The cafeteria hummed, but not with chaos. It was a quieter, almost melodic sound—a mix of low voices, children’s laughter, and the soft clatter of dishes. A group of kids tossed a rubber ball back and forth, their giggles rising every time it narrowly missed a parent. At nearby tables, adults murmured, their voices heavy with memories of lives left behind. Across the room, refugees huddled in front of a flickering TV, their eyes dull and shoulders slumped. The broadcast wasn’t clear, but Veronica caught enough to understand: more systems had fallen, more planets dragged into the relentless war. No one spoke of victories—if they existed, they were too small to matter. The Nightmares were closing in, and the Alliance was barely holding on.

Veronica shook the thought away, her gaze sweeping the room again. She wasn’t here to dwell on the war. Find the commander. That was the mission. But without a name or even a photo, she was left guessing. Her eyes lingered on each face for a beat—tired, sunken-eyed refugees eating in silence, none of them looking like they commanded anything more than their next breath.

Then she saw it—a door, set off from the crowd, marked in large, bold letters: CREW ONLY. Relief flickered inside her.

“Finally,” she muttered under her breath. The word came out louder than she expected. Heads turned. A few curious eyes settled on her, and she offered a quick, sheepish wave before pushing through the door.

The crew’s break room was quiet in comparison, filled with worn couches and armchairs that gave the space a more lived-in feel. Long tables lined the center, but for now, it was empty. Veronica lingered at the door, unsure. Part of her wanted to collapse into one of those armchairs, wait it out until the commander came in for a meal or a break. He’s probably running drills or buried in reports, she thought. Maybe hasn’t even eaten today. She understood that. There were more days than she could count where she had worked through meal after meal, putting off basic needs in favor of the job. It felt strange to have the luxury of time here, even on a ship full of refugees.

"Is someone there?" The voice startled her. It was distant, but loud enough to cut through the silence.

Veronica stood straighter, glancing around for the source. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman speaking.

“Yes,” she called back, her voice firm but unsure. Footsteps followed—quick, uneven. A moment later, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor echoed through the space, followed by the sharp clatter of silverware. She winced at the sound, imagining a tray full of metal utensils now scattered across the ground. Whoever was coming her way wasn’t exactly graceful.

A man stepped into view. He wore a standard military uniform, medals pinned carefully to his chest. His uniform was immaculate, but his face told another story—his eyes drooped, his skin had the pale, washed-out look of someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in too long. He took her in, his expression curious but not hostile.

“What brings a Shadow to our crew’s break room?” he asked, cutting straight to the point. No pleasantries, no posturing. Just a question.

Veronica nodded at his directness. “I’m here to speak with the commander. I’ve got orders from the Saint herself.” The words felt stiff, formal, but necessary. She watched his face closely, looking for any sign of reaction.

His eyebrows lifted, just a fraction, before his mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Orders from the Saint? Well then, should I feel honored or inconvenienced?” He crossed his arms, tilting his head as if weighing the options.

“Both, probably,” she replied, stepping forward and offering her hand. “Veronica.”

“Steve.” His handshake was firm, though she could feel the exhaustion in his grip. “I’m just the acting commander. The real one got reassigned after his ship was torn apart in the first wave of the invasion.” He shrugged, his voice carrying a trace of bitterness, though it was quickly masked by a practiced smile. “I’m just holding things together until we get to a transfer station.”

Veronica glanced over his uniform again, taking in the medals, the tension in his posture. He was trying to keep things light, to stay positive, but it was thin—an armor she’d seen many times before. Some might find it frustrating, but she knew better. Not everyone could afford to wear their despair openly.

“Good to meet you, Steve.” She handed him the datapad with the coordinates. “The Saint’s orders are to redirect your ship. Another fleet will escort you to a system that’s agreed to take in the refugees.”

Steve took the datapad, glancing over the coordinates before nodding. “Well, that’s something. We’ve heard rumors of pirate activity out here. Good to know we’ve got a little extra protection. Though, between you and me, it’s not the pirates I’m worried about.” His voice dropped at the end, a hint of real concern slipping through his casual tone.

Veronica met his eyes, understanding passing between them without needing to be said. Pirates were the least of their worries. The official reports always blamed pirates for missing ships, but everyone knew the truth. The Nightmares didn’t leave survivors.

“That’s all I’ve got for you,” she said, turning to leave. Small talk wasn’t her style, and Steve didn’t seem like the type to drag things out either.

“I’ll head to the bridge, get us moving,” Steve called after her as she stepped back into the hallway

“You do that,” she replied, allowing herself a small smile as she walked away.