The mechanic with the battered, three-stringed instrument didn't know military anthems or the mathematically perfect symphonies of the Heavenly Court. He only knew a fast, chaotic rhythm that sounded like scraping metal and pure defiance.
For the first time since putting on his pristine white POND uniform, Darian actually enjoyed the music. Yet beneath it, his pulse still raced.
The underground festival was a loud, messy blur of life. Sitting on a rusted crate near the fire, Darian nursed a dented tin cup of fermented rice wine. The harsh liquid tasted like engine coolant, but it chased the chill from his bones.
His eyes darted constantly to the shadowed ventilation shafts. In Darian's world, genuine moments of happiness were never a destination—just a quiet, cruel prelude to extreme violence. He sat in the light, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He looked down at his chest plate. Over his polished silver insignia lay a massive, ugly smear of coarse orange rust. He traced it with his thumb, the rough texture grinding against the flawless synthetic weave. It felt like a disease spreading across his carefully crafted PR persona. It felt real.
Across the fire, Zeri laughed, arguing with a mechanic over the specs of her shattered hard-light projector. Beside her, Ravion sat perfectly still, watching the dancing refugees. Just an hour ago, the towering prince had sworn to protect them.
"Quartermaster's gonna have an absolute stroke when he sees that."
Darian flinched, dropping his hand. Captain Halden slumped onto the crate beside him. Her uniform jacket was half-unzipped, her tie loose, and a familiar unlit cigarette dangled from her lips. Lacking the rigid posture of a commanding officer, she just looked like an exhausted, proud older sister.
"I think it looks better," Darian murmured over the music. "More honest."
Halden snorted softly, leaning her shoulder against his. "Careful, pretty boy. Honesty is a tough habit to break."
She sparked a battered lighter and took a slow drag. Exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke, her dark eyes drifted across the campfire to Zeri and Ravion. Her expression softened into something incredibly warm.
"You did good today, Darian," Halden said, her voice dropping beneath the camp's noise. "All of you did."
Darian blinked in surprise. "We almost brought the ceiling down on them."
"You pulled civilians out of the crossfire. You held the line." Halden let out an affectionate laugh. "You kids have so much potential. You're going to go so far past anything Command expects of you. I can feel it."
She gave the back of his neck a reassuring, heavy squeeze—a profoundly grounding touch. Then she stood, brushing the rust off her slacks.
"Get some rest, kiddo. I'm going to check the perimeter before these mechanics drink all the good coolant."
With a lazy salute, Halden dissolved into the shadows of the rusted corridors, leaving Darian alone.
Darian stared at the empty spot beside him. You kids have so much potential.
He looked back at the fire. Ravion was helping a child fix a broken toy, his massive hands moving with surprising gentleness. Zeri threw her head back, laughing at a joke. Halden believed in them. Ravion had vowed to protect this camp. They were stepping up. They were actually going to be heroes.
A terrifying, suffocating panic clamped down on Darian's chest. He couldn't breathe.
In this galaxy, heroes didn't survive.
The Heavenly Court's Diviners were practically omniscient. It was only a matter of time before they discovered the rebellion, and Darian knew exactly how that story ended. When the Enforcers breached that ceiling, Ravion would ignite his spear to protect the refugees. Zeri would draw her blasters to stand beside him. Halden would jump into the crossfire because she refused to let her team die.
Because they had potential, they would fight an unwinnable war for people they had just met. And they would all be butchered.
No.
He stumbled off the crate. He backed away from the fire, the light, and the music, retreating rapidly into the damp, freezing shadows of the furthest ventilation shaft.
The air was heavy with condensation. Darian hit the rusted wall, his knees buckling. Gasping for air, hands trembling violently, he pulled his encrypted wrist-comm from his tactical pouch.
His thumb hovered over the transmission button.
He didn't want to do it. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the mechanic's music, the mother and her baby, the rust on his chest. They fed us. They trusted us. But the alternative was watching Ravion's chest get caved in by a jade polearm. It was watching Zeri's shields shatter.
If Darian handed the camp over now, cleanly and officially, there would be no heroic last stand. Ravion wouldn't get the chance to be a martyr. The rebels would be arrested and executed, yes, but his squad would be removed from the equation. The Heavenly Court would step in and arrest the threats before a battle even started.
He would save his team by forcibly removing the people they were trying to save. It was a horrifying, cowardly act of preservation disguised as logic.
A sob tore through Darian's throat. With shaking hands, he punched in the priority override for POND Command and locked onto the camp's coordinates.
The screen blinked: TRANSMIT TO HEAVENLY COURT ENFORCEMENT?
Darian squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars.
He pressed the button.
TRANSMISSION SENT.
The comms unit went dark.
Darian collapsed against the rusted wall, sliding down to the damp floor. He pulled his knees to his chest, shaking uncontrollably in the freezing dark.
Out in the square, the mechanic hit a triumphant chord. The refugees cheered, laughing in the warm glow of the fire. The music played on, beautiful and defiant.
Darian pressed his hands over his ears, but he couldn't drown it out. He couldn't stop hearing the laughter. They didn't know it yet, but because of him, everyone in the light was already dead.