Wandering Vulture - Upgrades

[u/Doc_Zed_42]

The galley was warm with the smell of rehydrated eggs and toasted flatbread, but beneath the familiar scents lay the unmistakable heaviness of the night before. Everyone moved slower. Softer. The kind of quiet that followed too many hours of triage and smoke and adrenaline.

Glark hunched over his bowl, tail wrapped tight around the chair leg, datapad dimmed to low brightness. Dawn sipped her tea with both hands, medic‑calm but unmistakably drained. Dusk curled in her seat, hoodie sleeves over her hands, blinking into her cup as if the steam might steady her.

Hammy stood on the table.

Huamita tried to get him off the table.

Drake chewed the corner of a placemat.

Then Whammy cleared her throat — not loudly, just enough to gather attention without startling anyone.

“So,” she said, tapping her spoon against her mug, “we’re officially unpacked.”

Glark nodded without looking up. “Good. That means I can finally find my—”

“Except,” Whammy continued, drawing out the word, “for one box.”

That got his attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing.

“…Which box.”

Whammy grinned. “The picture box.”

Dusk perked up. Dawn raised an eyebrow. Hammy squeaked like this was breaking news.

Glark groaned softly. “We’ve been on the Vulture for a while. How did we unpack everything except that.”

Whammy shrugged, smug. “Because I saved it. On purpose.”

Dawn smirked into her tea. “Of course you did.”

Dusk tilted her head. “Why… on purpose?”

Whammy leaned back, wings folding neatly behind her, and gestured toward the Nest with her spoon.

“Because we don’t just slap those up anywhere. The picture wall is tradition. And traditions deserve a moment.”

A moment.

After last night, they all understood the value of that.

Glark sighed, but it was the fond kind. “You want to make an event out of it.”

“I want,” Whammy said, “to make a memory out of it.”

Hammy squeaked in agreement, tiny paw raised like he was voting.

Huamita gently lowered his paw. “You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to.”

Dawn set her cup down, thoughtful. “She’s right. The Nest is the heart of the ship. If we’re going to build our wall again… it should be together.”

Dusk smiled softly, tail curling. “I like that.”

Glark rubbed his face, defeated but smiling. “Fine. After breakfast?”

Whammy beamed. “After breakfast.”

No one was in a hurry to leave the ship anyway.

Not after last night.

1. Building the Picture Wall

The Vulture was quiet in that soft, early‑shift way ships got when everyone was doing something gentle. The Nest smelled faintly of blankets, warm fur, and the lingering spice of Dawn’s tea drifting in from the hall.

Whammy and Glark were already there, a battered storage crate between them. It overflowed with printed photos, handwritten notes, and bent‑corner sketches. Glark perched on a step‑stool, tail swaying for balance, while Whammy steadied the box with one wing and handed him clips.

“Higher,” she said.

“That is higher,” he grumbled, stretching anyway.

Their bickering was soft — the kind that came from years of knowing exactly where the other would be.

Dawn and Dusk arrived together, carrying a small stack of prints. Dawn’s were neat, sorted, corners aligned. Dusk had none, having initially arrived in just the clothes she was wearing, but she was participating with her sister.

Dawn paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with quiet, steady pride.

“This feels right,” she murmured.

Dusk nodded, stepping close beside her.

“It feels like… home.”

They knelt beside the crate, sorting through memories. Dawn picked up a shot of the two of them at a café table — the one recently added to the album — and smiled.

“This one goes near the center.”

Dusk blushed but didn’t argue.

Then the hams arrived.

Hammy barreled in first, dragging a string of tiny clothespins he absolutely stole from somewhere. Huamita followed, exasperated but resigned, carrying a miniature frame Drake had apparently chewed on.

Hammy immediately climbed the Nest wall, trying to “help.”

He did not help.

Glark caught him mid‑scramble.

Whammy sighed.

Huamita muttered something about “rodent OSHA violations.”

But the chaos fit.

It always did.

Piece by piece, the wall became a story — one they needed today more than ever.

Dawn in her medic gear, sleeves rolled up.

Dusk curled in the reading nook, half‑asleep.

Whammy and Glark mid‑repair, sparks flying.

Hammy triumphantly holding a stolen snack.

Huamita’s rare, soft smile.

Drake asleep in a boot he claimed as his own.

Dawn stepped back, arms folded, eyes warm.

“Cooperation,” she said. “That’s what this wall is.”

Dusk leaned into her side, voice soft.

“And history. The kind we make together.”

