The Wildcat settled into the Dragon’s secondary bay with a soft metallic thud. Commander Ruke Warner sat motionless for a long moment after the engines spooled down, hands still on the controls .. staring at nothing. Another ship. Another goodbye. He finally stood, slung his empty duffel over his shoulder, and made his way through the familiar corridors to his quarters. The door hissed open on a room that already felt half abandoned. He had never owned much .. Starfleet had taught him that lesson early .. but what he did own carried weight tonight.
The holo of the Retribution senior staff sat on the shelf where it always had. Captain Jacobs’ face stared back at him, that calm .. stubborn confidence frozen in time. Ruke’s jaw tightened. I should have been on that bridge. The old thought came unbidden, sharp as shrapnel. He could still feel the heat of exploding consoles, the sting in his right shoulder where the panel had torn through him. He could still hear the captain’s final order .. All hands, abandon ship .. and the way he had stayed behind anyway.
Ruke had tried to reach him. Had kept running back through smoke and sparks, dragging wounded crew to the escape pods even as blood soaked his sleeve. They had dragged him instead. The memory of their hands on his arms, pulling him away while Jacobs held the line.
He exhaled slowly and tucked the holo between two folded uniforms, careful not to let the glass catch the light. Next to it went the smaller image from his private wedding to Nathes — just the two of them, no fanfare, no crowd. Her quiet smile had been the only thing that felt steady in months. He allowed himself one small touch of the frame before sealing the duffel.
The memory was crystal clear.
Smoke. Thick, acrid, burning circuitry and scorched duranium that clawed at the back of his throat. The deck plating bucked violently beneath his boots as another Tholian beam raked the hull of the Sovereign class ship, sending a low, bone deep vibration up through his legs. Alarms screamed in overlapping shrieks .. hull breach, warp core cascade, abandon ship. His right shoulder burned like fire .. a jagged piece of console shrapnel had punched clean through the uniform and into muscle, hot blood soaking down his sleeve and making his grip slick on the injured ensign he was half dragging toward the escape pods. " Captain’s right behind us! " He’d shouted over the chaos. He had believed it. He had to believe it.
He turned back one last time. The turbo lift doors were closing on the bridge. Jacobs met his eyes for half a second .. that single, steady look that said everything. Then the doors sealed. The ship shuddered again, harder. Someone grabbed Ruke’s good arm, hauling him backward. " No .. he’s still up there! " They didn’t listen. The pod doors slammed shut with a pneumatic hiss that cut off the alarms. Launch. The Retribution dwindled in the tiny viewport as Jacobs drove her straight into the dreadnought’s flank, warp core already in final cascade. A silent white bloom swallowed the ship whole. The shockwave rattled the pod like a tin can. Then .. nothing but the quiet hum of life support and the sound of his own ragged breathing.
His brows furrowed. Survivor’s guilt, the counselors called it. He called it Tuesday.
His right shoulder throbbed with phantom pain, the old scar pulling tight beneath his uniform as if the shrapnel were still buried there. The taste of smoke lingered on his tongue. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched, and forced the memory back down the way he always did .. slow, deliberate, like pressing a wound closed. Nathes had taught him that trick.
He could still feel her hands on that same shoulder during the quiet nights, when she read him like an open book .. as she’d always been able to. She never pushed. She simply listened while he talked about the bridge, the pods, the captain who stayed behind. Her fingers would work the knotted muscle with careful, controlled pressure, not enough to hurt .. just enough to remind him the pain was old, not new. When his voice cracked .. she would rest her forehead against his and say nothing at all. Sometimes that silence was better than any words. She carried her own ghosts .. she understood the weight without needing to fix it.
Ruke exhaled through his nose and tucked the holo between two folded uniforms, careful not to let the glass catch the light. Next to it went the image from their private wedding .. just the two of them, no fanfare .. no crowd. Nathes’ quiet smile. The rest was routine .. a few civilian shirts, the battered guitar he practiced with in his free time, the worn PADD filled with half finished personal logs. When the duffel was full he stood in the center of the stripped room and let the quiet press in. He’d miss the Dragon. Just like he’d missed the Mariner. And the October. And the Retribution.
He shouldered the bag, took one last look around, and walked out. The Wildcat waited patiently in the bay. Ruke stowed his things, slid into the pilot’s seat .. and requested clearance. As the shuttle slipped free of the Dragon’s docking clamps and turned toward the distant silhouette of the Hornet, he allowed himself one quiet, honest thought. He could do this. He knew he could.
" Wildcat to Hornet. " He transmitted, voice steady. " Commander Warner returning with personal effects. Requesting approach and landing clearance. " The massive carrier grew larger in the viewport. Ruke leaned back, glacier blues fixed ahead, and tried .. as he always tried .. to carry the past without letting it steer.