying for them were biased in their selection? Still, he took the pills that were offered, when he remembered, and worked. And worked. And worked until his scarred fingers bled. He worked until his thoughts ran clear and the water ran murky with a hard day's toil. After all, the Supertanker wasn’t going to dismantle itself. 

Three standard months had already passed since it had been ‘sunk’ - the last of its fuel reserves keeping its heart beating as it followed a controlled descent into the atmosphere of Hephaestus Ten before being laid to rest at the hands of scrappers looking for a paycheck. Like whale fall to the seabed, its body was being shed by scavengers to be redistributed among their ecosystem and build newer ship models. Easily, a simple bolt had travelled more miles than the scrapyard workers had combined. Regardless, Fennec kept his head down, and repeatedly pushed the oversized helmet back from where it slipped in front of his eyes. The straps dug in uncomfortably around his pierced ears, and harness housing his tools at his hips only accentuated what he tried to hide. 

It was getting late, as evidenced by the twin suns finally completing their journey across the smoggy sky, and beginning to settle behind the industrial horizon of the ‘backside’ of Hephaestus Ten. It was the so-called flagship planet of the system, and home of the H.U.S.C - Humanities United Systems Commission, a company that spread across several systems, and then some. Regardless of its status, the ground was cold and cracked from two suns that were a touch too far away like they were just out of reach. The days were dim and damp, and the nights were cold and frigid. During the winter months, the polluted snow was known to pile several meters, with the paths dug lining themselves with ice that crunched underfoot. 

His breaths came in white puffs as the cool grey night sky speckled itself with a few boastful stars; nowhere near the freckled skies he used to see as a child from his family home on the other side of the planet. So he kept his head down, and continued to work until the last of the sensation in his fingers numbed beneath the two-handed drill, and then until they locked up beneath the gloves he allowed himself to wear. With nothing but an empty room to return to, he found it easier to work until his legs began to shake, and his stomach growled so violently it could be heard beneath the rumble of impact tools and shrieking metal. It didn’t bother him much, as beneath the oversized helmet was a set of headphones pressed against his ears, allowing him to be unencumbered by small talk, and protected from the agitating sound of footsteps on the gangways behind him. Everyday he played his music loud and bleating - rattling his teeth and pulsing behind his eyes, just the way he liked it. It allowed him to keep his mind clear; falling into maladaptive daydreams to offset the screaming visages of vague memories from too little life already lived. It kept him in the present when the crashes of moving metal tore from the loading bays, and the backfiring of engines threatened to pull him into suffocating flashbacks that he only ever saw the edges of. 

He let the night push on. With him, a sparse collection of deconstruction workers continued to collect their overtime until the final buzzer rang, signalling any further work would not be awarded pay. At just thirty-percent of the hourly rate, overtime was hardly worth it to many; and supervisors had long since departed from the offices that looked over the hangar from the far-end. But he had nowhere to be, he never did. At just nineteen years old, he’d settled firmly into the idea that he was alone; given permission by his family to fade into obscurity to not demean their name further. If people knew the circumstances he came from, he would’ve been called insane. But if he stayed there, he would be she, and she would be supervised down to the length of her hair.

Some would argue - and have argued - that his being was a reflection of childish rebellion, and that he could be talked out of it.

That being enlisted would force him to snap out of it-

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. 

Involuntarily, he turned and ducked on instinct. His grip tightened on the drill and he fought every nerve that was telling him to raise the barrel at the intruder. The movement was terrifyingly clinical for such a small frame; a baby-faced teenager whose shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the planet and then some. 

He blinked. Spotlights illuminated the gangways, a solitary moon hung behind the clouds visible from the open side of the hangar. He took a breath, then another, before realising the person was speaking to him. Frustrated, he knocked his helmet off and removed his headphones, letting them hang around his neck so the deafening music played at a normal volume like a tinny speaker. Willman Brass, human and a good twenty years older than him, held his arms up in mock surrender. 

“-before first buzzer, and hang around until last. You ever stop working, kid?” He asked, smirk creasing the corners of his eyes. The kid huffed, and let the drill drop to his hip, it clattered painfully against the bruised skin of his thigh as a fraying cord kept it attached to his belt. He huffed, forcing a smile. Willman rubbed his gloved hands together, briefly looking away. His round cheeks were pink with cold, and his oversized puffer jacket offered some protection against the cool air. Mid-shift, the ceiling vents had been opened, forcing all hot air that had risen out into the atmosphere.  

“Ships not going to dismantle itself.” He shrugged, voice hoarse and still deceivingly high. It’s possibly the most he has spoken in days. 

“Maybe not, but you’ve only been here, what, seven months? You’ll burn out quickly.” 

“I know what I'm doing.” He said, heckles raised. Willman stepped back as the kid took hold of his drill once again, preparing to turn back to the bolts that weren’t going to unscrew on their own. He just had one more section of plating to go before he exposed the wiring, giving him something lighter to handle as opposed to straining to move sheets of metal out of the way on his own. 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” said Willman, and gave him a pointed look, “no one even knows your name.”

“No one ever asked.” He levelled. Willman waited.

“It’s Fennec.” He said finally, the name falling easily from his tongue, if a little forced. 

“It’s good to meet you, Fennec.” Willman held out a hand. Fennec took it weakly and shook it. His brain almost stopped at the contact; the warm squeeze of someone else holding onto him if just for a second as he overthought the ways in which to navigate the handshake. Fennec nodded, face blank as he idly inspected his drill, both hands reaching down to grasp the worn metal. The power bar told him it had less than an hour of use left. 

“Likewise.” He said, forcing the conversation forward despite every instinct daring him to lock his voice down. He was yet to meet Willman’s eyes. He couldn’t even say what colour they were, but he knew the man's stature from a mile away, it was hard not to. He was well-built: thick with old muscle and from nutritious home-cooked meals, and a mop of dark hair and beard so thick not even their metal-cutting tools could tame it. Like all other Scrappers, he wore a brightly coloured coat with a fur-lined hood. His was an oily yellow, and Fennec's was an ugly, checkered thing of very shade of blue and a grey, fur-lined hood, but it was his. It had been new; bought with money he didn’t want, so he made sure to beat, crease and mangle it before his first day. He wanted to fade into the scene; appear just like everyone else and remove the possibility for watchful eyes. By the way Willman had clocked him, offering greetings in passing and pointing him towards the best place to store his backpack, Fennec had been evidently unsuccessful in his attempts. It made him physically recoil to be seen as he’d never been taught how to be able to. 

“A couple of us are headed to The Ballast. Wanted to see if you’d join.” Willman said after a moment, hands deep in his pockets to stave off the ever-decreasing temperatures. A thin layer of frost had long since descended on the railings of the gangways, though shaved off in places where the clips from dated harnesses scored along the tops. It was cheaper to have workers tether to metal bars than it was to pump heat through the walkways to stop them freezing over. It was their fault if they fell, a morbid tally in the locker room displayed as much. Fennec licked his lips, mouth dry at the request. 

“Only needs to be one drink,” Willman pressed, “just thought I’d ask.”

The Ballast. He knew where that was - just down the street from his apartment block. It was noisy and always packed and had a steady stream of patrons drunkenly stumbling down the street at all hours of the cycle. It was full of people and eyes and expectations and conversations that would stick in his head longer than he would have been a patron there. While testosterone had sharpened his edges, and put a smattering of hairs on his chin, the tight bindings across his chest reminded him he wasn’t one of them, and that wasn’t going to change for a while. 

“It’s not really my thing.” Fennec said apologetically, eyes fixed to the ground. 

“Why, you not old enough to drink yet?” Asked Willman, mirth spread across his lips. “Doesn’t have to be your thing. Just don’t think you should be alone. Not here, anyway.” 

Fennec finally met his gaze. His eyes were kind, yet steeled for the rejection. Fennec didn’t need a minder, he didn’t need someone telling him what he should and shouldn’t be doing. This new life was supposed to be void of those presuppositions; giving him control of his choices. However, Willman had given him the perfect opportunity to lie about his age, despite it not mattering, and he was too slow on the uptake to only just realise it. 

“Just one.” The agreement tumbled out faster than he could stop it. 

“One.” Willman nodded, and clapped his hand over Fennec's shoulder, sealing the deal before he could back down. 

Fennec Tanner stared listlessly at his tray, and tried to remember how he had arrived at the table. Of course, he’d woken up at First Call, and he was certain he had washed by the dull scent of soap still stuck in his overgrown hair from the low water pressure. His clothes were clean too, so it must have been the fourth day of the working cycle; laundry was only ever given out the fourth morning for their block, including sheets and towels. It was a miracle that engine grease hadn’t permanently settled in his pores as unwanted freckles. His hips ached; though they would do. The harnesses for the Plates that held them aloft as they deconstructed the freighter were far from forgiving in their lack of comfort. The starched overalls scratched at the raw skin beneath them, and he absently itched the areas, deep enough to strike bone as he did so. 

He sighed and poked at the congealed fruit that no-doubt came from the canisters shipped to the site. The texture was even more grotesque on his tongue, but he wasn’t about to spend another stint in the infirmary for malnutrition. Everything they were given kept them just below the precipice of full. It made them work harder for the end of year rewards; a measly package of comforts that would inevitably get stolen. He never bothered. Instead, he remained impressively average.

So he kept his head down in more ways than one; quietly eating as the hall echoed with the sound of scraping cutlery and aimless chatter. It was one of the few days that the volume lowered enough to be able to hear the person next to you, as workers waited with baited breaths for their next assignment; hopeful for something bigger yet forever determined for something insignificant, but enough to send money home and a roof over their heads. 