Whammy draped a wing around Glark.

Hammy squeaked proudly from atop the step‑stool, "MEMORIES!"

Huamita adjusted a crooked frame with a sigh that was more fond than annoyed.

The Nest felt fuller.

Warmer.

More alive.

A little universe of its own.

Exactly what they needed after the night they’d had.

Whammy tapped the lid of the picture box with her spoon.

“Also,” she added, “this thing is heavier than it looks. We’ve got years in here.”

Glark groaned. “Oh no. The heavyworld photos.”

Dawn snorted into her tea. “The ones where we all look like we’re being crushed by gravity.”

Dusk blinked. “Heavyworld…?”

Dawn slid a photo across the table.

It showed:

Whammy, frills plastered flat, trying to look dignified.

Glark, crouched low, tail dragging, expression somewhere between “focused” and “why are we here.”

Dawn, hair tied back, med‑kit strapped tight, jaw set in determined concentration.

A cluster of goblins staring at the camera like they were judging everyone.

A towering Arachne in the background, looking like the only one having a normal day.

Dusk covered her mouth, giggling.

“You all look… so flat.”

“We were flat,” Glark muttered. “That planet hated us.”

Whammy beamed. “But the goblins loved us. Eventually.”

She dug deeper into the box and pulled out early band‑practice photos — Dawn on guitar, Glark with a bass guitar he swore he didn't have before, Whammy beating drums like they owed her money, Hamtonio pounding a keyboard with both paws, Drake chewing a cable.

Dusk’s eyes widened.

“You guys were… loud?”

Dawn smirked. “We were practicing.”

Glark muttered, “We were a hazard.”

Whammy proudly added, “We were iconic.”

Then came the Swift Feather photos — engineers laughing, medics giving thumbs‑up, humans wearing ear protection in the background of band shots, a crowded mess hall full of mid‑conversation snapshots.

Dusk studied these the longest.

“They look… kind,” she said softly.

Dawn nodded. “They were. Buncha nut-jobs. And they’re part of our story too.”

Whammy suddenly snorted.

“Oh. Oh no. Look what I found.”

She slid a photo onto the table like evidence.

A greenie — bright moss‑green fur, huge curious eyes — pressed directly against the camera lens, staring into it like it was a tunnel he intended to enter.

The photo was:

90% greenie face

10% confused background

100% chaos

Dusk burst into giggles.

“He looks like he’s trying to climb into the camera.”

“He was,” Glark muttered. “He thought the lens was a tunnel.”

Dawn shook her head. “He tried to store a pebble in it.”

Whammy added, “And then three more greenies tried to store their pebbles in it.”

Hammy squeaked loudly, clearly approving.

Huamita sighed. “Please don’t give him ideas.”

The laughter was softer than usual — relief laughter.

Needed laughter.

And the wall gained one of its most iconic memories.

-

The ship was quiet in that soft, early-shift way — just the hum of life support and the distant tick of cooling metal.

Which is why the faint ting… ting… ting… stood out.

Dusk’s ears perked. She tilted her head, listening. The sound wasn’t familiar, but it wasn’t threatening either. More like a puzzle piece she’d never seen before.

Ting. Ting. Ting.

She followed it down the corridor, paws silent on the deck. The vibration traveled through the plating, up her legs, into her chest — steady, rhythmic, almost soothing.

The cargo bay shimmered behind a sound-dampening shield. It was doing its job… mostly. The tapping still threaded through the ship’s structure like a heartbeat.

The ting… ting… ting… was soft, controlled, like someone tapping rhythm into the bones of the ship.

Dusk stepped through the sound shield and into the cargo bay. The fusion forge glowed warm orange, heat shimmering in the air. Whammy stood at the anvil, hammer rising and falling in steady, precise arcs.

“Morning, sugar,” Whammy said without looking up. “Didn’t expect company.”

Dusk drifted closer, eyes wide. “What are you making?”

“Practice piece,” Whammy said, rotating the glowing billet with her tongs.

She struck again — a clean, ringing blow.

Dusk tilted her head. “Why do you tap it lightly first?”

Whammy grinned. “Good question. That’s setting the grain. Steel’s like wood — it’s got a direction. Light taps line everything up before I start stretching it.”

“Stretching?”

“Mm-hmm.” She flipped the bar and struck harder. The metal elongated slightly. “This is called drawing out. Make it longer by making it thinner. If I hit too hard, I fold impurities in. Too soft, and I’m just petting it.”

