A slight force pushes me as I stand in place. It is a phenomenon that lasts only briefly before it seems the Castelforte slows down before eventually coming to an apparent full stop. Not long after, a stronger gravitational force than earlier pushes my stomach up, and for a few moments, I feel queasy. It’s something I’ve experienced countless times before and have spent nearly my whole life space-faring. It is something that, by now, I would say is second-hand nature. Even long before Simon took me into the Mafia, my earliest memories were staring into the vastness of spaces or observing adults at innumerable harbors. And for a bittersweet euphoria, I am bombarded with memories of helping papa carry around trinkets here and there, for the sake of helping around with the family business.

And yet, all things considered, the occurrence that comes with a ship pulling into harbor is one I continue to dread. Countless generations that span nearly three centuries, millions of colonizers and aspiring space-faring people have lived out their lives from crib to coffins experiencing this very moment—and still suffer from varying degrees of space sickness. Sometimes it leaves me to wonder if humanity as a whole could ever truly adapt to living their lives out in space. Radiation cancer is always a looming threat to our bodies. And despite the numerous apparent breakthroughs in the field of medicine, one is never truly safe from succumbing to the numerous exposure we give ours and our children living in space—rather that be in a Side colony or any given planet rather than Terra.

But suppressing these only gives more leeway to nervousness. A little lightheartedness—a tight feeling in my chest. I can barely contain myself. I attempt to calm my trembling hands: but even that fails. Then, it is my shoulders that shiver, and I caress my arms to no continued avail. I cusp a hand over my mouth, swallowing the unchecked lump of doubt forming in my throat.

I’ve been avoiding the bridge and most people, preferring to linger around the Castelforte’s hub doors in preparation for disembarking. But after everything is said and done, perhaps seeking out Olga or even Brutus’s company would do much to keep me calm. But before I can dwell on this any longer, a loudspeaker tersely announces that the Castelforte is moments away from docking, and asks everyone to brace for the impact that may occur from it. Before I get the chance to even react, however, the very compartment I stand in rocks upward violently. Without even realizing it, I am practically thrown to the floor, a startled cry escapes my lips. “The nerve of the bridge crew,” I murmur as I sit up straight and dust off my poncho.

Behind me, a hissing of the giant door as it depressurizes. As the hissing dies out, it is followed by a faint, continuous whine of what I believe is the gangway unfolding and extending out. With a long, deep breath, I help myself up with the wall as support and inch towards the hatch door. As I reach out to open it, I pause once I hear a massive rumbling of footsteps, and look behind me to see an endless crowd of the Castelforte crew watching me eagerly. To say that many look anxious would be an understatement: a lot are pale, and others bite down on lips or caress their shoulders in antiquation of what is to come.

And look at me, a miserable woman being no better. I would be lying if I said I would be making a good example of how to remain calm in this time of uncertainty. Without another word, I run a hand through my silky hair—then caress my mature scar before making eye contact with the men again. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” I ask warmly, and reach over to the door’s console so that it opens. The process is eerily slow, and after a small gust of breezy air enters the compartment, I gesture to the crew to head out, and I take a step from the door to give the crowd some room.

At first, nobody budges. But then one person does pass by me and steps out onto the ramp. Then three more, then seven, until I begin to lose track of the herd picking up momentum heading out in a somewhat orderly fashion. There is no rhythm or rhyme to who goes, as I see an assortment of crew members from the gunners to bridge personnel staggering out. Among those present are the elite guards led by Ishmael, who I almost barely didn’t recognize without their armor or weapons.

As Ishmael passes me, he spits at my feet and gives me a dubious glare before continuing onto the ramp. While waiting for the crew —who all look just as tired as they are anxious—I dare not look outside but I listen as intently as I can for any signs of trouble. I nearly deflate from sighing, taking solace in the fact that he has—despite his personal judgment—is willing to put aside his difference if it means for the better.

For better or worse, I do not so much as hear battle cries or the popping of guns or bickering between men. It remains as quiet as it possibly could be, so much so that I don’t doubt I could hear the squeaking of any rodents that could be scrambling yet. And yet, I resist the nerving desire to peak outside: my gaze remains fixated at the endless column of the crew making their leave. Very few, if any, bother with the somewhat odd naval custom of seeking permission on leaving to ‘shore’—one I never quite cared for myself. Some of the older crew of the Castelforte were once Metropolitan or colonial sailors, long since decommissioned or discharged and left without jobs. I used to be skeptical of Simon’s decision to corporate them into the Castelforte, but these men and I have come to mutual understandings of one another and with their fellow brothers.

After what seems like a couple of hours, the crowd thins out without any further famillar faces, but I do spot Haru among the sea of men, she scurries on so fast that neither of us get a word in, and I only grimace a smile. The corridor is less cramped—bordering on empty, even. Eventually, the last stragglers of the Castelforte approach, no fewer than twenty at this point. Most of them are around Simon’s age, and just about all of them are remarkably unkempt. At a glance, their clothing is almost in tatters, with exception of their most ponchos which are seemingly pristine in contrast. Their faces are dirtied to the point of soot, and the two men closest to me violate my nostrils with their horrid stenches. If anyone didn’t know better, they would disregard these precious men as total bums—but despite their outward appearances, they are untouchables in a way—the old guard of the Castelforte.

