The shuttle had broken free from the cold clutches of Elysium, leaving the icy planet behind as it floated silently into the vastness of space. Martin lay stretched out on the bench in the back of the cabin, his body still tense, but the suffocating cold was gone. His eyes were closed, though sleep refused to come. His mind, still a storm of confusion and pain, began to settle, just a little. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since they had left, but he knew they were far enough away now.
He felt the warmth hit him before he heard the soft hiss of the pilot compartment door opening. Heat waffled through the shuttle, washing over him like a gentle wave, inviting him forward.
"It's warmer up here… if you need to warm up," the Quarian offered.
Martin didn't move at first, still too wrapped in his own thoughts, too drained to respond. He didn't want to get up, didn't want to face the awkwardness of sharing space with her, or anyone. But the warmth… the warmth was too much to resist. After a moment, he pushed himself up, wincing as his muscles yelled at him from the movement, and walked toward the front of the shuttle.
The heat enveloped him as he stepped into the cockpit. Without a word, he flopped down into the chair next to hers, his body sinking into the seat as he immediately reclined it. He closed his eyes and threw an arm over them, letting the comfort of the warmth seep into his bones.
The Quarian gave him a sideways glance, at least, he thought she did, but it was hard to tell behind the mask. He could sense her watching him, but he didn't care enough to respond. The chair was soft, the air warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his body wasn't in a constant state of pain.
"It takes a while for the cabin back there to warm up. The air ducts are clogged or something," she said, almost conversational, like she was trying to fill the silence.
"Yeah," Martin muttered, his tone flat, unenthusiastic. He didn't have the energy for small talk. Not now. Not after everything.
There was a long, quiet pause before she spoke again, her voice more curious this time. "So, what happened?"
Martin remained silent for a moment, his arm still draped over his eyes. His chest tightened at the question, and he felt a familiar surge of irritation creeping in. "With what?" he responded, sharper than he intended.
"You seem hurt," she said.
A bitter laugh escaped Martin's lips, but it quickly turned into a harsh coughing fit. His chest seized as he coughed violently, the familiar taste of copper and salt filling his mouth. He spat blood into his hand, his body trembled from the effort.
The Quarian must have noticed. She turned to him, her omni-tool lighting up in a soft glow as she scanned him. Before he could react, she reached into a pack on her belt and pulled out a small injector. Without warning, she jammed it into his thigh, the sharp sting making him wince and sit up straight.
"Hold still," she ordered, her voice firm but not unkind.
A sudden wave of coldness spread through his body, a strange but welcome sensation as the medi-gel coursed through his veins. The pain that had been clawing at his lungs eased, and the pressure in his chest began to lift. His breathing evened out, the blood taste fading from his mouth. The relief was almost instant, and for the first time in hours, maybe days, he felt like he could breathe without choking.
The Quarian pulled the injector away, her omni-tool flickering off as she returned to her seat. Martin leaned back in the chair, his body relaxing as some of the pain dissipated, leaving only a dull ache behind. He looked over at her, his face a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.
"You were bleeding internally," she explained, still facing her console. "Not much, but enough." She glanced back at him, her glowing eyes unreadable behind the visor. "Now we're even."
Martin stared at her for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He'd gotten so used to pain, to the idea of being constantly on the edge, that the sudden relief felt almost foreign. He leaned back in the chair again, eyes half-closed, trying to process everything.
"Even?" he muttered, his voice still hoarse. He wasn't sure what to make of her, this strange Quarian who had saved him, twice now. First, when she could have left him to die in the shuttle with those two thugs, and now again by patching him up before his body betrayed him further.
"Even," she repeated, as if settling something between them.
Martin didn't argue. He didn't have the energy to. Instead, he let himself sink further into the warmth of the cockpit, his body finally beginning to relax. His thoughts drifted, though not far. Illium. His mind latched onto the distant idea of the place, warm, alive, and possibly holding the key to whatever came next for him. For now, though, some of the pain was gone. And that was enough.
