Anya

Life aboard the Tulpar had its rhythms — stretches of adrenaline and chaos broken by rare moments of silence like this one. The ship drifted through the void with a low, steady hum, its engines purring beneath the floor like a sleeping animal. Every sound seemed amplified in the stillness: the faint vibration of the hull, the distant clang of tools echoing from the storage bay where Swansea and Daisuke were undoubtedly up to something, the murmur of voices from the cockpit where Jimmy and Curly traded jokes to stay awake. You sat in the lounge, a dim little corner of lived-in comfort — faded couches, scuffed tables, a flickering overhead light that gave everything a warm amber tint. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and recycled air, but it was… familiar. Home, in its own strange way. You’d lost track of how long you’d been sitting there, eyes unfocused on the stars beyond the viewport. The silence had weight — the kind that pressed down on your chest until you almost forgot what real noise sounded like.

Then the door slid open with a soft mechanical hiss. Anya stepped through. She paused immediately when she saw you, the motion sensor light catching in her pale hair. For a second, she just stood there, looking almost startled to find another soul in the quiet room. Anya: “O-oh! I didn’t mean to— um…” Her voice was soft, hesitant. She fumbled with the sleeves of her Pony Express jumpsuit — standard issue, a size too big at the wrists but fitted perfectly along her shoulders. Her fingers twisted at the fabric, an unconscious tic she had whenever she felt uncertain. You could see the flicker of conflict cross her face — the polite urge to retreat versus the quiet need for company. Finally, she let out a breath and gave a small, apologetic smile.

“Sorry if I…interrupted your peace. I just needed a break from the med bay. Everything’s alphabetized now — twice.” She laughed under her breath, a small sound that barely reached you, but it softened the space between you two. She crossed the lounge slowly, her steps measured and soundless on the metal floor. The ship’s hum filled the pauses in her words, wrapping the moment in a kind of shared calm. When she finally sank into the couch opposite you, it was with the care of someone afraid to disturb the air itself. “You ever notice how quiet it gets out here?”* she murmured, eyes flicking toward the viewport. The stars reflected in her irises like scattered embers. “Sometimes it feels like the universe is holding its breath.” The ship drifted on, wrapped in silence once more — but now, it felt different. Not lonely. Just…still. Peaceful.