With a slow reach, I pat my chest with a fist, quietly, earnestly pressing against the leathery texture. One by one, the old guard solemnly does the same. In that brief moment of mutual respect we have for each other, there lingers only silence. And with that, I part ways with the men—perhaps for the last time—and they depart as quietly as they came.

With another deflating sigh, I turn to head out myself—but I am stopped when I see another group of people approaching. This time, it’s some of the bridge crew: Clyde, Bowen, and to my surprise Brutus and Olga. “You haven’t departed yet, Madame? ” Olga asks, puzzled.

“You could say I had cold feet in leaving the ship before everyone else,” I reply warmly, grimacing a little as I smile, “I felt it would only be fitting as the captain to see to it that everyone leaves before I do. With that said, is there anybody else left on the ship?” The group ponders the question and shakes their heads no, “very well, then.”

Clyde and Bowen are the first to advance. When the two of them are a step outside the door, I am filled with an urge to stop them. And instinctively, I reach out and grab the nearest one to me which happens to be Bowen. Clyde is slow to realize it first and backtracks after the fact. Bowen clears his throat: slight shivering. But he doesn’t utter a word.

“Thank you,” I say after a spell of silence that seemingly lasts forever, “for everything the two of you have done,” as I continue I grip Bowen’s shirting tighter, “and I’m sorry, Bowen, for the inhospitality I may have given you. It may seem as though I don’t view highly of you—“ a long exhale cut loose “but in fact, you are invaluable. What you have done along with Clyde has helped to preserve the fleet. Your contributions during the battles could not be understated,” when I finish, I let my arm drop. Bowen remains silent afterward, but then he looks me in the eyes and smiles wonderfully.

“Don’t… sweat it… Madame…” Bowen says tersely, “I did… we did, what …” Bowen pauses, a little longer than his concise speaking manner before he grins again “we merely did… what we were asked of… it was the only natural… thing to do, is it not?” After Bowen concludes, I take a step close to Bowen and extend an arm out. Bowen takes out his opposite arm and grasps my hand: the two of us silently handshake; a firm appreciation for each other.

And, just like that, Bowen turns to look at Clyde, who gives his nod of approval, and the two-step out of the Castelforte onto the ramp. I turn my gaze to the duo remaining, gesturing for them to depart. But neither move and they stare at me with mild grins. Olga steps forward and latches her mechanical arm around mine. Brutus, likewise, does the same without another word. “Hey…!” I utter after a small cry of surprise escapes my lips, “w…what are you two doing?!”

“I think you’ve been letting a certain somebody wait far too long as is, Li,” Brutus remarks, exchanging glances with Olga.

“Put me down this instant,” I mutter, surprising even myself with the timidness of my voice. My feet, since firmly rooted on the ship’s flooring, find themselves at first tiptoeing—then off the ground altogether. “This is embarrassing!” I retort, my cheeks blush, “I… I am very much capable of going down by myself!”

It’s a cry that goes unanswered. Brutus starts moving, and so does Olga. I am left helpless as they march me through the brightening door outside—and the luminescent harbor makes me blink rapidly before adjusting to the light. Below, and at various other harbor levels in the distance, hundreds of ships are docking. Swarms of ants form at the base of many of them, and even below us is an ocean of faces, bald heads, and enthusiastically chummy individuals. The closer we get to the ground, the more uncomfortable I become once more eyes are drawn to us. Some fools dare laugh at us, others take jabs at my unfortunate ‘capture’.

“This isn’t necessary,” I mumble again. Olga can’t help but crackle a chuckle: she reaches over and gives me an unwarranted rustling of my hair as if treating me like a dear little kitten.

“If we didn’t do anything about it, then you’d never get off the ship,” Brutus says in a rather matter-of-fact tone. I shoot him a glare, but it’s impossible to get mad at that stupid smug face of his. Deep down, perhaps I am… was too worried about the repercussions. And after everything is said and done, maybe there wasn’t too much to worry about after all.

I expect them to let me down from this embarrassing carry once we reach the base of the ramp —but they do no such thing. I gently kick my feet and pull from their iron grips to no avail. Olga, Brutus, and some of the surrounding pirates can’t help but chuckle or flat-out laugh. “Now, now, Madame,” Olga says coolly “you behave yourself until we present you to master Simon, alright?” She pokes me in-between the ribs, and I let out a mild yelp.

This treatment is unacceptable. But I understand that if it’s to lighten up the men’s moods, then it’s something I will allow. I don’t dare mention that, however, since they would tactfully take more advantage of it. All I can do now is accept this shameful situation, I suppose.

“Does anybody know where the old bloke Simon is?” Brutus asks as we trudge through the crowd—people generally shuffling out of our path. Some shake their heads, others give some pointers. Brutus thanks them, and I am seemingly spirited away with more direction than before.

