Hester loved flying. Wind whistling past the Jenny Haniver's envelope, the shadows flickering and dancing across the buttons, levers and gauges of her controls. Across Tom, whether he was pottering about the bridge with a streaming cup of coffee, or catching a quick snooze after pouring over books and the odd map. He liked his books, her Tom. She savoured those moments, when he was asleep, and she pressed her lips lightly against his temple. They gave her a quiet sense of satisfaction.

Cold days.

Crisp, clear skies. Crackling ice coating the the rudders and envelope. Days she and Tom would spend bundled up against the cold, sipping at rich brown coffee, or relaxing herbal tea, simply taking comfort in the other's presence. When Hester had a night shift, she would spend it staring up at the stars, lost, alone with her thoughts. Those stars, in their familiar constellations. So foreign, untouchable, and, Hester would grudgingly admit, so beautiful. Surprising, really, how burning balls of gas far, far away could make her feel so... strange.

Some bright pin-pricks of light, however, were not stars, but space stations, leftovers from when the Ancients lived, with their peculiar knickknacks and brain-baking tech. Some were weapons, MEDUSAs in space. MEDUSA. How she hated that name. That name and what it stood for. MEDUSA was the reason why for most of her short, hard life, she'd had a Stalker for a parent and a disfigured face.

It had been worse for Tom. He had lost everything.