Page 114 of Red Scale Daddy
CHAPTER 17
ROMA
The air inside the corridor still carries the aftermath of violence.
Not the smell—though it is there, faint and metallic beneath the sterile filtration—but the texture of it. The ship feels different after something breaches it. The walls hold the memory of impact, the deck still hums with stress redistribution, and every system report scrolling across my interface reflects the same truth: we survived, but only because the margin held.
Barely.
I kneel beside the damaged airlock panel, one hand braced against the warped frame while the other works through the exposed wiring with precise, efficient movements. The plating has buckled inward along the seam where the drones forced entry, leaving the structure compromised in a way that no clean repair can fully correct under current conditions.
This is not a proper fix.
It does not need to be.
It needs to hold.
“Tell me that’s not as bad as it looks,” Dux says from just behind me.
I do not look at him.
“If your assessment is based on visual distortion, then yes,” I reply, guiding a fiber conduit back into alignment before sealing it with a temporary weld patch. “It is significantly worse.”
A low sound leaves him—something between a breath and a restrained laugh.
“Good,” he says. “Would’ve been worried if you said it was fine.”
“It is not fine,” I answer. “The outer seal integrity is compromised, the pressure tolerance is reduced by approximately eighteen percent, and the internal locking mechanism will fail under sustained force if breached again.”
“That sounds like a long way of saying ‘don’t let anything else in,’” he says.
“That is the correct interpretation.”
I reach for the sealing compound and press it along the fracture line, smoothing it into place with controlled pressure. The material responds quickly, bonding to the damaged plating and forming a temporary barrier that will distribute stress across a wider surface area.
It will hold.
It has to.
Behind me, I hear him shift his weight, the subtle scrape of his boots against the deck carrying through the narrow corridor. He does not pace, does not fidget in any overt way, but there is a contained energy in the way he stands now, a readiness that has not faded since the fight.
“You always talk like that after something tries to kill you,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Or is that just for me?”
I finish sealing the last fracture and sit back slightly on my heels, finally turning to look at him.
“My communication patterns do not change based on your presence,” I say.
His lips twist into not quite a smile, but close enough to register.
“Right,” he replies. “That’s why you’re avoiding the part where that got real close.”
I meet his gaze directly.
“It did not get close,” I say. “We maintained control of the situation.”
“Roma,” he says, and my name lands differently now, heavier, more deliberate. “They were inside the ship.”
“And they are no longer inside the ship,” I reply, rising to my feet in one smooth motion. “The distinction matters.”