Opposite him, a younger man sat. He was new; new enough that he still had that look in his eyes that everything would work out, and waited listlessly until he was given something to do. Not wanting to leave the kid alone, Tanner took him under his wing with the intention of helping him on his way of getting on with whatever his stations are. He’d done it several times; his penchant for routine offering comfort to those needing a gentle nudge. Yet the kid hung around. More often than not, Tanner's quietness and awkward and downright avoidant tendencies pushed people away. But not this person. He was equally as quiet; a shadow. Just happy to be included, by all definitions. 

So Tanner let him stay, only learning his name: Rosco. He’d be reassigned soon anyway, so he’d have to do it all over again until he built the confidence to be his own person. A vicious cycle that only destroys you, if you let it. Tanner had been eaten up, chewed and digested by it by the time he found his own two feet, so he sat at the same bench everyday; the one with his back to the wall after he’d accepted the same meal every morning with indifference and a polite thanks to the servers. His hair helped him hide. 

It kept him hidden throughout the graduation march, too. It was three years ago, but Fennec didn't need to look up to the balconies to know his family wasn't there. Invites had been sent on his behalf, but he didn't chase up the RSVP's. He knew. He'd always known. They'd given up on the son they never tried with in the first place.

A presence by his side pulled him from his staring, as he recognised the woman who joined their little group. 

“Alright, Princess?” She asked, a shipped smile on her face as she slapped her tray against the already chipped table. As always he cringed at the nickname, but smirked anyway. She’d brought company after all: Kem and Thayer. They were a strange combination of people, but their frequent successes and few mistakes landed them a recurring role in Shipping and Receiving. Kem was a small but slender woman from the Keplar System, as was easily identifiable by her sharpened, bluish teeth behind even bluer lips. Thayer was from another Earth colony that he was yet to disclose, but it was evident he had gotten in trouble with the law to be shipped as far as he had. The Earth colonies were damn near the other side of the galaxy. Tanner would know, he was very specific when signing up, and they were somewhat happy to oblige his wishes. 

“Morning.” He said absently, unsurprised at how gravelly his voice sounded from disuse. There wasn’t much point in talking if he didn’t need to. Rosco looked between them, lips pressed together in anticipation to speak. 

“C’mon, I haven’t seen you in months, Princess. What’s new?” She smacked him on the shoulder. Brynna was a character he couldn't shake. She was warm and talkative, and took whatever she needed to on the chin. She was liked by all and respected by droves. Despite this, she still gravitated towards him when her rotation kept her off the shipment runs long enough to sleep horizontally, rather than sat up in a chair. 

“It never changes. I wake up, I deconstruct. I go to bed.” He shrugged. She asked this every time. At first he had floundered for something profane to say, but as time went on he told her the truth.

“Most exciting thing was the Plates system breaking, so we were dropped down on just the harnesses. Guys under us were wondering why it was raining screws.” 

Normally, when harnessed to the plates, the platforms acted as a catch-all for the debris, until the weight limit was hit and they were winched down to deliver what they had, before being whisked up again to do more. While fascinating to watch, it was a bastard system to work under; inefficient, slow and painful for all involved. He itched at the aggravated skin, again.

“Never a dull moment, eh, Princess?” Kem smiled, tucking into her meal with gusto. 

“Are you going to introduce us?” Said the older man; straightening his posture and looking pointedly between Tanner and the other boy.  

“Rosco.” Said Tanner with a jolt of his head towards each individual. “Kem, Thayer and Brynna.” 

“Nice to meet you!” Brynna smiled, and the table fell into quiet conversation as she tried to extract information from the poor guy out of genuine interest. 

“So - so why do you call him Princess?” Rosco asked as the rapport built into something comfortable; something palpable like a pulse that thrummed comfortably between them. Tanner shifted quietly in his seat. He’d heard this tale retold too many times to count, but it didn’t make it any less embarrassing. 

“It’s just ironic.” He tried to say, but was instantly drowned out. 

“Well observed, Rosco!” Brynna exploded, hooking an arm around Tanner's shoulder and drawing him close to her. He unconsciously tensed at the contact and forced himself to grimace through it. She rested her head atop his, dark brown tresses falling into his own, and across his face as he felt the familiar pinch of piercings striking skin. 

“You’re a Scrapper, right?” She began, and the replying nod sent her into a haze of storytelling. All he did was get stuck in a ship's oil tank after his harness failed and he fell head first into it. He’d tried to climb out, but the sides were too slippery, and seeing that he wasn’t in immediate danger, it took two shifts for them to be able to get him out: paperwork processing included. It wasn’t as satisfying in his mind, but the smiles that appeared on people's faces from the dramatic retelling was enough for him to keep his thoughts to himself, and allow people a reprieve from tales of tragedy, as the only casualty of the ordeal was his ego as he was deemed so unimportant, no-one rushed to get him out. 

“They had to cut through the side to get him out - the poor guy had inhaled so many fumes that he was speaking nonsense!” Brynna exclaimed through fits of giggles, and Rosco covered his mouth with his hands to stifle a laugh. He failed, but Tanner appreciated the thought. 

“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “I stand by whatever I allegedly said.” 

"Oh you do, do you?" Brynna grinned.

"Sure." Shrugged Tanner, spooning another mass of congealed fruit into his mouth.

"I still can't believe you don't remember." I remember enough, he'd then say, having memorised the turns to the word.

"Yeah, only what makes you look sane!" Brynna laughed, and Tanner also predicted Rosco asking how he ended up being called Princess as a result. With a smug grin, Brynna theatrically tossed herself into Tanner's side like a caricature of a pantomime dame, and strained her voice to imitate his:

"Get your fucking hands off me! I'm royalty, don't you know?! Royalty! You wouldn't treat your mother this way!"

The entire table dissolved into fresh laughter, and Rosco nearly choked into his drink trying to save enough face for his new friend.

"He then also tried to fist-fight the rescue crew, who had just spent several hours cutting into the damn tank to get him out."

"I was high on fuel fumes."

"You were feral!"

"They were trying to carry me." Tanner's voice developed more of an edge.

"You couldn't stand without toppling over." Brynna kept bumping his shoulder. It felt like pins and needles.

"You also accused them of stealing the boots that were, of course, still on your feet."

"I liked those boots." He grumbled. He'd broken them in well, but they ultimately had to toss them from the fuel saturation. The new ones ruined his ankles for months. Regardless of his distaste for the story, the laughter lingered longer than it usually did, bouncing off the high industrial ceilings of the mess hall, and dissolving into the steady hum of several hundred recruits eating before their work days began. Trays clattered against metal table-tops, and cutlery scraped across warped plastic trays. Somewhere nearby, someone complained loudly about the re-hydrated carbs, while someone else insisted they were an improvement over yesterday's. It was the sort of mundane argument that somehow survived every rotation; every intake; every year.

The three years had passed faster than he'd care to think about. Faces had come and gone as recruits passed through the station, and were promptly reassigned elsewhere when the need arose. It had become routine in a way he hadn't realised he'd needed. He hadn't found his purpose yet, but he was slowly certain he'd found some semblance of peace.

He knew which corridors to walk; which tools were technically his despite them belonging to the whole Scrapper crew. He knew which hangar smelled faintly of hydraulic fluid because the ventilation had never quite worked properly.

He knew what tomorrow looked like because it was identical to yesterday, and for someone whose memories had developed inconvenient holes filled by old journal entries he no longer had access to, there was a comfort in that.

Regardless of his attachment to routine, the Assignment buzzer went off, and all eyes scrambled to spot their posting on the walls. Each screen was divided into the sleeping blocks, with names listed alphabetically with the assignment next to them. Tanner's never changed, so he took the time to finish what he could stomach, and let it digest a little bit longer. Some cheers echoed from another table, as did groans of frustration. Someone swore loud enough to earn a warning from an instructor.

Tanner didn't move - didn't even glance up. His assignment never changed. For three years his name had been a permanent fixture in the Scrapper column, as sure as the furniture they sat on. Instead of rushing, he calmly finished the last few mouthfuls he could stomach, and washed them down with lukewarm, rehydrated coffee as everyone else crowded the screens.

“Tanner.” 

He looked up. Brynna wasn't smiling anymore.

"What?" Tanner frowned and looked across at Brynna, whose face bore a look of surprise; her usual smirk replaced by something a little more astounded. Tanner’s frown deepened as he swept his eyes towards their screen. His name wasn't where it was supposed to be. Squinting at the display, he abandoned the table and moved closer; the crowd parted just enough for him to see.

And there it was.

TANNER, F: SENTRY

No. 

TANNER, F: SENTRY

No. It was a glitch - a mistake. A simple system error where his name fell under someone else's designation. Yet no matter how long he stared, or how many times he blinked the outcome remained the same. Sentry. 

TANNER, F: SENTRY

His breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, and the mess hall blurred around the edges. Before he could process it, Brynna slapped him hard between the shoulder blades.

“Well it’s about time!”

His Echo sounded in his pocket. It read: ROOM SO/085. He stared at the notification, then back to the board. Scrapper. He'd always been a Scrapper. Without fail. Every assignment.

Scrapper.

Tanner wasn’t sure it ever occurred to her that in the last three years he’d been there, he was always - always - a Scrapper. Every entry in the journal tucked beneath his mattress confirmed as much as the Halicane had stolen the days from him.

Scrapper.

Slipping down overdressed hallways with rooms sectioned off by velvet rope, and wood floors lined with carpets far more fibrous than his own jumpers. They stopped near the tall windows, overlooking the valley backed by a metropolis peaking above the hills on the other side. In the cool summer breeze, the orchard trees swung lazily. As he adjusted the cufflinks on his sleeve, Anthony regarded the beauty with a wrinkled nose and steeled gaze. 

“What did I tell you, when I allowed you to pursue your ambitions?” He finally broke the silence after Fennec had stood squirming internally long enough - hands fisted in his pockets and shoulders tight. 