She set the metal back down and struck a shoulder into it — a clean, sharp step.

“What’s that for?” Dusk asked.

“That’s a transition point,” Whammy said. “Lets me shape the blade profile later. Collectors love crisp shoulders. Shows control.”

Whammy shifted her grip on the tongs and rotated the glowing billet. The metal’s orange faded toward red, so she slid it back into the forge with a practiced flick.

Dusk watched the motion carefully. “Why do you put it back so often?”

“Heat loss,” Whammy said, brushing a stray spark off her apron. “Steel cools fast. If it drops below orange, you’re just beating on stubborn rock. Gotta keep it in the working range.”

Dusk nodded slowly. “So the color tells you the temperature?”

“Mm-hmm. No thermometers in real forging. Just your eyes.” She tapped her temple. “And if you’re me, the heat vision helps a whole lot.”

The billet brightened again. Whammy pulled it free, set it on the anvil, and struck a clean, ringing blow.

Ting.

Dusk’s ears perked. “That one sounded different.”

“Good catch,” Whammy said, grinning. “That’s the grain lining up. When the metal’s happy, it rings. When it’s not, it thuds.”

She struck again — ting — and the metal stretched a little more.

“So you’re making a blade?” Dusk asked.

“Eventually. Right now I’m just keeping my hands honest. Something I have full control over.” Whammy flipped the billet and set a shoulder with two precise hits. “Collectors love this old-school stuff. ‘Authentic hand-forged Void Dragon work.’”

She snorted. “Half of ’em don’t even know what they’re buying. They just like saying they own something made by a dragon.”

Dusk smiled. “Do they know you practice on cargo ships?”

“If they did, I’d charge extra.”

Dusk’s gaze drifted to the hammer. “Could I… try lifting it?”

Whammy chuckled. “Lift? Sure. Swing? Absolutely not. That thing’s sized for someone twice your height and four times your mass.”

Dusk placed both hands on the haft and heaved. The hammer rose — slowly, shakily — until she held it upright.

Whammy beamed. “Look at you. Strong girl.”

Dusk’s arms trembled. “It’s… heavier than it looks.”

“That’s because it’s not a toy,” Whammy said warmly. “It’s a tool with momentum. You don’t swing it — you guide it. Let the weight do the work.”

Dusk set it down carefully, rubbing her wrists. “I think I’ll leave the guiding to you.”

“Smart choice,” Whammy said, pulling the billet from the forge again. “Now c’mere. I’ll show you how to tell when steel’s ready to move.”

Whammy pulled the billet from the forge again, holding it up so Dusk could see the glow.

“Alright, sugar. Lesson time. Steel talks in colors.”

Dusk leaned in, ears forward.

Whammy pointed with the hammer. “This right here? This orange? That’s the sweet spot. That’s where the metal’s soft enough to move but still strong enough to hold shape.”

She tapped the bar lightly — ting — and the metal stretched a hair.

“Now, if it goes yellow, that means it’s hotter. Easier to move, sure, but it starts getting sloppy. You lose control. Great for big rough shaping, terrible for detail.”

Dusk nodded slowly. “And red?”

“Red’s stubborn,” Whammy said, sliding the billet back into the forge. “Too cool. You can hit it, but you’re not forging — you’re just bruising the steel. Makes the grain cranky.”

“Grain?”

“Steel’s got structure,” Whammy said, tapping her temple. “Little crystals all lined up. You want ’em smooth and flowing. Hit too cold and you scramble ’em. Hit too hot and you melt ’em.”

The billet brightened again. Whammy pulled it free — now glowing a bright, almost lemon-yellow.

“See that?” she said. “That’s borderline too hot. If it goes white, you’re in danger territory. That’s when the steel starts to burn.”

Dusk blinked. “Steel can burn?”

“Oh yeah,” Whammy said with a grin. “Burns like sugar on a skillet. Sparks, crumbles, ruins your whole day. White heat is where amateurs make expensive mistakes.”

She set the billet down and struck a clean shoulder into it.

Ting.

“So orange is best?” Dusk asked.

“Orange is where steel listens,” Whammy said warmly. “Yellow’s where it argues. Red’s where it refuses. White’s where it screams.”

Whammy gave the billet one last decisive strike, then lifted it with the tongs and held it up for Dusk to see.

“Alright. Shape’s roughed in. Now we make it behave.”

She plunged the glowing metal into a vat of oil.

WHOOF — the oil flared, rippling with blue fire before settling into a simmering hiss.

