“Gorgeous. What a name for a mining hauler.” Arthur laughs at the thought.

  The old ship has been retrofitted into a passenger liner.

  Pipes sweat sulfur along the corridors.

  Metal ribs groan with every vibration.

  The air reeks of rust and burnt ozone.

  Families cluster in narrow alcoves.

  Children whisper beneath blankets.

  Every bulkhead rattles like loose teeth in a jaw.

  The ship shudders—

  a violent stretch, as if the universe itself is trying to tear it apart.

  Then stillness.

  Another jump into a gate chain survived.

  Forty-six families aboard.

  Refugees of nowhere, moving toward nothing certain.

  Arthur sits alone, one hand braced against a vibrating wall. His eyes narrow, tracking every pulse, every shift.

  “Portside gate unit’s lagging,” he murmurs. “A few new parts and she’d run quiet.”

  Sarah’s voice slides in—sharp, bitter, intimate in his skull.

  “That’s what you notice? We’re falling apart, Arthur—and you want to fix a damn engine?”

  Arthur turns his head, listening into silence.

  Then her voice cracks.

  “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean that.”

  In the Void, she stacks books one-handed. The chains clatter softly.

  “It’s not your fault. I just… I don’t feel like me anymore. Like I’m nothing but a copy of the woman I used to be.”

  A pause.

  “A copy of a copy.”

  Arthur straightens, the weight in his chest heavier than gravity. He stares through the viewport, blue gate-light reflecting in his eyes.

  “We are them,” he says quietly. “Just the version that didn’t get a happily-ever-after.”

  He turns, rising.

  “They’re just… our dreams. Our hopes.”

  There’s strength in the gesture that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “We’ll get there. To happiness.”

  “I don’t feel like a clone,” he continues, softer. “I remember everything. My fifth birthday. The day we met. The day—”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The silence finishes the sentence for him.

  Arthur stands near a broadcaster, listening to the news. Blue light fills the room. Lightning crawls across the hull. He glances back at the viewport—his reflection stares at him, tired and unblinking.

  He lifts a hand to the glass, as if Sarah might press back.

  Silence.

  Only the engines.

  He slips into the Void like a dream he’s already living.

  “I thought I’d try to bring the controls up again today.”

  Muted gray light ripples outward.

  At the center, the coin drive’s controls glow faintly—alien glyphs flickering in fractured loops.

  Arthur kneels, tracing each line, each pulse. The system resists him—locked behind something he can’t yet name.

  “I don’t know what he did,” he says, sitting back in the shallow water. “We’re locked out.”

  He shifts, studying it.

  “This unit isn’t like the old one. But if I can understand it… maybe I can build it again.”

  Behind him—Sarah.

  Chains limit her movement.

  Beside her, books prop up the violin.

  She draws the bow one-handed.

  The sound is jagged. Broken.

  Grief made audible.

  Arthur rises and kneels just within reach.

  “Can I help? I could hold it—just steady it.”

  She doesn’t look at him. The bow stutters.

  “If this is my life now, I have to get used to it.”

  “Our life,” Arthur says gently. He smiles. “If you want to do it yourself, I get it. But I’m here. With you. For you.”

  A silence stretches—thin, aching.

  “I want to try myself,” she says at last.

  Arthur nods. He doesn’t argue.

  He simply fades—returning to the waking world.

  Sarah drops the violin as he vanishes.

  Back in the real, Arthur moves quietly among the passengers. He nods to those who meet his eyes. Most look away.

  He finds a young man holding a battered guitar—strings frayed, one missing entirely.

  Arthur offers credits for the instrument. Too many.

  The man hesitates, then accepts.

  Arthur sits alone, testing the strings. The notes are warped, sour. Still, he plays—Sarah’s song. The one she plays when she’s happiest.

  Uneven. Imperfect.

  But true.

  In the Void, Sarah’s bow falters. Her hand trembles. The violin croaks into jagged sobs.

  She curses and nearly throws it aside.

  The realization hits—Daevos leaving the violin was the cruelty.

  Then—faintly—

  a melody.

  Off-key. Missing notes.

  But hers.

  She freezes.

  He plays.

  Tears spill before she can stop them.

  He plays.

  And when he stops—cheers.

  Arthur materializes beside her, hesitant.

  “I know… it was out of key. The guitar’s beat to hell.”

  She looks at him through tears, love and pain tangled together.

  “You are the most wonderful man in the world.”

  Arthur leans in to hold her.

  She jerks away. Chains rattle.

  “Not yet,” she whispers. “I’m not ready… to be touched.”

  A pause.

  “I still love you, Arthur.”

  Arthur smiles—small, quiet, certain.

  “Love you.”

  The *Gorgeous* tears free of the gate chain, blue electricity skittering across her hull.

  Engines roar as the vessel punches atmosphere. Panels rattle. Bolts groan. Passengers cling to whatever they can.

  Gravity slams down—heavy, undeniable.

  They’ve left the stars behind.

  Landing gear deploys. A thud—hard enough to make the ship groan.

  The hatch opens. Arthur steps onto the soil.

  Wind coils around him—too cold, too hollow.

  “This is where we landed with Varhee,” he murmurs. “But… nothing’s the same.”

  The air is wrong.

  No birds. No insects.

  Only dead wind.

  Arthur walks toward LinThera.

  Once-living architecture lies collapsed—pale stone and bone.

  The Allui—gone.

  Grief hits him—then hardens into resolve.

  In the Void, Sarah lies chained. Skin torn. Wrists raw. Eyes wide with terror.

  Arthur appears.

  She scrambles back.

  “He’s back!” Panic floods her voice.

  Arthur freezes.

  “What?”

  “He was here—inside.” She speaks fast, breaking. “He doesn’t need to be close. He can reach me. From anywhere.”

  Arthur kneels, horror etched deep. Fresh wounds mark her cheek, blood streaking into the water.

  “What did he say?”

  “What did he do?”

  Her voice barely carries.

  “He said… he liked the sound of me screaming.”

  The Void trembles with Arthur’s rage.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  A ripple.

  Daevos steps out of nothing—slow, deliberate. Gold-rimmed glasses catch the voidlight. His smile is hungry.

  “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  Arthur squares his stance.

  “What do you want, Daevos?”

  Daevos laughs softly.

  “Nothing important. Just to remind you…” He smiles. “I’m always here.”

  “Then leave her out of it.”

  Daevos kneels beside Sarah, brushing her cheek. She flinches violently.

  “But she’s such a beautiful toy,” he murmurs.

  He meets Arthur’s eyes.

  “Every cut, every cry—it all bleeds straight into you. And I savor that.”

  Arthur explodes.

  He crosses the space in a blink, slamming Daevos into a towering shelf. Wood splinters. Books rain down.

  A headbutt—bone on bone.

  Daevos reels, grinning through blood.

  Arthur snaps his arm at the elbow. The break cracks through the Void.

  Another strike.

  A knee to the ribs.

  Another to the jaw.

  Daevos collapses.

  Arthur mounts him, fists driving down—one, two, six, ten—until blood coats his hands and chest.

  He snarls, feral, unstoppable.

  Arthur grabs Daevos’s head and wrenches hard.

  Snap.

  Silence.

  Arthur rises, shaking, breath torn from his chest. He turns away.

  Behind him, bones knit. Flesh reforms.

  Daevos stands, laughing.

  “You idiot. You can’t hurt me here. Or anywhere.”

  He leans in, whispering:

  “And the more you try… the more she suffers.”

  He steps back—

  and vanishes.

  Arthur’s hands tremble, slick with blood. Fury, helplessness, shame knot in his chest.

  Sarah sobs in chains.

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