“Keep your head down.” Fennec said, voice rising several octaves. 

“Keep your fucking head down.” His father repeated in a growl.

“I did-”

“Don’t.” His father pressed. “Just don’t.”

He regarded Fennec for a moment longer. 

“The media has been circulating your name in connection with that scrapyard incident, videos too,” Anthony continued, “heroic son, fearless daughter, selfless intervention… all of it invites scrutiny - questions. Why is the youngest child of a billionaire family living and working in the Reclands? And why is it so… confused?”

“You were advised,” he went on, “to remain invisible. It was our agreement; you follow your fantasies of hardship and austerity as opposed to the life I offered you, and stay quiet.”

“I helped seven people.” Said Fennec, as if it was enough to persuade him otherwise. The ringing in Fennec's ears pulsed faintly, and Anthony studied him from the side as he faced the valley once again, hands clasped behind him. 

“You have always had difficulty understanding scale. When you were fourteen, visiting us after an unsuccessful semester at school, you mistook your personal revelation for a public declaration.”

Fennec's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

“In a way it was. You certainly shook up the dynamic, so I responded with structure. I wanted to make sure that you were making the right decision for yourself and this family. Of course, it pained your mother to see you off, but those three years of payments should have been enough. It should have made you resilient. You said you were a man, so I just wanted to ensure that you understood what that entailed in its entirety.” 

Isolation. Fear. Obedience. Silence. 

“You were volatile, too emotional. You were distracted and angry. The school removed the ambiguity, and look what you’ve become.” Antony’s voice was as cold as the metal Fennec deconstructed for a living. It was as sharp as the blades he used to cut through wiring. It wasn’t pride, nor satisfaction, just a man whose investment barely broke even. 

Fennec gave a small nod, as if acknowledging a logistical point. 

“You graduated, not at the top of your squad, but you came back all the same.”

He was one of the last standing of his squad. The transport off the planet was vibrant and full of life. On the return, it was like death was at the helm; protective over the empty seats. Fennec didn’t have a say in the matter - when the officers realised his true age, they handled him like glass and shipped him back as soon as it was over. Three years gone, just like that. He came back different, more undirected than ever and lost as a driver picked him up from the port. There wasn’t even a place at the table for when he returned. He went straight to bed, ignoring the way his mother hovered outside his door for several hours, before finally stalking away. Anthony shifted his weight slightly, lowering his voice as staff sped past behind them on their own personal mission. 

“I gave you exactly what you wanted, and you couldn’t even respect my simple wishes.” 

“I suppose you got a whiff of heroism whilst at school, and now you insert yourself into danger and call it virtue. You show up here with hands that look like they’ve been through a shredder and bruises on your face like you’ve been in a barfight. How do you think that makes me look?” 

“I was doing my job.” Fennec countered finally. 

“And sixteen people died.” The words were delivered without heat, just fact. Fennec fixed his gaze on the horizon, it wavered as tears began to sting. 

“The narrative goes that you were pulled from the wreckage yourself,” Anthony added, “had the timing differed by seconds, we would be discussing a memorial instead of a wedding. How could you possibly put your family through that?” 

Silence. 

“You have a tendency to believe your presence is required in every situation, regardless of its setting. But presence is not the same as necessity.”

The music in the hall continued, the jovial tune uncaring of the conversation occurring in the corridor. 

“You chose to come today, and if attending opens old grievances you continue to hold, then it isn’t entirely unorthodox to question the wisdom of your decisions. It’s not entirely out of character anyway. Not when we’ve offered you so much help, only for you to turn it down. I just hope the medication is helping, but it’s hard to tell with the way you’re being.” His father sighed, and Fennec finally looked at him. Just for a second. Anthony Tanner the Third looked back, not unkind yet not warm. Assessing the boy for a reaction, but Fennec has learnt years ago that arguing only extended the vitriol. Silence shortened exchanges as explanations only became ammunition for the offending party. 

“I did what I believed was necessary to prepare you for the world,” he said, “If you interpret that as cruelty, that is an unfortunate assumption. You are not my son, you are barely my child, and that’s what hurts me more. I gave you both equal potential and opportunities, though I wonder how much further we would be if I gave it all to just one of you.” 

He stepped away before Fennec could register the words, his mind having planted the shields long before the so-called conversation began. Within a few blinks, his father was slipping back through the open doors to the hallway, absorbed into the crowd with a wide, even smile as he shook hands and commanded the room as though negotiations were underway. 

Fennec remained at the window, feeling fourteen again; packed a bag at his feet with the promise that isolation would give him what he wanted. He endured so much for recognition, only to be discarded again like a used hanky. 

He knew he could do better, so he would start by giving them all what they were too cowardly to say. 

***

He made his escape during the drinks reception, before the main family photos and after just-enough of the blandest canapes with questionable textures that he could stomach. He told a member of staff to remove his place setting for dinner, and eyed the exit closest to where he assumed the cloakroom was. Once clear of the grounds, he would then call for transport to the Port, or even walk the distance if the stiff shoes allowed it without shredding his ankles to pieces in the meantime. 

Everywhere he looked he saw a life he would never be a part of, so he kept his eyes downcast despite the voice in the back of his mind reprimanding him for his hunched posture. Forever he’d be the youngest of a well-to-do family that wanted nothing to do with him, and they expected nothing more of that, yet wanted so much more. So he saw his exit, and took it without further warning. 

A host easily pointed him towards the cloakroom, still attended by bodies organising belongings like their salaries depended on it. He offered a tight, but polite smile as he eyed the rotating racks, hands in his pockets and shoulders tight under a supposed scrutiny that came from the door before it would ever leave the lips of the venue staff. 

“You’re leaving.” It was spoken more as a comment than a question; an observation of his half-amazement that Fennec had even lasted through the ceremony. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d spotted the boy slip into the cloakroom, Echo in his hand and poor excuses on his lips. The newly-wed then excused himself from his wife to pursue him, leaving her in the company of his mother to be the daughter she always wanted. 

He watched silently from the door as Fennec paced the room, picking through racks of jackets as the fanfare of the dancefloor continued behind him. A small bubble of frustration inflated in Anton's chest - how dare his brother try and make this day about him? When Fennec was successful in finding the coat Anton had paid for, he took no time in putting it on, and threw his scarf around his neck. The ugly, oil-stained thing an insult to the money adorning the rest of his body; bisecting expectation and reality as he fidgeted with a loose piercing. The coat accentuated everything Fennec hated about himself, and highlighted everything he was missing. If the younger wanted to assume something of the elder, then he may have been led to believe it was intentional rather than a favour.

“I came.” His Fennec finally responded, forcing out the words when he supposedly mustered up the courage. Anton's frustration only grew; a resentment for the brother who took showing up to be the bare minimum, and Anton supposed it was. Maybe if he looked a little closer; listened a little more intently, then he would have seen the tears glistening in the harsh lights of the cloakroom. 

“You came? Is that all you can say?” Said Anton, edging into the room, and ordering staff out with a wave of his hand. His cheeks were flush with fury and the fermented spirits they handed out like after dinner mints. His suit remained pristine and ready for photographs to be shared among thousands and positioned in pride of place along soulless halls of the family home, never daring to share the truth. 

“I knew it. I knew you’d try to run the second it got difficult. What? Mum ignored you? Dad gave you some tough love?” He spat, but Fennec tiredly shook his head, adjusting the gloves over battered hands and saying:

“Leena looked stunning in her dress.” She truly had; it was modest with a floral train spanning half the aisle as tearful guests watched on as they promised each other the world and then some. Rings were exchanged - gemstones glimmering as though they were the stars of the show - and kisses were pecked before they walked back down to the over-rehearsed band wearing smiles too-large to not be being paid handsomely. Fennec had grimaced and clapped where appropriate, but never felt a part of the chorus; his expressions too delayed and applause one beat behind. 

“I’m very happy for the both of you.” Fennec continued in a way that he hoped sounded genuine despite not being able to meet his brother's eyes. Anton sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly to muster the strength. 

“Thanks for the ride, and the suit.” Fennec said before he could stop his anxious rambling. “I hope the rest of it goes well.” 

God he sounded robotic, even to himself as he uttered lines he’d rehearsed in his head. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Anton all but exploded, “All you had to do, was put on a fucking smile and just- just pretend! You can’t even pretend to be happy for me - for this family who tried to give you everything-” 

“And you couldn’t even pretend to be my brother.” Fennec's harsh interruption hit Anton like a wicked slap to the face; stunning him long enough for Fennec to slip past him and towards the door. Tears threatened to spill as his face went as red as his suit, the band of his headphones biting into his palm as he clutched the device tight in his escape; desperate for steady, predictable beats to drown out the din of conversation and clinking glasses. 

“Fen, wait!”

Fennec whipped around, eyes ablaze and chest heaving. He didn’t trust his voice not to sound tight. He was just meters from the door, the sunlight teasing him through coloured glass. Thankfully, the party remained far away, but that didn’t stop prying eyes and pointed looks. It made his skin crawl. 

“You should stay - the photos, dinner - we paid a lot for all of this - for you to be here, too.” 

Fennec held his ground, however. Because Anton didn’t have to; Fennec's silence on the matter should’ve been enough before making the journey himself just to guilt him into it. 

“Don’t. Don’t fucking guilt trip me - you always pull that card. You pay for what you want me to do. It’s all for yourselves, not me. So why do you want me to stay when everyone else has made it clear they don’t want me here, despite me wanting this all along - I- I just wanted-” He slammed his jaw shut before more words tripped across his tongue. 

Help. He wanted help and love and at least someone to teach him how to shave and tut over mistakes before pulling him into a hug to make him feel better and to tell him that the universe won’t end because of it. 