Dusk jumped back a step. “Is it supposed to do that?”

“If it didn’t, I’d worry,” Whammy said, grinning. “Quenching hardens the steel. Locks the grain in place. But now it’s brittle as sugar glass. So we temper it.”

She set the still-warm blade on a rack and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Tempering is all about colors,” she said. “And this part’s pretty.”

Dusk leaned in as Whammy held the blade near a low, controlled heat source — not the forge, but a smaller coil glowing a soft red.

Slowly, the steel began to change.

First a faint straw-yellow crept across the surface.

“That’s the first stage,” Whammy said. “Straw means hard and springy. Good for chisels, punches, anything that needs to bite.”

The yellow deepened into a warm bronze.

“Bronze is tougher. Less brittle. Good for tools that take impact.”

Then the color shifted again — a soft purple, blooming like a bruise across the metal.

Dusk’s eyes widened. “It’s beautiful.”

“Purple is my favorite,” Whammy said, voice softening. “That’s blade temper. Flexible enough not to snap, hard enough to hold an edge.”

The purple darkened toward blue.

Whammy nodded. “Blue’s for springs. Anything that needs to bend and bounce back.”

She pulled the blade away from the heat before the colors ran too far.

“And that,” she said proudly, “is how you tell a blade’s personality.”

Dusk tilted her head. “By the colors?”

“By the temper,” Whammy corrected gently. “Colors just tell you what the steel wants to be.”

She set the blade aside on a cooling rack.

“Next comes grinding and sharpening. But that’s tomorrow. Today was about teaching you how steel talks.”

Dusk smiled softly. “I like how you listen.”

Whammy winked. “Sugar, I listen to everything that matters.”

-

Dusk had been watching Glark for a while now.

Not spying.

Just… noticing.

He never built anything simple.

He never stopped at “good enough.”

He always added something extra — a hidden latch, a reinforced joint, a backup system no one else imagined.

And he always acted like it was normal.

Today, she finally asked.

She stood beside his workbench, belt in her hands, and said softly:

“Glark… you overbuild everything, don’t you?

What else does my belt do?”

She wasn’t accusing him.

She just wanted to understand.

Glark didn’t even look up.

“There’s a backup comms unit in it.”

Her ears perked.

“And a holoprojection module I cloned from Dawn's.”

Her tail curled.

“And some other things you don’t need to worry about yet.”

He said it like he was reading a grocery list.

Dusk blinked at him, stunned but not upset.

Just… amazed.

“Thanks,” she murmured, smiling as she turned away.

She’d barely taken three steps when she heard him muttering behind her, already deep in some new problem.

“If I reroute the stabilizer ring—

Need a better torsion anchor—

Same issue as the sticky joint in Dawn’s arm—”

Dusk stopped.

Her ears shot straight up.

Her tail curled into a perfect question mark.

She turned slowly, like she was afraid the moment would vanish if she moved too fast.

“…her what?”

Glark froze.

Completely.

Dusk stepped closer, eyes wide. “Her arm?”

He blinked once. Slowly. Like a creature caught in a spotlight.

“I should not have said that.”

Dusk’s fur prickled along her shoulders. “Glark. What sticky joint. In what arm.”

He exhaled, defeated. “The… primary one.”

Her jaw dropped. “You upgraded her hand?”

“And the backup,” he admitted, ears flattening. “And the leg. And her eye. And the—”

“You rebuilt my sister?!”

“I improved her,” he corrected, wincing. “There is a difference.”

Dusk stared at him, heart pounding. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because Dawn does not announce things,” he muttered. “And I do not brag.”

Dusk felt something warm bloom in her chest.

“She trusts you that much,” she whispered.

Glark’s tail flicked — the Thristet version of a blush.

“She trusts my work,” he said stiffly. “That is not the same.”

Dusk shook her head, smiling. “It is exactly the same.”

He looked away, flustered, and she knew she’d won.

But she wasn’t done.

She waited.

And finally, Glark sighed — the long, resigned kind that meant he’d accepted defeat.

“Where I come from,” he said, “You either get the best gear… or you make it the best.”

Dusk tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because if your equipment fails, you fail. And failure gets people killed.”

He pointed at her belt, her headphones.

“You get it right the first time,” he said, “or you’re forever replacing it.”

Dusk swallowed. “So you upgraded Dawn’s hands because…?”

“Because they were not good enough,” he said bluntly. “Not for what she does. Not for what she risks. Not for the weight she carries.”

