Page 68 of Grumpy Mate's Secret Baby

She opens her eyes. “Now you must leave to reclaim what is yours.”

I swallow. The grove smells of grape-vines and cut stalks. I hear my own pulse. I feel power. I feel emptiness.

“Thank you.”

She nods. She gives no more words.

I return to the landing sight. Now the freighter’s mine. I claim its hold. I haul it to the hangar beside the vine-fields. The craft’s hull is bruised; wires hang like guts in the bay. I don’t care.

I climb inside the cockpit. The smell of burnt circuitry and incoming fuel hits me like home. I sit in the pilot’s chair. I grip the throttle. The console lights blink weak. The Solari tech crewpatched systems—wind-tower power cell, repurposed bio-units. It hums, almost alive.

I flip the main switch. The panel glows amber. The seat vibrates. The cabin fills with ozone and heat.

“Okay,” I whisper into the empty cockpit. “We’re doing this.”

The engines roar. The vibration shakes the chair. The skylight above shows the dual suns. I strap in. The wind towers tilt. The vines ripple outside.

I lift off. The ground recedes. I hover. The only sound—engine hum, my breathing, the wind towers fading.

I look back once. At the settlement. The whispergrass. The Solari domes. The fields. I expect desperation, and I find calm.

They gave me healing.

Now I’m ready to reclaim what was mine.

The Journey is both endless and timeless. I don’t remember the last time I slept. Maybe I did once, somewhere between the fields and the fire, but if I did I woke with half my soul missing. Tonight I sit in the cockpit of the ship I claimed, fingers on the throttle, hull humming beneath me like a wounded beast learning how to run again. The air smells of burnt circuitry and fresh vacuum. I taste metal and old battle screams in the back of my throat.

I replay it—all of it—the crash in the Maze. The white-light firestorm. Her face. The way she screamed. The way I reached for her and failed. Every heartbeat I missed. Every moment I froze instead of acting. And the child I dreamed of, silver eyes calling me “Papa.” I don’t know if she exists. I don’t know ifshe’sreal. But the ache for her is as sharp as a blade.

Beside me the data-feed flickers: Earth orbit. The lone blue gem of the world we call home. Coordinates locked. Destination: the city she once called home. I trace it with my finger across the hologram map.

“Home,” I say to the silent cockpit. “We’re going home.”

I engage the thrusters. The ship lurches. My body hugs the seat, the vibration crawling along my bones. I clutch the armrests. The metal tastes of ozone. The wind towers I left behind spin in the memory of my mind. This craft is crude. Jury-rigged. But it flies—and that’s enough.

A voice crackles over the radio.

“Unidentified ship, you are entering restricted space. Identify yourself.”

I unclip the headset, toss it aside. Silence is better. I lean back and close my eyes for a second, letting the engines hum lull me. But there is no lulling. Not now.

“Liora,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

The city approaches: lights glittering like stars plucked and placed on a velvet black blanket. My senses thrum: the smell of ozone again, the hum of atmosphere re-entry bristles the cockpit windows. The heat shields glow faint orange. My armor’s scars tingle in sympathy. I adjust the controls—one hand steady, one hand shaking.

The city’s name scrolls on the HUD: New?Helios. She lived here. Shesaidshe lived here when there was still hope. I stare at the light-ribbons, at hover-cars glinting, at towers reaching like spears for the sky.

I don’t cloak this time. Let the world see me. Let her see me. I don’t care about hiding.

The atmosphere hits. The craft shudders: re-entry burn. I grip the throttle. The nose swings upward to bleed the angle. The heat rises. The canopy glows red. The smell: hot metal, scorched glass, fear made physical.

“Steady,” I growl. “Just another fight.”

The g-forces claw at my chest. My lungs strain. I breathe in shallow, control the rhythm—Because Iknowhow to survivethis. I know how to fight it. I know how totake. But I don’t know how tohave. Not yet.

The landing gear deploys with a whump. The engines roar, then silence. The ship touches down on a designated pad in the city outskirts. The smell of exhaust and urban ozone hits me as the hatch opens.

I step out of the cockpit. My boots hiss on heated metal. My armor is battered, the visor cracked, but I stand tall. The city lights shine too bright. Noise rushes in. Smells of grilled food, of trash, of human bodies and synthetic clothes. The city is alive. Too alive.