“We’re right here. We’ve always been right here!” Anton exclaimed, backed by a reception of people Fennec didn’t recognise. 

“But always at arms length.” Always conditional. “Do you know which school I was sent to?” 

“Please, like that makes a difference.” Anton rolled his eyes. 

“Ask him.” Fennec challenged, because Anton wasn’t there when a packed bag was dropped at his feet with a satisfied smirk, and a driver waiting at the door. 

“It was a good school-”

“It was hell,” said Fennec, only just loud enough for Anton to hear in the hope it’d get through his thick skull. 

“All schools are. Look, Fennec- Fen!”

But Fennec was already out the door, the older brother following close behind in one last attempt to make himself appear more rational than the boy running away from a wedding that wasn’t his. Sharp shoes snapped against concrete steps, before crunching against manicured gravel paths; Anton remained at the threshold, calling after him: 

“If you go, Fennec. No one’s gonna keep looking for you. You’re choosing this.”

Anton couldn’t even say that he wanted Fennec there. 

You should be there. 

It was a pathetic excuse, but one he took anyway. As promised, the driver had arrived to pick Fennec up and take him to the nearest Port located nearly an hour across the packed industrial city. Anton had been kind enough to sport him a Second Class train ticket, too, seating him in a nicer lounge. Fennec could almost find himself touched by the gesture, despite the fact his brother made enough to spot him a First Class ticket, or even score him a personal reservation on one of the Transit Ships that were faster, smoother and even less occupied. But the pit of anxiety that followed him to the pick up location had him nearly turn back to his apartment if it weren't for the oversized wool coat that had encased the suit within the garment bag. He topped it with his own scarf and cleanest gloves to hide his battered skin itching beneath clean bandages, and slipped the pair of headphones over his head. 

As he made his way down the aisle, he tugged at the suit once more, willing for it to stop bunching at his chest and riding up over his hips. It was three pieces of rich burgundy and golden accents. The bowtie rested untied around his neck, and the laceless boots were loose around his ankles, tickling the edges of the well-loved socks he wore beneath. After Anton's visit, he managed to drag himself to a barber to sort out his hair. They never listened to him; the language barrier between him and the Kuronion and their claws only exacerbated this fact. Presentable was the adjective he got across, and they gave him as much. It was still too feminine for his face. Still, he was in no place to start arguing with someone with sharp pincers for hands, especially when operating that close to his ears. 

It was one day. One day. That’s all Anton wanted of him. One day then he’d never have to do it again; appease them enough to satisfy their curiosities, then fade into obscurity. He could do that. 

Outside of the hyper-speed train, an industrial skyline meandered past in the distance; trapped along the horizon by frozen forests that had been scanned and scanned again for the prospect of oil. A quick search of the address beforehand - thanks to the invite discarded in a kitchen drawer - revealed the wedding to be set on a Miloberry orchard just outside of the Centrals where most of his family resided. He supposed it was better than the overpriced resorts and ranches closer to the suburbs and reclamation towns, but the pomp and vanity set his teeth on edge. It was a life he used to belong to, but even then it was a facade for the uptight families and businesses built upon exhibitionist pride. 

A gentle tap on his shoulder had Fennec whipping his head from the window, blinking as a kindly attendant smiled from next to her trolley. Her hair was pulled into a clean up-do, her smile unwavering and uniform neat, but worn in places. Fennec looked at her expectantly, and she stared back until he clumsily knocked the headphones off, a heavy, tinny drumbeat slamming against the earpieces. 

“And for you, sir?” The attendant asked kindly. 

He cleared his throat and cut a cursory glance towards the selection of labels of no true interest to him or his empty stomach. Without thinking, he politely asked for a sandwich and a beer, words stuttering from his cracked lips. 

“Of course, honey.” She hummed, handing the food over before reaching back for a can. “Any preference on the beer?”

Fennec fought his mind for the name of what he had at the pub, barely recognising the label that had adorned the pump.

“Tanker Oil, please.” 

“Not a problem, honey.” 

Fennec's cheeks heated at the niceties despite himself. It was embarrassing how quickly he folded beneath them, like a dog desperate for affection. He kept his gaze at the table as she read off the total, and he fished into his coat pockets for some credits. She took the payment and regarded him for a little while. 

He couldn’t blame her. Fancy suit, bruised face, young features and asking for a simple sandwich and a beer then paying for them with credits worn by being passed through too many hands. He offered a waning smile, which satisfied her enough to rinse the pity from her oversized eyes, and move on to the next passenger. A cursory glance at his Echo told him he still had hours before they even touched the first Port of the Centrals, and he was already done with the journey. 

Before he could even crack open the beer and return his headphones to their rightful place, he was interrupted yet again. 

“You have rough day?” The voice came from across the aisle, resonant and threaded with a harmonic undertone that marked it as distinctly non-human despite his clothing presenting otherwise.  

He shrugged without looking up, and cracked the can open from its place on the table in front of him. The Second Class carriage was nice; cushioned seats separated into sets of two in rows that ran parallel to the wide aisle. The tables had enough space for work to be completed, and the attendants were far friendlier than he expected, as they were non-existent in Basic Class where you were lucky if you had a bit of floor to settle on. 

“Bit early for that, no?” He added lightly, one brow raised in amusement rather than judgement. Fennec just let the tab snap back into place with a soft metallic click, and stared as the foam bubbled to the surface. The condensation was slick against his gloved hands, the chill offering a comforting numbness to healing fingertips that stung beneath the rough fabric. 

Fennec finally looked up with a barely contained sigh, jaw set and bloodshot eyes heavy. The speaker was humanoid in shape, but unmistakably another race. Alien had long since its meaning the second humans began interacting with the wider universe; never truly alone after all, but opportunistic as always. The humanoid - a Cydonian, if Fennec recalled correctly - had skin that was a muted teal beneath the comfort lighting of the carriage, faint bioluminescent freckles dusted along his temples and disappeared beneath the high collar of an impossibly tailored jacket. The fabric itself shimmered subtly when she shifted; woven with reflective threads that shone like oil on water. He was a far cry from the Centrals if he was travelling from the Recland Suburbs. 

Three slender fingers rested against his sleek tablet, their tips capped with navy nails like the oversized-orbs Fennec supposed were his eyes. When he blinked, a thin membrane swept across vertically. The humanoid's head tilted with curiosity. 

“You are from the suburbs?” He pressed, and Fennec cast a glance towards the progress screens lining the sides of the carriages. 

“Something like that.” He mumbled, and the humanoid's mouth curved - perhaps slightly too-wide at the corners. 

“Something like that,” the humanoid replied in thought, “my species employs those answers as well. Though they rarely mean the thing stated.” 

“Yeah.” Fennec pressed his mouth into a smile. 

“You appear too young to be from the suburbs.” And Fennec regretted shaving off the little facial hair he had to begin with. “And you are dressed nicely. Ceremonial gathering?”

“Wedding.”

A soft clicking sound escaped the alien's throat. Laughter. The bioluminescence on his face shimmered. 

“Ah. I have attended a human ceremony. They are complex social arenas, no?”

Fennec huffed a faint breath of amusement despite himself, and drew a large gulp from the can. It was bitter on the way down, as it had been the first time he tried it. He set the can down gently with an absent nod.  

“My brothers.” He added quietly. 

“Older?” His companion asked immediately, though by the appearance of the young man surely answered that for him. Fennec nodded again, hands pressed between his knees. His headphones continued, unabated and uncaring if they had ears to listen. 

“You do not appear enthusiastic.”

“I’m just tired.” He said in truth. He’d hardly gotten a wink of sleep the night before; too busy rattling through potential conversations and potential comebacks to potential insults. Instead, he studied the condensation on the side of the blue can, tracking the larger spots with his thumb. 

“Hm. Older siblings often set the tone, no? The overachievers; the preferred child with every expectation to succeed. They secure mates first, acquire property - achieve every milestone with aid from parents who loved them first and for longer.”

Fennec's mouth twisted into a frown, and regarded the humanoid for a moment. He stared back, large eyes observing with nothing more than curiosity. The human sunk into his scarf, and lifted the can to his lips - the sandwich forgotten on the table alongside his mystical crutch. He pondered how appropriate it would be to ask how the humanoids UL was so fluent. In-ear translators were in abundance across the systems, but over time UL - the Universal Language - prevailed above the technology and was invariably taught amongst hundreds of planets. 

“What I noticed about humans, in many observations and conferences, is their devotion to evidence and visual permanence. Direct optical connection is considered polite as opposed to threatening. It is confusing.”

Fennec’s mouth twitched faintly. Perhaps he had more in common with the Cydonians than initially thought. 

“Between each meeting you remember one another as a previous version, and do not consider the passage of time. They resist updates to this assumption and propose their own internal presuppositions. At each conference, one arrives having evolved, and most insist on the data they have already archived.” 

The boy took a measured sip of his beer, and sensed the humanoid still watching him across the aisle, unnaturally still, tablet forgotten in front of him. From the window behind the Cydonian, the forest continued to pass in a wavering blur, cold sunlight flashing through the trees like lightning. Fennec proceeded to ask how often the humanoid liaise with humans, to which he went into a lengthy explanation of his employment history. All the human could do was nod along and drink. He bought another when the kindly attendant appeared again, though that didn’t deter the chatty Cydonian. 

“So,” he continued, clearly comfortable with filling silence regardless if it was required or not, “enough about my business. What will be your strategy? Smile in the permanent images? Consume enough of the offered dinner and depart before emotions escalate?” 

“In and out.” Fennec nodded, feeling the alcohol settle in his empty stomach and tint his pallid cheeks pink. 

“Tactical.” The humanoid agreed, and when Fennec didn’t forward the conversation, he finally took his tablet again, though not yet activating it. 