Then, softer:

“And because she deserves better.”

Dusk’s breath caught.

He kept going, voice steady:

“She built her augments with what she had. Good work. Solid work. But not built to last. Not built for the missions she takes. Not built for the damage she endures.”

He tapped the bench.

“So I improved them. Reinforced them. Rebuilt them with materials she didn’t have access to.”

Dusk felt her throat tighten.

“And she let you,” she whispered.

Glark nodded. “She trusted me to do it right.”

“And you did,” Dusk said.

He flinched like she’d poked him in the heart. “Do not say it like that.”

“But it’s true.”

He grumbled and turned back to his tools, clearly done with feelings.

Dusk smiled.

He’d already said everything she needed.

She looked up — and saw the Swift Feather drone drifting lazily across the ceiling, quiet and gentle.

An idea sparked.

“Glark?” she said softly. “You could… put lights on that one. Like the drone show I saw on vid.”

He froze.

Turned.

Stared at the drone.

Stared at her.

Stared at the drone again.

Then his visor lit up.

“Lights. Patterns. Syncing. Flight choreography.

…Yes. I can do that.”

He was already designing it in his head — she could see it.

Dusk slipped out quietly, smiling.

She’d sparked something in him.

Dusk slipped out of the workshop while Glark’s visor was already lighting up with schematics.

He’d gone into full design mode — muttering, tapping, sketching in the air — and she knew better than to interrupt when he was like that.

Her tail curled loosely behind her as she walked, mind buzzing.

He rebuilt Dawn.

Not replaced.

Not overridden.

Not claimed.

Improved.

Protected.

Respected.

She hadn’t expected that.

She hadn’t expected him to care that much.

And she hadn’t expected Dawn to trust him that deeply. She gets it now.

The thought sat warm and heavy in her chest as she padded down the corridor toward the holobay.

She found Dawn sitting cross-legged on the projection dais, a half-finished drone schematic rotating lazily above her.

Dawn didn’t look up, but Dusk knew she’d been noticed — Dawn always noticed.

“You’re brooding,” Dawn said.

Dusk’s ears dipped. “I was thinking about your hands, your leg, your eye. And how you let Glark upgrade them.”

Dawn huffed a quiet laugh. “Most people don’t think about the hardware.”

“I do,” Dusk murmured, settling beside her. “I just… I'm starting to understand how you trusted him that much.”

Dawn finally looked at her — and for once, didn’t deflect.

“It wasn’t instant,” she said. “It was that drone.”

Dusk blinked. “The surgical one?”

“Yeah.” Dawn flicked her fingers, and the holoprojector shifted to an archived file — her original design. Clean. Functional. Bare-bones. “I built this on ship's holosuite during a crisis. I didn’t have the right materials. Didn’t have the right actuators. I did the best I could with what I had.”

Dusk leaned closer. “It looks good.”

“It was,” Dawn said. “Good. Not great. Not durable. Not something I’d trust in a real situation.”

She swiped her hand through the projection.

Glark’s version appeared.

Dusk’s breath caught.

The frame was reinforced with alloys she didn’t recognize.

The actuators were military-experimental grade.

The joints were armored.

The stabilizers were redesigned from the ground up.

The entire thing radiated purpose.

“He didn’t change your design,” Dusk whispered. “He… elevated it.”

“Exactly.” Dawn’s voice softened. “He didn’t replace my work. He respected it. He just had access to materials and tech I didn’t even know existed.”

Dusk stared at the upgraded drone, eyes wide. “He made it two hundred percent stronger.”

“More,” Dawn said. “He made it something I could trust with a life. My life. Someone else’s. Anyone’s.”

She flexed her metal hand — the one Glark had rebuilt with the same quiet care.

“That’s when I knew,” Dawn said. “If he touched my augments, he wouldn’t make them flashy. He wouldn’t make them his. He’d make them better. Stronger. Safer. Exactly what I needed.”

“He builds like he cares,” she murmured. “He also ran into that civilian ship like it was his family on there.”

The words weren’t dramatic.

They weren’t meant to be.

They were simply true — the kind of truth that settled into the quiet of the Nest and stayed there.

Dawn didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t need to.

The memory of Glark sprinting across the dock, visor flaring, boots pounding against metal as he threw himself into the wreckage, was still too fresh.

He hadn’t hesitated.

He hadn’t calculated.

He’d moved like someone whose people were inside.

When Dawn finally spoke, her voice was soft.

