Tia stepped into the dimly lit bar, her sharp, predatory gaze scanning the room. The air was thick with the scent of oil, cheap liquor, and the faint tang of metal shavings—a reminder that this wasn’t just any bar. It was a place for pilots, mechanics, and outcasts who had nowhere else to go. Conversations were quiet, spoken in hushed voices over half-empty glasses, the occasional burst of laughter breaking the monotony.
She spotted Diana almost immediately.
The woman sat hunched over a drink, her fingers wrapped tightly around the glass as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Her breathing was controlled, but the slight tremble in her shoulders gave her away. The whiplash of everything they’d just been through was still fresh in her mind—the pulsars, the dark matter storm, the Corsair ambush, and the encounter with Psyche. It had all happened so fast. Too fast.
Tia, on the other hand, moved through the room with an effortless calm. It didn’t faze her. Neutron stars, dark matter, pirates, Nomads—just another day on the job. If anything, she found it amusing how quickly things could spiral out of control.
She strode forward, her presence drawing subtle glances. She was used to it. The long black hair draping over her bare, tattooed shoulders, the sleeveless cropped jacket that gave a perfect view of her toned arms and the scars beneath the ink, the armored gloves that stretched to her elbows, adorned with small, metallic skulls—every part of her appearance screamed danger. And then there were her thighs, left exposed between her shorts and the top of her knee-high boots, adding to the contrast of her otherwise combat-ready look.
Tia didn’t need to intimidate anyone. She just existed, and that was enough.
She slid into the seat across from Diana, leaning back casually, one arm draped over the backrest. She studied the woman in front of her, watching the way her fingers tensed around the glass, the way her eyes kept darting toward the door as if expecting another disaster to walk through at any moment.
Tia exhaled through her nose, a mixture of amusement and mild sympathy in her expression.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice low but steady. She glanced at Diana’s hands—there were light burns, nothing too serious but still painful. "I can take care of those burns, you know?"
Tia turned her attention to the bartender—or at least, the empty space behind the counter where they should have been. She sighed, drumming her fingers lightly against the table.
"I swear, every time I come here, the bartender’s either missing or drunker than the customers," she muttered. "Not a great look for a shipyard, but hey, at least the drinks are strong."
She leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table, her fingers tracing patterns along the worn-out metal surface. "You know, I’ve seen pilots crack after less. You held it together pretty well back there." A pause. Then, a smirk. "But you look like you could use that drink more than me."