“Well,” he said with a semblance of a sigh from his slitted nose, “remember, my friend, these ceremonies are finite. Stars burn out eventually.” 

A beat, as he turned his attention to an opened report on the screen. 

“If that fails,” he added lightly, gesturing to the beer cans, “moderate chemical assistance is a time-honoured and cross-species tradition.” 

That, atleast, earned him the faintest real smile. 

***

The second he arrived, he wanted to leave. As soon as he slammed the vehicle door, the second driver Anton had sent to the Centrals Port departed, wheals crunching against the gravel drive as further engines arrived with smiling guests dressed to the nines. Beyond the gates at the far end of the drive, a mob had gathered. Protesters after something Fennec was too out of the loop to understand. They’d cursed his name before they even knew who he was; shouting obscenities as the polished chrome vehicle passed through the crowd and security barely contained their control. Signs that he couldn’t quite see displayed angry red lettering and waved above the brick wall that separated the land and the road beyond. 

A far cry from polluting mechanical yards, the sky was a clear cyan with the distant twin suns smiling down upon acres and acres of pine. The manor house itself was obscene, mimicking gothic architecture and decorated with non-native plants that flowered even with the frigid temperatures of Hephaestus Ten. His quick breaths collected in clouds of condensation in front of his face, and his stomach rolled with pulsing anxiety that forced sweat from his pores. Summer on Hephaestus Ten raised the temperature to something bearable compared to Earth, but welcomed a thin dusting of frost in the early mornings. In the sunshine, however, layers were seldom needed, but the breeze was easy to challenge this assumption when it rolled down the mountains, bringing the frigid rain with it. Like the Miloberries thriving in such climate, Fennec and the inhabitants of Hephaestus Ten were invariably accustomed to it all. He swallowed thickly and stepped out of the way of more arriving vehicles; staff easily moving forwards to open doors and offer assistance. The telltale roar of personal ships echoed as they soared overhead; coming into land on tarmac at the other side of the property. Fennec's eyes narrowed at the intrusion; supposing that his family now apparently spanned further than just blood relations. 

To his left, a small gathering of extended family looked his way, talking conspiratorily. He offered a smile and a nod before striding towards the open doors of the manor house. His knees threatened to lock as soon as he hit the stone steps, but he forced his feet on - one before the other - yet somehow being fourteen and under active fire was far easier than this. 

The second Fennec was through the threshold, staff were quick to rid him of his coat, scarf, gloves and headphones. Another had their hands on his tie to make him presentable for one of the photographers snapping photos of new entrants. A third uncomfortably ran a lint collector over his torso. A glass of something bubbling was thrust into his scabbing hand, the spritzer wafting the sweet scent of Miloberry undercut with a spicy bitterness. He took an experimental sip as the shutters of cameras recorded his presence, and all he could do was press a forced smile, and make his way further into the manor house. 

Treat it like a deconstruction. Enter. Extract valuables. Exit. In and out. 

In and out. 

Like a breath. 

The extravagant hall was bustling with dozens of guests liaising before the ceremony even began. At the far end, a band rattled on and Fennec wondered just how much they were being paid. The wooden floor was sturdy and overly polished underfoot, a carpet running central towards the closed doors of the ceremony room. Like automatons, staff dressed in plain black clothes and cravattes carried trays in and out of a servery door, offering guests light canapes that would barely even scratch the surface of hunger. In his scan, he briefly caught eyes with other patrons. An aunt. A family friend. A business partner. He turned his attention to the paintings on the wall. They couldn’t judge him, neither could they talk back. 

The one closest to him was a sprawling piece of an older woman, staring back with cold eyes and an ochre dress that was far too modern for the medium of oil paints. Her hands were folded in front of her, gloved and placid, her expression caught between something serious and fearful. Behind her, a fireplace roared a little too bright, shining on each individual jewel sewn into her pale green frock. 

Mrs Horentensius. 2346-2397. 

Fennec frowned at her age. Fifty one. In the painting she appeared so much older - cheeks sallow and drooping bags beneath her eyes that appeared to force themselves open. Her pallor was colder than expected of someone born on Hephaestus Ten; her undertone cool grey tones. Beneath the hem of a glove, a sliver of a bracelet peered from behind the emerald fabric. A medical device perhaps. She already knew she was dying; her likeness captured one last time in a lost medium in a dramatic desire to be seen - to be loved and remembered for generations to come. 

“Mr Horentensius was devoted to her.” The line was rehearsed as a staff member held out their tray. Fennec placed the glass he hadn’t realised he’d drained on it, and the server moved on without complaint. Another appeared at his other side, their offered tray well-balanced with the glasses. Carefully, he took another with quiet thanks, but it was quickly intercepted. 

“Perhaps you should slow down, hm?” Asked Uncle Joseph, drinking his glass for him. 

“I’m old enough.” Fennec huffed, apparently forever the unstable baby of the family. 

“Have you greeted your parents yet? The idea of your arrival has been hotly debated.”

Of course it had.

“I’m sure they’re busy.” He said instead, desperate to keep the pleasantries for just a while longer. This is what they would remember of him. Uncle Joseph snorted a laugh, he was the spitting image of his older brother - Anthony Tanner the Third. Average height, average build, average hairline for a man of his fifties, and average personality - if a little more warm. 

“Perhaps,” he shrugged, eyeing Fennec up and down, “you’re looking well.” 

“You don’t have to lie.” Bit Fennec. He knew exactly what he looked like. His uncle raised his hands in mock surrender before changing the subject. 

“What are you up to nowadays, anyway?  Nobody’s seen you in nearly five years.” 

Nobody’s asked about me for five years. 

“Working.” Fennec offered instead. His uncle nodded, sated, though not fully. 

“Good. At least someone is. Did you hear about that accident at the scrapyard? The big one at the Reclands. Faulty fuel line, allegedly, but these things are never certain. All I know is that a hoard of workers have gone on strike, but we all know they’ll be back. Damn vultures keep asking for your father though, as though he were personally responsible for someone else’s ship.”

The ringing in Fennec's ears, still present from the blast, built up in a crescendo of screeching.

“Really? That must’ve passed me by.” Swallowed Fennec, shoving his scarred hands into his pockets as a show of nonchalance. His uncle waved a hand, interest stolen by a new tray of entrees being passed around close by. 

“It was nothing really - though the investors weren't too pleased.” He said absently, eyes meeting something behind Fennec. He nodded meekly before turning back to Fennec, almost apologetic as he bid the boy farewell, and swiftly moved on. Uncle Joseph was a little strange at the best of times; a little too friendly and a little too eager to please despite his high standing within the family business. Like his brother, he oversaw shipping routes within the H.U.S.C, coordinating deals that were only favourable to humans, much like this wedding. 

The irony wasn’t lost on Fennec, as a chill graced his back. 

“Hi mum.” He said, voice smaller than he remembered. Her burgundy dress was a flawless satin, topped with floral lace that traced down her thin arms and hid her shoes. She wore a subtle, but expensive fascinator headband decorating her hair that was more grey than it should have been. Elise Tanner regarded her youngest with a reserved expression, guarded and unwavering. Her eyes were bloodshot, as were his. 

“Why didn’t you call?” She asked in a hushed tone; a hiss of disapproval despite the fact that Echo's worked both ways. 

Would you have answered? Would you have listened? Would you have cared? 

“I’ve been busy.” He said easily. In retrospect he’d been losing days; neither here nor there but somewhere in between. Inexplicably alive, but barely. 

“That’s a poor excuse. Your mother has been worrying herself sick.” Interrupted his father, striding into the conversation as though he owned it, chest puffled. Similar to Fennecs, his suit was the same shade of deep red, though subtly checkered and more striking accents that radiated his self-importance with HUSC rank badges that were impossibly polished and sparkling with the low-key lighting of the reception hall. Anthony Tanner the Third never served, not like Fennec had, yet he commanded the room like a drill sergeant and negotiated terms as though interplanetary peace was in jeopardy. If his mother had been worrying herself sick, then she’d been worrying since the day he was born. 

Fennec had his eyes; his nose, and eventually his hairline. Everything else belonged to his mother, he liked to think - his humanity and empathy for starters. Though his father would argue his benevolence in that ‘allowed’ Fennec to ‘continue the way he is’ in a job that was practical and worthwhile. All Fennec had to do was keep his head down. 

And he had. He’d been good, but not one lick of praise was thrown his way since Anton was the one to follow their pre-tread path. Fennec was supposed to be the good little kid; speak when spoken to, say please and thank you, and marry someone with enough corporate ties to make it worthwhile for all. Just like his mother had. 

Humanity had flown far in respect to its technology, but tradition was so steeped in tradition it formed its own rat king; filthy and intertwined and painful for all involved. It left no room to grow; to change or adapt. Instead, man walked on the moon, and Europa, and countless other extraterrestrial surfaces, but some cycles were forced to continue like Sisyphus pushing his boulder. So Fennec held his tongue, and kept his head angled down. 

“The accident at the Reclands caused quite a disturbance.” Anthony scoffed, emphasising the accident as though Fennec was going to blame him for it. 

“The media has been around, asking about the ‘heroic son’ who saved seven people. I thought I told you to keep your head down.”

“I wasn’t going to leave them.” Repeat until there is no one left. 

“Say that to the sixteen that you did.” He hissed, stepping forward again to drive the point home. Fennec instinctively moved back like a twisted dance. 

Sixteen that were gone the second the fuel lines detonated. Ash by the time the fire team advanced with suppressors.

“Anthony, that’s enough.” His mum attempted to placate, a hand settling lightly on her husband's arm. He didn’t even look at her; when he did it was always through. Still, he smiled for the benefit of nearby guests, the expression polished from years of performances - as though this were nothing more than an animated discussion about market trends. 