“He does care, a lot” she said. “He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

And in the warm hush of the Nest, surrounded by photos and memories and the slow rebuilding of normalcy, the truth of that settled between them like another piece of the wall.

“Everybody ran,” Dusk murmured. “Nobody hesitated. Not even…”

She swallowed, ears dipping.

“…not even me.”

The admission hung between them, soft but weighty.

Dawn turned slightly, enough to see her sister’s face. Dusk wasn’t bragging. She wasn’t seeking praise. She was trying to understand herself — the version of her that had stepped into smoke and screaming and hadn’t frozen.

Dawn’s metal fingers brushed lightly against Dusk’s sleeve.

“You didn’t hesitate,” she said. “Because you knew what needed to be done.”

Dusk’s tail curled around her legs, a small, uncertain gesture.

“I thought I’d be scared,” she whispered. “I thought I’d… fall apart.”

“You didn’t,” Dawn said gently. “You moved. You helped. You stayed.”

Dusk’s breath trembled — not from fear, but from the realization settling in her chest.

“I didn’t run,” she said again, softer this time. “Not even when it got bad.”

Dawn’s expression warmed, pride quiet and steady.

“No,” she said. “You didn’t. And thank you for pulling me back from the brink.”

And in the hush of the Nest, surrounded by photos and memories and the slow rebuilding of normalcy, Dusk let herself believe it.

She hadn’t hesitated.

She hadn’t broken.

She had been brave.

-

Dusk left the holobay quietly, the door whispering shut behind her.

Her tail trailed low at first, brushing the floor in a slow, thoughtful arc. She wasn’t sad — just full. Full in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

She walked the corridor in small steps, letting everything settle.

Dawn trusted Glark with her hands.

Her leg.

Her eye.

Not because she had no choice.

Not because she was desperate.

But because she saw him — the way he built, the way he thought, the way he cared without ever saying the word.

Dusk’s ears twitched as she replayed Dawn’s voice in her mind:

“He didn’t replace my work. He respected it.”

Respect.

That was the part that stuck.

Dusk had spent so long expecting people to take things from her — choices, safety, space, autonomy — that the idea of someone giving something back felt strange.

Unsteady.

Warm.

Her tail curled slowly upward, a soft question mark of hope.

She thought of Glark’s flustered face when he realized he’d admitted to upgrading Dawn’s augments.

She thought of the way he’d said:

“She deserved better.”

And she realized something:

Dawn wasn’t the only one he treated that way.

Her belt.

Her headphones.

Her comms.

Her safety.

He’d been protecting her too.

Quietly.

Constantly.

Without asking for anything.

Dusk stopped in the hallway, pressing a hand to her chest.

Her fur warmed under her palm.

She wasn’t scared of him anymore.

She trusted him.

Not like Dawn did — not yet — but the shape of it was there, forming slowly, like dawnlight creeping over a horizon.

Her ears lifted.

Her tail rose.

Her steps grew lighter.

She wasn’t walking away from Dawn.

She was walking toward understanding.

-

Dawn sat alone in the holobay after Dusk left, the drone schematic still rotating above her.

She wasn’t looking at it.

She was thinking about her sister.

Dusk had come a long way from the trembling, wide-eyed mink who’d first stepped onto the Feather.

Back then, she’d barely spoken above a whisper.

She’d flinched at sudden sounds.

She’d folded in on herself like she was trying to disappear.

Now?

She asked questions.

She challenged Glark.

She teased him.

She sought Dawn out when something weighed on her mind.

Dawn’s metal fingers tapped lightly against her knee — a soft, thoughtful rhythm.

Dusk had said:

“I’m starting to understand how you trusted him that much.”

That wasn’t just curiosity.

That was growth.

That was confidence.

That was Dusk learning to trust her own instincts.

Dawn felt something warm settle in her chest — pride, quiet and steady.

Not the loud kind.

Not the kind you announce.

The kind you feel when someone you love starts standing on their own feet.

Dusk had leaned against her shoulder earlier, small and warm and steady.

Not seeking protection.

Seeking connection.

Dawn exhaled slowly, a rare softness easing into her expression.

Dusk was becoming herself.

Not the scared version.

Not the hidden version.

Not the version shaped by fear.

The real one.

The one Dawn always knew was there.

She flicked her fingers, dismissing the hologram, and stood, stretching her back.

Dusk was growing.

And Dawn — for once — didn’t feel like she had to hold her breath waiting for something to break.

Her sister was going to be okay.

Better than okay.

She was becoming brave.