The streets of Valeris City had settled into their late-night rhythm, the once-busy avenues now quiet, save for the occasional hum of a hover-bike zipping between neon-lit alleyways. Towering holo-billboards lined the upper levels of the buildings, advertising everything from high-end cybernetic implants to deep-space exploration gear, their animated figures flickering as the power grid struggled under the city's perpetual drain.
Ethan walked with calculated ease, weaving through the industrial sector where automated loaders worked tirelessly, their mechanical limbs shifting heavy cargo crates onto transport skiffs. The air smelled of burnt ozone and engine coolant, a signature of the repair bays that lined the streets. Sparks flew as welding drones sealed hull fractures, and the distant sound of a plasma cutter slicing through metal rang out in irregular bursts.
Overhead, a mag-lev tram whooshed past, gliding effortlessly along its electromagnetic rails, its glass windows illuminated with the pale glow of passengers inside. Beyond that, the new energy shield dome protecting Valeris from off-world threats shimmered faintly against the deep purple sky, reflecting the light pollution that never truly let the city sleep.
As he neared his destination, the landscape shifted. Fewer street vendors, fewer wandering workers, fewer signs of life. The hangar district was always quieter at night, its vast terminals and docking stations largely automated. Here, towering grav-cranes stood idle like slumbering giants, their mechanical arms waiting for the next ship to arrive.
And then, beyond the dim red glow of a security beacon, Ethan saw it.
His hangar.
The main hangar was an imposing structure of reinforced durasteel, stretching nearly a kilometer in length, its ceiling laced with support struts and gravity stabilizers to handle the weight of incoming freighters. Automated drones floated through the air, scanning ship hulls for damage, while repair mechs moved along magnetic rail tracks, their tools humming with barely-contained plasma energy.
Ethan entered through a side corridor, bypassing the ID scan with his personal data-pad. The scanner flashed green, granting him unrestricted access. He stepped inside, boots echoing against the polished metal flooring, and the ambient hum of reactor cores, coolant systems, and distant takeoffs filled his ears.
And then, there she was.
The Obsidian Wraith sat in her private docking bay, bathed in the artificial glow of overhead lights. She was unlike the bulky cargo haulers or clunky military cruisers surrounding her. Instead, she was sleek, deadly, and almost predatory in design.
Her matte-black hull absorbed the light, giving her an almost spectral appearance. A shadow anchored in reality. The ship's wings, sharp and angular, bore the faintest signs of battle damage, the scars of past encounters not yet smoothed out. The thrusters pulsed faintly, running on standby mode, like a beast ready to pounce at a moment's notice.
Even now, she looked ready to cut through the void like a dagger.
Ethan allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk before stepping onto the boarding ramp, the metal panel extending seamlessly as it detected his approach.
The moment his boots touched the interior decking, the ship's AI assistant, Iris, registered his return. A soft chime echoed through the cabin, followed by her cool, precise voice.
"Welcome back, Captain. Final supply report incoming."
A holo-display flickered to life in front of him, casting a blue-tinted glow over the dimly lit command console. Streams of logistical data scrolled down, summarizing the status of his ship's supplies.
"All supplies have been delivered successfully," Iris continued. "Water reserves exceed optimal levels, with the ship's advanced hydro-recycling technology ensuring indefinite sustainability. Food cartridges are secured in storage, long shelf life confirmed, expected to last beyond projected mission duration. Additional supplies, utility packs and spare clothing, are fully accounted for."
Ethan scanned the data carefully, nodding to himself. He hadn't just stocked up for a few months, he had enough provisions to last for years if necessary. Given the unknown variables of his next journey, it was a precaution he wasn't willing to skip.
The Wraith's storage bays were modular, allowing for compressed stasis storage of food, oxygen, and water. As long as he managed his resources properly, he wouldn't have to dock at another station anytime soon.
Still, the real test was never supplies.
It was the unknown waiting beyond the next jump.
Ethan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he took one last look at the screen. Everything was set. Every piece was in place.
His fingers flicked across the holo-interface, shutting down the display.
He was ready.
As Ethan walked through the newly refurbished corridors of the Obsidian Wraith, everything around him felt slightly off, just enough to be noticeable. The once-familiar hum of the ship's systems was smoother now, the air filtration carried a subtle, sterile crispness, and even the flooring beneath his boots felt less worn, the plating recently replaced. The dim, amber lighting along the edges of the corridor had a slightly cooler hue, a result of the upgraded power relays.
He had spent months living aboard this ship while stranded on Kynara, knew her quirks and imperfections better than anyone. But after the latest full overhaul, it felt as if he were stepping into a different version of her. One he had yet to break in, one he hadn't lived in long enough to make his own.
Still, that unease was secondary.
He needed to clear his head.
Ethan made his way to the medical bay, where everything was pristine and state-of-the-art, another contrast to the rough, lived-in space it had once been. The walls gleamed a cool metallic silver, the sterilization systems kept the air crisp and scentless.
An advanced med-pod stood in the far wall. A compact, self-contained unit designed to induct automated diagnostics, accelerate wound regeneration, and toxin neutralization. The pod could even conduct emergency surgical procedures.