“Darling,” he said smoothly, “why don’t you go and see how your mother is doing. She looked rather peaky during the vows.” 

She didn’t, but it wasn’t a request even if the concern was fake. 

His mother hesitated, searching Fennec’s bruised face for something he wouldn’t be able to give. An opening, perhaps. Instead, she smiled tightly and slipped away into the crowd, mask rising once more to bear the brunt of social responsibility. His fathers smile fell the second she was out of earshot, and the team of photographers had passed. 

The apartment was tiny, but his. Fennec’s shaking hands fumbled for the key fob, finally settling enough for him to push through the door and all but fall into the familiar space. He cringed as the door slammed, but was fast to turn the bolt behind him; chest heaving at the effort. He was home. Finally home. Away from prying eyes and conversations he wasn’t willing to have. 

Pale moonlight flit through the curtains on the other side of the room, lighting the narrow entry hall just enough for him to get his bearings. As always, the first door on the left was a small wetroom, the hallway led into a narrow living space with just enough counter space for a kitchenette. Around the wall, to the left of the apartment was his bedroom. The small double was crammed into the corner, a bedside cabinet holding his valuables wedged between it and the next wall. At the foot of the bed: a footlocker of clothes he was yet to organise. It was tiny, but it was his. Sometimes he’d walk past stores selling small decorations; posters, side-tables, trinkets, anything. But each and every time, he told himself that this was temporary - that the luxuries will be allowed as soon as he gets away from this forsaken planet. In a way, he liked the minimalist setting, he’d grown up with everything under the twin suns, so it was a merciful respite against the clutter of galas, tailors and antiques. As long as Fennec had his terminal and speakers, he could live - breathe, even. 

But when confronted with it all, Fennec couldn’t even recognise himself in the mirror, and that's what terrified him most. 

Cyanosis tinged his lips blue from the frigid walk back to his flat, a fine layer of dust settled against his waxy, pale skin and his dark blond hair was awkwardly overgrown. In the dim light his grey eyes were lined by harsh, bloodshot whites that were rimmed with red lids and long eyelashes. A peppering of facial hair dappled his skin in a way that meant nothing to anyone other than himself. Dark bruises blossomed like watercolours against his forehead and chin, burst blisters pulsed along his palms and fingertips, and his crackled knuckles already had yellow plasma crusting over the open wounds. 

He stripped off the jacket, letting it fall to the fake-wood paneled floor; his t-shirt and thermal following quickly after. His ribs creaked beneath the strain, bandages wrapping his chest tight rubbing against scarred and split skin from over-binding. In some places, scabs had adhered the fabric to his skin. Knowing it was going to suck regardless, he started to untie them, letting the wispy ribbons fall around his legs; barely wincing as the wounds met the open air. Further bruises lined his entire torso - the flattened skin of his breasts soft and wrinkled from spending too-long under wraps. Absently, his hands went to the jutting hipbones exposed from an unvaried diet and too many hours at the scrapyard. They weren’t incredibly wide by human standards, but they were wide enough to make him feel sick at the sight; a constant reminder in photos that he would forever be living in a body and mind that wasn't his. A prisoner in his own life: socially, physically, mentally and familiarly. 

Absently, he tugged at the overgrown mess of hair, trying to style it in a way that was vaguely presentable despite the sweat and grease forcing the strands elsewhere. He gave up quickly, deciding a trip to a barber might be in order to sort out whatever rats nest he had going on - another task to add to the lists. His hands dropped to his face, picking at the acne that rose in painful spots on his cheeks and chin as facial hair fought to break through. The piercings at least leant into his masculinity - his most recent eyebrow jewellery was healing nicely. It complemented the lip ring and multiple ear piercings well with their matching black metal. It was almost like an addiction; temporary pain for the long-term reduction of his internal discomfort.

Drained, his hands dropped to his sides. He pushed himself past the threshold of the small wetroom, and turned the water on hot, letting the steam loosen his joints as every scrape and bruise made itself known. Once his harness was off - tools clattering against each other as it moved. At the entrance to the tiled room he dropped his trousers, toed off his boots and socks before he stepped beneath the scalding spray. It took him a moment to ease himself onto the tiled floor, scraped knees tented in front of him, and arms resting over them as he dropped his head back against the cold tile and waited. 

Filthy water swirled the stained drain; soot, blood, sweat and tears. He sat until his fingers and toes started to prune, and his core temperature raised to something bearable. Then he found the energy to wash, uncaring of the stinging loose skin of blister burns on his fingertips as he ran soap through his greasy hair, and scrubbed every inch of skin to feel some semblance of human. It hardly worked. Instead, he continued to sit under the spray as the soap lazily rinsed itself away. A mouldy shower curtain hung limp to the side, but there wasn't much in the room worth protecting aside from old bottles of cologne on an indented shelf. Still, he pulled the fabric across the rusted railing. He wasn’t in any rush. Fennec's eyes drooped with exhaustion but his mind raced with the embarrassment of his panic. 

But panic didn’t care, it was irrational like that. It simultaneously cared too much and too little about the consequences of his actions; belittling him for worrying while commending him for overthinking. Like a desert twister, the thoughts swirled and changed direction as they pleased; uncaring of the damage left in its wake. It was the best analogy he had for his brain, and that’s why it made it so hard for him to open up and let the winds blow in someone else's direction. 

He awoke with a start. Fumbling for the shower controls as the hot water ran out in an instant, and released a torrent of ice water in its wake. He spluttered and rose to his feet, shaking as he stumbled from the room and tightened a towel around his chest before dressing in whatever was cleanest and most acceptable to sleep in. The apartment had been neglected, a thin line of dust settled along whatever surfaces it could cling to, and food had begun to stale in the fridge. It didn’t matter. He could do it later when he felt more human; when the idea of washing dishes didn’t grate on his nerves. 

A stack of to-do lists lay absent on the counter on scraps of paper; others cluttered the files of his Echo. The pill bottle sat untouched next to a half-filled journal. There were more stashed under the floorboards of his childhood home. Sometimes he wondered if they'd ever find them.

For the next twenty eight hours, Fennec didn’t get out of bed; only for bathroom visits and to stare into the small fridge in the adjacent room. He mostly slept between fits of trying to find comfort against the pull of scabs and the scrape of burns; he wouldn't be able to achieve much with the way his hands were, anyway. 

He missed having a hobby. He missed not cringing at the mortifying ordeal of being known for something as embarrassing as his utter meltdown over an accident. The Field was over two years ago - he’d served his time, passed through military school with a good result and a new name that some respected, and others didn’t due to the surname that followed it. In many ways he missed himself, and wondered in some ways if this was worth it. Fennec knew in his heart that this was who he was meant to be; but he couldn't help but feel he was choosing the most difficult path to get there. Instead, he ramped up the heating on the small electric radiator, put on another pair of socks and wrapped a fresh roll of bandages around his chest. He chose to let his other wounds heal in the open air, he got cut or burnt or scraped so often he gave up on healing salves and trips to the clinics altogether. If they didn’t get infected, then he could live with the constant thrum of pain that tightened his ribs and back, and seized his hands closed when he held them in the same position for too long. 

His income allowed for the apartment and half decent food, his bandages and a criminally expensive hormones. The rest went directly into an account on a card that he kept under his bed ready to be used for a surgery he’d been pining for since the age of thirteen. Six years, and he was getting close. He could almost taste the freedom yet his vulnerability held him in a vice-like grip, anchoring him to the safety of his apartment when the world got too much, and his music wasn’t cutting it. 

Fennec had just finished putting his clothes in a basket to take down to the laundry room when there was an uncertain rap at the door. He froze, garments in hand, ensuring he had heard it right compared to the music playing from the terminal above his bed. It happened again, a little impatient this time. Sighing he stuffed the garments in place and stumbled to the door, heart already hammering and palms sweaty as he reached for the handle. 

In reality, he should’ve been expecting it. It was one of the biggest headlines floated by the newstreams

“Child of influential family has a nervous breakdown following an accident at a scrapyard and believes herself to be back on a battlefield.”

"Heroic scrapper saves seven following explosion."

"Heir of the Tanner family pulls workers from wreckage following accident."

"Avoidable disaster wrecks central Recland Scrapyard, claims sixteen lives."

He was just surprised it took them this long to reach out; to do some damage control on their already fragile image. But his parents weren’t there, neither were the messengers they would’ve sent on their behalf to deal with any quote-unquote drama when it came to him. However in their stead, was Anton. 

Older than Fennec deigned to remember, Anton’s H.U.S.C detailed suit was pressed in a way that looked too pristine; like he had been rolled from the printing press before stepping foot this side of the planet. He also wore a respirator, sleek but obvious in an industrial area fitted with workers that cared little for their lungs, and had simply gotten used to the smell. 

“Hello, Fen.” His brother, Anton, greeted with force, his green eyes critical above the mask muffling his voice slightly. Judging by the get-up, he had travelled directly from his job in the Centre - the hub of all intergalactic freighting as per the planet's designation. Freights and distribution, a stop off for many but otherwise a pleasant location to rear a family in the right neighbourhood. The suit meant he was serious; visiting for a demand instead of a brotherly chat. Fennec figured as much. 

“Don’t call me that.” Fennec grunted, finding purchase against the doorframe to block his brother's view of his living space. He didn’t deserve that much. Anthony Tanner the Fourth was the closest their parents got to the perfect child, compared to the mess that was their youngest. Fennec grew up with the opaque understanding that they should’ve stopped at the first. 

“You chose the name, brother.” The elder straightened, a fabric garment bag hanging over his arm, with a smaller sack attached to its neck. Shoes, Fennec assumed.

“Still on for tomorrow?”

The wedding. 

“My wedding.” 

Right. It was on one of the lists. 