""""""""""""""
Hours later, Martin stirred, feeling a nudge that pulled him from the rare peace he'd managed to find in the warmth of the cockpit. His arm, which had been draped over his face, was numb, the sensation like pins and needles prickling through his skin as he shifted. He blinked, groggy, and looked up just in time to see a soft tube land in his lap, tossed there by the Quarian, who was already seated back in her chair.
Martin picked it up, puzzled, turning it over in his hands.
"It's nutrient paste," she explained casually. "It's the only food I have that you can eat, besides water." Martin looked at the tube, biting the plastic top off and spitting it to the side. The taste of medi-gel and copper still lingered faintly in his mouth, a memory he couldn't shake from the many times he'd been patched up and saved from death. As he tongued the opening of the paste tube, sampling it, flashes of his past rushed back, memories of the Batarian ship where he was held captive, the disorienting confusion when he first woke up in this galaxy, completely lost and hunted.
He pushed those thoughts away. The paste didn't taste terrible, at least. It was bland, but it went down easy. Martin put the tube in his mouth and squeezed, forcing the nutrient-dense food into his system. It wasn't what he wanted, hell, nothing was, but it was better than feeling his stomach twist in hunger. After a few moments, he swallowed and leaned back in the chair again, still holding the tube absently in his hand.
The Quarian's voice broke the silence. "Are you going to tell me your name now?" she asked, turning in her chair to face him. There was a firmness in her tone, but not impatience. She wanted answers, maybe even some context.
Martin turned his head, glancing at her before looking out the window in front of them. The stars stretched out into infinity, cold and distant. He sighed, his voice detached, as if the name didn't carry any weight. "Martin. Martin Winters."
There was a pause, the silence heavy for a moment, and then she spoke again, her tone curious. "I've heard that name before."
Martin rolled his eyes and took another gulp of the paste, swallowing it down. "Doubt it," he replied, not meeting her gaze. He wasn't in the mood to talk about his past, to dredge up the parts of him that had already been beaten down and half-forgotten.
"No, I have," she insisted, leaning slightly forward. "You took down Fask Rak'maros, that Batarian terrorist on Illium, a while back."
Martin shook his head slightly, dismissing the recognition. Sure, he'd done that, taken down the Batarian, but it was just another job back then. But it was better if she didn't know too much, better if she saw him as just another body trying to survive. His name wasn't worth mentioning or remembering.
Her demeanor shifted slightly, a change in posture that Martin caught from the corner of his eye. Maybe she was annoyed by his dismissal, or maybe she wanted something more from him, more details, more explanation. Either way, he didn't care to indulge her.
"How does a high-profile merc end up homeless and sleeping in someone else's ship?" she asked, with genuine curiosity.
Martin didn't turn to face her this time. His eyes stayed fixed on the stars, the endless void that stretched out beyond the shuttle, cold and indifferent. He let the silence linger for a moment before answering. "When the merc wakes up in a morgue…"
He heard her shift, her head tilting slightly as if she were weighing his words. He could feel her confusion in the pause that followed. "You what?" she asked, incredulous.
Martin shrugged lazily, his body sinking deeper into the chair, his exhaustion pulling at him again. "Shit happens."
He could sense her trying to piece it together within the silence he left her, trying to figure out what kind of man ends up on a cold planet, bleeding and broken, only to wake up in the grip of a morgue and then stumble into her path.
"Shit happens?" she repeated, tinged with disbelief.
Martin gave a low, humorless laugh. "You get used to it after a while."
She watched him for a moment longer, as if waiting for more, some explanation that might make sense of the chaos she'd found him in. But Martin wasn't in the mood to offer anything up. He'd lived too many lives already, fought too many battles that had left him scarred and broken in ways that words couldn't capture.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Martin woke to the sharp warmth of sunlight beaming down on his face. He blinked, squinting against the sudden brightness, and as his vision adjusted, he realized the shuttle was still on the ground. The sensation of heat pressing against his skin was a stark contrast to the freezing cold of Elysium, and for a moment, it felt oddly comforting.