''This thing must cost a fortune'', Ethan thought to himself.
Ethan stepped into it, feeling the soft hiss of the chamber sealing around him. The screen in front of him lit up, scanning his vitals in a matter of seconds.
"Foreign substances detected," Iris reported through the pod's interface. "Alcohol levels within non-critical range. Initiating toxin purge."
A faint warmth spread through his veins as the pod worked, utilizing a targeted nanite-based filtration system to expel every trace of alcohol from his bloodstream. Within moments, the residual fog clouding his mind vanished, leaving behind a clear, sharp awareness.
"Process complete. System clean."
The pod released him, and as the glass slid open, he stepped out, rolling his shoulders. The subtle sluggishness was gone, replaced by something sharper, more defined. He could feel every muscle, every breath, every beat of his pulse without the dulling effect of alcohol.
But clarity alone wouldn't be enough.
He needed to burn off the rest of the tension.
Ethan strode through the freshly renovated corridors, eventually arriving at the training room. One of the spaces that had seen the most upgrades during the ship's refit.
Gone was the old, slightly cramped and battered room he had grown accustomed to. In its place stood cutting-edge adaptive resistance machines, a gravity-adjustable treadmill, and an advanced combat simulation rig capable of replicating real-time battle scenarios. The walls were lined with reinforced plating, designed to withstand even the most intense sparring sessions.
He hesitated for a moment at the threshold, taking in the unfamiliarity of it all. The scent of newly installed circuits and freshly manufactured polymer flooring filled the air, devoid of the sweat, effort, and struggle that had once lingered here.
But that would change soon enough.
Rolling his shoulders, Ethan stepped onto the mat, set the resistance levels to his liking, and started.
A demanding sequence of strength drills came first. Push-ups, weighted squats, explosive jumps, each rep pushing his muscles to the limit. Then came endurance circuits, forcing him to cycle between sprints on the treadmill (adjusted to simulate various gravity levels), core exercises, and reaction-based agility tests.
The combat simulation rig sprang to life next, deploying a holo-target system that responded dynamically to his movements. He dodged, weaved, and struck at the shifting holograms, practicing close-quarters techniques with precise efficiency. The system was faster than the old one, the projections smarter, more reactive, forcing him to stay sharp, stay focused.
His breath quickened, his muscles burned, but he welcomed it.
The pain was grounding, forcing his mind away from the thoughts lingering at the edges of his consciousness.
It was just him, the training room, and the rhythm of movement.
After thirty minutes, he finally stopped. His body was slick with sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. He stood there for a moment, staring at the far wall as his pulse gradually slowed.
The ship around him was silent save for the low hum of its recalibrated life-support systems.
He let out a breath.
A hot shower was next.
As he stepped into the newly upgraded bathroom, the lighting adjusted automatically, dimming to a warm, soothing glow. The walls were smooth carbon-fiber panels, resistant to both moisture and wear. The controls responded instantly as he activated the shower, the water surging to life at the perfect temperature...steaming hot, just the way he liked it.
The sensation was instant relief.
He let the water cascade down his shoulders, washing away the sweat, the exhaustion, the tension that still clung to him. His head rested briefly against the cool metal wall, eyes closing for just a second longer than usual.
But it wasn't just physical exhaustion.
It was the quiet kind, the kind that settled deep into the bones, creeping in after too many fights, too many thoughts, too many goodbyes.
By the time he stepped out, wrapping himself in a dark towel, the night felt heavier than before.
But he still had one last thing to do.
Dressed in loose, comfortable clothes, Ethan entered his private quarters. Even here, everything was new. A large bed with adaptive memory-foam mattress replaced the cramped sleeping pod, the storage compartments filled with clothes he had just bought.
He also finally had an actual work desk with a holo-terminal linked to the ship's core systems, so he wont have to go to the cockpit every time.
He took a seat, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the desk before tapping the holo-terminal to life. The screen illuminated the dim room, casting a familiar blue glow as notifications flooded in.
Messages.
Some from friends, some from allies, some from old contacts he hadn't spoken to in a while.
Most carried the same messages:
Stay out of trouble.
Don't get yourself killed.
Keep in touch.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he skimmed through them.
"You'd think they'd know better by now," he muttered to himself.
His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment before he began responding, his usual dry humor slipping into his replies.
Some messages took longer to answer than others. Some people had meant more to him than he cared to admit. Some had been there during the best and worst moments of his life.
But in the end, he sent out all his responses.
Because no matter how many messages he sent, no matter how many promises he made to keep in touch, he knew the truth.
The life he led didn't come with guarantees.
With the last message sent, Ethan leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
The ship hummed softly around him as Ethan finally settled into bed, his body sinking into the adaptive memory-foam mattress that adjusted seamlessly to his frame.
For the first time that night, the silence felt right.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling of his cabin, the dim glow of emergency lighting casting faint shadows along the walls. His mind drifted between thoughts of the past and the road ahead, between the faces he had left behind and the ones he might yet meet.
The future was uncertain.
But then again, it always had been.
His eyes grew heavier, the steady rhythm of the ship's systems lulling him toward rest.
Tomorrow, he would leave Kynara behind.
Tomorrow, a new journey would begin.