“The whole family will be there.” Fennec stated, less than a question and more of an expression of distaste. “We don’t exactly get along.” 

“It’s the piercings.” Anton deadpanned, eyeing his brother's most recent eyebrow jewellery.

“Sure.” He said. “Even you don’t like them.” 

“Why do you care what I think?” Shrugged Anton. “I accepted you.” 

Fennec’s expression went dark. Acceptance didn’t necessarily equal humility. 

“What do you want?” Fennec said, hugging himself and crossing his legs at the ankles. He was wearing a simple set of cargo trousers and loose-fitting t-shirt. His injuries were on full show, though Anton failed to comment. 

“I’m dropping off your suit.” 

Fennec eyed the garment bag hesitantly. Neither moved. 

“I didn’t say I was going.”

“It’ll look better on you if you do show up.” His brother tried to reason. “People may think less of you, if you don’t.” 

“And you’re ‘people’?” Fennec spat. “I’ve got ships to dismantle. I’ve got a life here.”

“Here?” Sneered his brother, “In the beautiful sub-suburbs of Hephaestus Ten? In the Reclands of people who are, and will always be, scrappers?”

“Anywhere.” Anywhere but home. 

“Fennec, this isn’t even about you. Look, you’re my brother, and it's just a few hours. I’ll even send you a driver to personally make sure you make it to the port. You should be there, for once just stop avoiding us.”

“To play happy families?” Fennec huffed. “I know things would be easier without me there, so why are you here, truly?” Appearances? To gloat? To see where his brother had been for five years while he polished apples at the H.U.S.C?

“Fine, maybe that is what I want. Just for one day, one cycle out of hundreds every year. Will you give me that?” Anton snapped, then sighed as one of Fennec's neighbours chose that moment to leave their own apartment, walking slowly across the carpeted hallway towards the stairs. Anton turned back to Fennec, voice low and muffled behind the mask. 

“Leena has been asking about you - my brother. Says that since I’d met her family, she should meet all of mine. We’re not gonna be here forever, you know.” He finally handed the package over. Fennec didn’t meet his eyes as he took it, the fabric nearly slipping from his hands as he maneuvered the bulk of it over his arm.  

“I heard about the accident. They’re saying you saved seven people. Couldn’t believe it was you at first, I mean....” 

Fennec shrugged, and stared at the dated, stained carpet beneath his feet. He could’ve come sooner; he could’ve called. Fire and ice, they were. The dandelion child versus the orchid. One destined to thrive no matter what, and the other too fragile for change. Perhaps that’s what they were waiting for; for him to fail to thrive in his new environment and come crawling back when it all inevitably imploded - or exploded, in this case. While he wouldn’t call what he was experiencing thriving, he was alive, and that was more than he could say about some of the people he met as a teenager.

Fennec was just spare parts turned sour; Anton was the robot that didn’t need them to begin with. Anton huffed a weary sigh, which sparked a flame of irritation beneath Fennec's skin. What the fuck did Anton want him to say? Did he want him to get on his knees and thank him for the ounce of recognition after a half-arsed commendation veiling an insult? 

‘You would’ve done the same.’ He wanted to say, but the words never met his tongue as deep down he knew he wouldn’t. It was a bone-crushingly disappointing realisation, but one he had grown to accept as they grew apart. Fennec didn’t consider himself a hero, as his reaction was purely clinical and based on conditioning from an otherworldly drill sergeant that threatened more than just running laps. 

The cutter screamed as it bit into the plating; sparks flying and gloves singing at the edges, yet Fennec stubbornly adjusted his grip, one boot braced against the wall as he forced the blade through the alloy. It gave as much as it could, but eventually the Red Diamond blade won the fight, and the pile of strips began to build on the trolley behind him. The derelict freighter groaned under the pressure; a final guttural croak as the life was slowly pulled from it bolt by bolt, and strips of metal were collected to be re-melted into something functional. Fennec sometimes felt a strange sense of empathy for the ships; they held a likeness to him that felt raw and unimpeded. There was steel, but it still gave way if the blade was sharp enough. 

Nausea tugged at his stomach - the combined fault of having forgotten to eat hitting the pints of bottom shelf alcohol he’d had the night before, and the pills that sat even further down in his stomach. Still, what the doctors didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them, as the alcohol always made his mind clearer somehow, allowing for his short term memory to start stitching together.

As expected, The Ballast has been noisy: layers of overlapping conversations in several languages, the raucous cheers of winners, and unsettled arguments rearing their ugly heads in the middle of drunken conversation. The floor, discoloured and chipped from pavement grit, was tacky underfoot like velcro, and the building reeked with the tang of smoke, stale beer and oil. He’d stuck close to Willman, listlessly following him deeper into the belly of the beast as he felt eyes on the back of his head. He had his arms wrapped around himself despite the warmth lingering in the air, and kept his head low, allowing his long-ish hair to hide his soft complexion.

Instead of rolling his eyes, Willman easily pulled him up to the copper bar top and quickly put the drinks order in. Next to them, a pair of Recland workers groaned at the apparent favouritism. 

“Just something light.” He leaned over to ask the bartender, who smiled and easily passed the beers across the counter as soon as payment was made. Willman took them both before Fennec could even pull a hand from his pocket, and gestured vaguely with his head. He carved a path through the noise with easy familiarity, and greeted many by name as they passed. Fennec's eyes stayed to the ground, shuffling his feet awkwardly with the idle desire for community. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he would be able to remember their names. 

Before long, Fennec had found himself sitting on an unbalanced stool around a table with a small group of Scrappers. He feigned familiarity when they greeted him, and he took the pint to his lips in order to keep them busy. The first sip was bitter and malty; the second and third were easier. He wrote as much in his journal.

Conversation passed comfortably above him, though he offered answers when appropriate. He waited for comments that never came; and drank accordingly to the level of alcohol still left in the group's glasses. He tried to hunch in on himself as much as possible, as his back was to an apparent walkway between patrons, and he often caught the edge of someone's coat - or an elbow depending on their level of intoxication. Each spark of contact sent prickles across his skin, so he tried his best to keep tabs on the conversation at hand. Every time he opened his mouth, he braced for impact; for the inevitable silencing remark that never came. They didn’t comment on his voice that carried a softness he hated. They didn’t care about the way he held himself; hunched forward so his curved shoulders offset his chest. No. They cared more about the fact he could strip twelve lengths of crystalline cabling in under an hour and still had hands that weren’t reduced to ribbons.

“The scarring helps, it's like extra padding.” He said, eliciting a round of knowing chuckles that warmed him from the inside.  

They didn’t ask where he came from, or why he was there. At that table he was Fennec - just Fennec. Not an heir; not a liar. It was nice. 

Still, two hours passed with agonising torpor, and Willman's friends had drunk enough to gather interest in a game of darts. With the distraction, Fennec was able to make his leave, waiting for their backs to turn before tossing some credits next to Willaman's jacket; an apology wrapped with thanks. The reasoning was that he had to leave before the alcohol-induced warmth in his chest morphed into something more reckless. 

A harsh spray of sparks across his forearm brought him back to the present. The checkered fabric singed and smoked, though the frigid temperatures and the coat's fabric type halted its attempts at igniting fully. The thin air hung thick with the stench of oil and smoke; mechanical in comparison to The Ballast, and much more familiar. 

Fennec adjusted the cutting angle and pushed it along, mind half on the job while his other thoughts drifted. He hadn’t hated the pub, not entirely, as for a brief moment he was treated as human rather than a tightly wound rope waiting to simply snap.

A sharp tang hit him at the back of the nose, and the cutting ceased almost immediately. He sniffed again, and his eyes started to water. His instincts were telling him it was just a minor oil spill from a small tanker taking a corner too quickly, but these assumptions were quelled when he quickly came to the realisation he wasn’t out in the hangar. Instead, he’d chosen an inside assignment, happy to traipse deep into the bowels of the ship to work alone. While it made moving the trolley of scrap to the drop-offs difficult, it allowed him time to breathe, and the space to exist without the burden of being known.

The young man set the blade down, powering it off and hanging it on the handle of his trolley before slipping the headphones from his head, and hanging them securely to his belt. Immediately, his ears were assaulted with the echoing thuds of impact drills and the banshee-like screeching of cutters against metal. Still, his biggest concern was the smell. Like deja-vu, it hung heavy in his mind; a memory just out of reach as he attempted to place just exactly what hung beneath the usual bite of coolant, heated steel and sweat.  

He moved out of the room, just narrowly avoiding a Kommonth as it raced by with its own full trolley. For a moment, the breeze that followed the bug-like humanoid displaced the stench, before it drifted back in full force. Tears began to stream down Fennec's cheeks, and he pulled the neck of his coat up in an attempt to mask it. In the stark lighting supplied by spotlights lazily wired across the expanse of the ship, Fennec looked to the walls for a nearby vent. 

Instead his eyes were met with an oily sheen dribbling carelessly from a narrow pipe trailing high above his head. Further along, a second split forced more of the liquid down the walls, painting them in a deep forest green. 

Somewhere, pressure was building in the pipes, forcing fuel along avenues that were never meant to carry it. 

His mind went blank as his hand dove to his pocket for his Echo, thumb already unlocking it before the screen came into view. His legs carried him back towards his exit as he fumbled for the emergency alert- 

And suddenly Fennec was back there. 

Screaming. Scraping metal and agonised cries like the wails of orbital strikes. 

Gunfire. Locks popping under pressure and tumbling debris rolling across charred rooms. 

Flames. Licking at the edges of corridors and spitting from broken pipes. 

