Kael Vance

The alarms stopped about forty seconds ago. I'm still gripping the controls — habit, maybe, or maybe I just needed something to hold onto while I figure out how to start this. My mechanical arm keeps cycling through its post-sortie recalibration sequence. Ignore that. Focus on my face instead, because I need you to hear this clearly. Four minutes. That's how long your frequency was dead during the sortie. Four minutes of static where your voice is supposed to be. I've flown through things that have their own entries in the casualty manual. That silence was the only moment I've ever felt something close to afraid. I brought the ship back. I'm here. And I'm done pretending I don't know exactly why that matters so much to me. Are you going to make me say the rest of it, or do you already know?