Page 103 of Red Scale Daddy
“It was mean.”
“That is sometimes adequate.”
The remaining drones abandon the dorsal hull, skittering away from the vibration zone toward the ground. For the first time in several minutes, the Lamplight stops being actively clawed.
Roma shuts down the pulse before the hinge crosses into red. “Dorsal pressure clear.”
“Temporary?”
“Yes.”
“Useful temporary?”
“Yes.”
I lean back, pain throbbing in my side, and look at her properly. She is flushed from exertion, dust-streaked, bruised, exhausted, and still standing in the center of her damaged ship making impossible choices faster than most soldiers can curse. I thought she was fragile when she walked into my bar. Not weak, never that, but brittle. A brilliant thing too tightly wound, likely to shatter the first time the universe refused to obey.
I was wrong.
She bends badly. She hates bending. But she does it.
That is not fragility.
That is survival with teeth.
“What?” she asks, not looking at me.
“Nothing.”
“You are staring again.”
“Monitoring assets.”
She exhales in irritation, but it lacks its earlier edge. “Say what you mean.”
I consider making a joke. I consider saying something about her ship, her temper, or the impressive way she weaponizes engineering disappointment. All of that would be easier than the truth.
“You’re not naive,” I say.
Her hands slow over the console.
“I never claimed to be,” she replies.
“I know. I decided it anyway.”
“That was arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And inaccurate.”
“Also yes.”
She turns slightly, not fully, but enough to show she is listening.
I continue, because the words have started and apparently I am committed to making myself uncomfortable. “You are too rigid. You trust plans longer than you should. You think needing anyone is evidence of design failure. All of that may get us killed if you do not keep improving.”
“Is this your version of praise?”