Smoke hung thick in the air like a desert haze, suffocating and all-encompassing. Outside, alarms shrieked. Inside, metal buckled and corridors began to collapse as cladding fell from the ceilings, and floors shifted underfoot. He was on his back, staring up at a dull metal sky that solidified into gunmetal plating. Amber flashes rolled through a crack in the wall where the metal had split and blown outwards from the force of the pipe's ignition. Jagged pieces of hull twisted and morphed into something humanoid against the rolling emergency lights, and Fennec flinched at each stoic movement. Gasping, he pulled himself onto his elbows, pupils blown and skin clammy, though not from the heat. 

Logically, he could deduce that the tertiary feed of the fuel lines had been compromised, resulting in a build up of pressure that flooded additional pipes until they were severed by the wrong tool. Imprudently, subdued memories were determined to trick him into changing such reality. His ears were still ringing, adding to the sensory nightmare as he tore his coat off from the stifling heat that pulsed from deep within the fraying corridor. Places try to overlap; fighting for a prominent place as shattered plastic beneath his palms shifted like sand. 

Move. 

It wasn’t a tangible thought, but an order born from something primal: a condition that would never truly be cured. It cut through both timelines, like a promise that he’d never be able to leave his past behind. He rolled onto his side, instinctively grabbing for the nearest tool and coughing hard. He blinked harder, clearing dust from his eyes, and fumbled for his Echo that failed to materialize in his hand. 

The bowels of the supertanker groaned around him, belching flames from side rooms and spitting debris. Shakily, he got to his feet. The pressure from the blow had tossed him a few feet, but nevertheless he raised a weapon, the metal handle biting into his palm as he desperately waved the smoke away with another. His lungs burnt with the effort, and he turned in a slow, deliberate manner despite the dizziness rocking his equilibrium. 

Head down, L.A.S.E.R. The cadet’s lifeline. The letters had been engrained in his psyche the moment he stepped off the transport and onto the craggy lands of a planet so torn by war, it has lost all markers of identity. It was known simply to them as The Field. 

Locate. Airway. Stabilise. Extract. Return. 

Repeat until there's no one left to save. 

And so Fennec was fourteen again, wearing boots two sizes too big, and combat gear that had to be rolled up at the ankles and sleeves to make a man out of a malnourished child. 

He moved - robotic and mindful of piles of debris stacked like bodies, and the stench of death that punched him in the back of the throat. The corridor towards the central part of the ship was partially collapsed and almost pitch black as the standing lights lay toppled like dominos. Growing hotter with every step, the air was thick enough to chew. Instead, Fennec held his weapon high, and pushed on, lips pressed together and eyes streaming. The first victim was quick to materialise. 

Fennec was quick to spot a shape beneath a fallen support beam; a scavenger clutching at a broken leg with burned hands and an arm that spat blood. The man was screaming something gory. Though if sound was passing through, then there was air in the lungs. Good. 

“I’ve got you.” He thinks he says, voice steady in a way that felt borrowed as he dropped to his aching knees. He ripped a filthy rag from his harness and tied a tourniquet with the terrifying efficiency of an experienced medic. The man's eyes began to drift, rolling into the back of his head as Fennec pulled the fabric tight. Blood slowed but the weight of the beam persisted. He jammed a snapped strut into the gap between the beam and the floor, his face a mask of blank neutrality as he did. He didn’t feel the heat of the encroaching fire, or the scream of materials and injured victims. Instead, Fennec barely registered the burn of muscle as he heaved; the strut groaning under a force that should’ve been impossible from his wiry frame. 

The man underneath hauled himself out with a yelp, gasping for air. Fennec already had him under the armpits, hauling him back and towards safety - towards voices beckoning him to salvation. 

Locate. Airway. Stabilise. Extract. Return. 

Repeat until there's no one left to save. 

He was a scrapper. A 'cargo specialist'. Someone who was supposed to move items from point A to point B without delay. After all, who in their right mind would give a child a gun? Still the cargo was heavy and awkward, and the heat remained unrelenting as was the gravelly sand beneath boots so cheaply made, they left blisters that scarred his soles and ankles. 

Inevitably, metal crates baked in inexorable heat slowly phased into smaller rations. Their weight slightly relented due to the lack of supplies, though intended to be moved as frequently as possible. 

Whenever they arrived at the bases for drop off, he kept his head down pushing the trolleys towards battered tents covering trenches dug or supplies. He’d learnt pretty quickly that his ‘pretty face’ has attracted far too much attention; enough for him to be left discarded on a cot, bleeding and soulless. But that’s what happens right? That’s what he needed to do to be a man. 

Take it. Compartmentalise. Locate. Airway. Stabilise. Extract. Return. Repeat until there's nothing left to save. Cargo specialist or scrapper, he was a cadet forced to prioritise everyone before himself. Even when familiar faces were begging for his mercy, he had to give it. So he extracted. Returned. Repeated. Until everyone from the base had been freed, and they were onto the next location. And despite it all Fennec continued to put a shift in, even when his lungs burned and his sunburnt skin was scraped raw from over-starched uniforms. Even when the black and white distinctions between the true enemy began to blur.  

So when the crates began their transition from rigid metal boxes to black sacks, and viscera dribbled onto his shoes and splattered against his legs: he bit down the bile, breathed through his nose and pushed on. One body after another, until his calloused hands bled and his legs continued to shake even after a short rest in a camp always in danger of being shelled. Fear was his blanket, its persistence providing more comfort that his past ever could. 

He carried it with him as he pressed onwards. Locating, checking airways, stabilizing, extracting and returning. Repeating until there was no one left. Smoke persisted, as did the snapping of severed wires showering him in sparks like ash from a detonation. One more corpse, this one screaming, followed by another but more agitated than what he was used to. Fennec persevered, lining each one at the threshold for the medics to take them away to the medical tents, and barking injuries and states of consciousness like he was trained to. Whether or not they got the right care was another story, as Fennec knew for a fact they ran out of medical rations three deliveries ago. 

Repeat until there's no one left to save. 

The mantra kept repeating in an ugly font behind his eyes like a realisation. A needle drop. Pieces falling into place. It drove a bolt from the blue straight into the back of his eyes as memories threatened everything he thought he’d forgotten on account of his broken mind. So he ran back in, pupils blown and hands stinging with sweat. Blinking through black clouds that smelt dusty instead of charred, he followed the distant rattles of screams that bounced off metal walls that he swore should have been canvas. A blazing sun hit his face the second he turned a corridor; a sheen of sweat breaking out as he soldiered on. Someone needed him. There was cargo to be moved; trolleys discarded in the wake of the attack, and more casualties to find. 

A hand fisted the collar of his shirt and hauled him backwards from petrol-fuelled flames that licked at his skin. Naturally he fought back - of course he did - because of the mission. The mission - the orders! He whirled round, screwdriver in hand and ready to strike. 

He still had to-

“Stand down, kid! You hearing me? We’re going. You’re done. Time to go.”

Extract. 

Had he completed the first three steps already? An arm snaked around his shoulders. The air got a little clearer but he wasn’t seeing. It pressed him into the broad expanse of someone's torso as he was hauled from the site; he tried his best to wriggle free of the hold until their boots hit the suspended gangways, and he was dropped altogether. Secondary explosions rattled the railings, and set Fennec's teeth on edge. The world was still fiery at the edges; blackness fighting for prominence as spots swam across and pulsed with a heartbeat that stammered like artillery fire. His palm stung with the pressure he was putting on the handle of the tool, but it was his one last lifeline. All he could think was danger - danger! So much so that he backed up until his back hit frozen railing, pupils like pins and unseeing as his arms scrabbled for purchase against rusted supports. When his feet fought against solid ground, his mind finally began to distinguish where he was; the settings no longer intermixed in an ugly display of shock. 

“Fucking hell, kid, get a grip alright? It’s done. You’ve saved seven people, just calm down. It’s alright - it’s alright.” 

Fennec blinked. 

And fell into the embarrassing realization that he had been crying. And not just a few errant tears he let slip in the night; when those in the bunks next to him were too bone tired to realise or care. No, these were open sobs with snot collecting at his upper lip and a chest that heaved and tightened with every breath. Logically, he could breathe. Logically, everyone was fine. Logically, it was an unfortunate accident. 

So why was his brain trying to convince him otherwise? Where did these memories come from? 

“You back?” 

He knew he’d been there; he knew he came back. He just didn’t remember the in between. 

Fennec’s eyes finally swam into focus. Willman Brass was uncomfortably close, towering over him as Fennec was on the floor, backed against uncomfortable metal banisters. Adrenaline began to ebb like the tide; eventually petering out until all he was left with was an estuary of exhaustion. The boy didn’t know what to say. The bandages around his chest had begun to loosen beneath the excitement, the screwdriver still in his hand and jacket nowhere to be seen. Willman looked as uncomfortable as Fennec did, his round face twisted into something between pity and disgust. 

All Fennec could do was nod, and accept Willman hauling him up by the forearm and steadying him when his legs didn’t quite take to being upright straight away. He kept his hand there, trying to find Fennec's eyes as he started at the swimming floor. A crowd had gathered, staring, waiting for him to finally snap. 

He dropped the screwdriver to the deck, hands going slack as he couldn’t quite manage the motor function needed to keep a hold of it. He swiped a lazy hand across his upper lip, coughing as his lungs finally caught up. Supervisors stormed towards him, eyes wary with disbelief. Apparently, word had spread uncomfortably fast, or he had been in his head longer than initially imagined. 

“Name?” The forward-most one asked. 

“Fennec.” Willman supplied when Fennec couldn’t. There was a moment of consideration as the supervisor swept through digital payroll files. In the meantime, an oversized jacket was draped over his shoulders, and pulled tight around his neck to stave off the frozen air. It was then that he realised he was vibrating with the cold, knees trembling as he fought to stay upright for just a moment longer. He was fine. He was always going to be fine. So he started walking. 

“Try Tanner. Born 2699.” He rasped in passing.