After enough traversing through the endless crowd, where there are noticeably fewer people. It’s at that point the duo stop. My heart rate spikes, and I bite down on my lip. As if sensing my uneasiness, Olga is the first to lessen her grip, then Brutus—and then they set me down altogether. Having kept my gaze lowered, I decide to—reluctantly—break free of the spell and raise my head.

And my rapidly beating heart stops. I am left speechless. I’ve been unsure of what to expect this entire time, and now that I’m here I am left to wonder: was I unhealthily obsessing over Kamon, rather than confronting the present? I couldn’t help but scoff—and with that scoff, it’s like an eruption of emotions long-bottled up for my own good.

Standing a few meters away was indeed that velvet-blue car, with that all-too-familiar design from an eon forgone. Three men are standing near the front side, all of their backs turned to me. The one on the furthest right has his hand on the lanky man standing in the middle: he’s hunched over, and there’s an unprecedented amount of cigarettes that nearly pile—no, they have piled over, like a disastrous avalanche.

I take a step forward, and then another one. A few more before I stop, with reluctance. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot another man—a large, bulky build: the Don walking away with a partial limp. His head hangs low, and he takes one long, extensive drag from the dark oak cigar he holds before flicking it aside. Not once does he turn back, and he limps into a car with Beatrice at his side. Beatrice locks eyes with me for a brief moment before going to the other side of the vehicle. With a glance, my father looks in my direction before shaking his head and slamming the door shut.

My eyes dart around—but no Kamon in sight. Not so much as any men that belong to her. The atmosphere in the harbor is too friendly. I grit my teeth uneasily: this feels too good to be true. Have I been too delusional?!

The men accompanying Simon—what he calls the three stooges: Rocco, Rami, and Mark, all slowly turn their heads one by one, starting with Rocco. Mark, the one who has seemingly been trying to comfort Simon, pats Simon on the back, and slowly, Simon raises his head and turns around to meet Mark’s pointing. Simon looks remarkably sullen—almost like a ghost. His eyes are lifeless, and a cigarette hangs loosely from his lips.

But that changes when we lock eyes. In an instant, it’s almost like Simon becomes lively. There’s life—purpose, in his eyes. The knob in his throat wobbles as he struggles to clear his throat, and the cigarette falls to the floor. But Simon doesn’t pay it any mind. Simon’s chest rises and lowers with each breath that seemingly seems exhaustive.

And without another word, without another thought. I begin to walk. And after a dozen or so I pick up speed into a sprint. It’s only in the span of a few seconds that I close distance, but it feels like I run on forever. I don’t stop even when Simon is in front of me. My legs, numb, seem to act on their own, and I practically leap into Simon’s open arms.

Simon lets out a pained grunt at stopping me with his frail build. I push close to Simon: chest-to-chest, arms around his shoulders, and practically standing on my tip-toes. What bottling I may have done in an attempt to contain my emotions flood through, and I am helpless in preventing several crying sobs from slipping through. But are they cries of sorrow, or one of joy? Until now, I never realized how warm the human body could be. Do I even deserve this sense of belonging I have with Simon? So many people are deserving of Simon’s attention—as well as Olga and Brutus. There are so many people who would be more deserving of their love—and yet they have chosen to dedicate themselves to someone as horrible as me.

Simon’s grip on me has been light, and I tug at his poncho as hard as I can, digging my face onto his chest. His wrapping arms do tighten up, but only slightly.

“Li…” Simon mutters, “I’m so relieved… I’m so relieved to know you’re okay,” Simon says, his voice cracking as he utters these words, “oh god… what was I thinking? You must’ve gone through a lot. It was wrong of me to let Zhui have his way,” Simon pushes me closer to him.

Simon wobbles a bit, as if his knees are buckling, “I should’ve never let you go alone…” As Simon trails off, it occurs to me I’ve been holding my breath because of the shock of being with Simon again. As soon as I catch my breath and breath in, the rancidness of the overwhelmingly horrible odor brought about from the cigarettes violates my nostrils and forces me to cough uncontrollably. But even so, it’s a terrible smell that I’ve come to liken with Simon… a smell that, awkwardly enough, I’ve come to appreciate.

“Simon…” I utter, trying not to gag and catching some more breath, “you smell ridiculously horrible,” I finish, biting down on my lips, smiling and wincing at the intense pain brought about by the lingering invisible fumes burning my mature scar. “But… I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you,” streams of tears blot Simon’s poncho, and the wetness only grows in radius the more I move my face around his poncho. Simon evokes a gentle laugh, and he hugs me even tighter.

“Jung… Jung once told me,” Simon takes a moment to clear his throat before continuing, “I should quit for your sake. I don’t know if I can, but… for his wish and your health, I’ll do it,” almost at once, Simon pulls himself back, and his eyes are remarkably red from shedding tears.

“I’ll hold you to that,” I say softly, smiling more—the pain all the more intensive. He smiles bleakly, but it’s more of a shaking grin.

“Welcome back, Li.”