He pushed himself out of the chair, noticing the ease with which he moved now. The aches and pains that had plagued him seemed to have faded, the medi-gel injection from the Quarian doing its work. His body still felt heavy with exhaustion, but at least he could move without feeling like he was going to fall apart.
Opening the door to the pilot's compartment, Martin scanned the small cabin but saw no one. She was gone.
Martin sighed, feeling a twinge of disappointment, though it quickly passed. Maybe it was better this way. Less to explain, less to think about. He pulled his hood up, covering his face from the harsh sunlight, and walked out of the ship. The heat hit him immediately, oppressive and dry, but still, it was better than the bone-chilling cold. For now.
As he moved through Nos Astra, the city gleamed with the shine of towering buildings and sleek hover cars zipping overhead. The heat was relentless, the sun reflecting off the glass and metal surfaces, but the city thrummed with life, a stark contrast to the isolation he had felt since waking up in that morgue. The heat, while overwhelming, was bearable. Better than the cold emptiness of space, he told himself.
Eventually, Martin made his way to the banking district, a stretch of pristine storefronts and offices that screamed wealth and influence. His eyes settled on the building he'd been looking for, and he pushed through the doors, walking straight to the counter. The Asari standing behind the desk gave him a strange look, one of those polite but condescending expressions that spoke of suspicion.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, dripping with artificial sweetness.
"Yeah, I need access to my box," Martin replied flatly, cutting through the formalities.
The Asari tilted her head, her polite smile firmly in place. "Of course, sir. Just scan your omni-tool, and I'll be happy to assist you."
Martin's jaw clenched. Omni-tool. Of course. He didn't have his anymore, everything had been stripped from him. He sighed, already feeling the frustration boiling up. "I don't have my omni-tool."
Her fake smile barely wavered, but there was a hint of satisfaction in her eyes that made his blood simmer. "I'm so sorry, sir, but if we can't verify your identity, we cannot grant you access."
Martin rubbed his face with his hand, his patience rapidly dwindling. "Look, lady, just a few days ago I woke up in a fucking morgue. My stuff is in there. There are a thousand ways I can prove my identity. I have my PIN, I have my fingerprints, so don't bullshit me today."
His voice came out sharper, louder, the barely-contained rage surfacing. The Asari blinked, her fake sympathy faltering for just a second before she recovered.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said in a condescending tone, "but our policy changed three weeks ago. We sent messages out to all of our customers..."
Before Martin could snap back, a second Asari, further down the counter, interrupted. "Veayh," the new Asari said sternly, "go take a break."
"What?" Veayh asked.
"You heard me. Go."
Martin glanced at the second Asari, noticing her name tag: Tareenla. There was something in the way she spoke that made it clear she wasn't asking. Veayh scowled but complied, huffing as she walked away, leaving Tareenla to take over.
"Sorry about that," Tareenla said with a shrug. "She's a bitch."
"Yeah, could've fooled me," Martin muttered.
Tareenla hit a button on her console and motioned for Martin to follow her past the counter. "Veayh has a problem with humans. Not many of them on this planet, so it's usually not a problem."
"Nothing like a racist to brighten your day," Martin quipped, his tone dark but not without humor.
Tareenla gave a dry laugh. "You'd think after seeing you enough times in here, she'd know better. Especially with you being a merc. Pissing off someone like you isn't the brightest idea."
Martin shook his head as they moved into the back room. She led him to a large locker marked 4590. He punched in his PIN, 2099, and pressed his fingers against the scanner. The device beeped softly, and a mechanical voice responded, "Identity confirmed."
The locker clicked open, and Martin nodded to Tareenla in thanks.
"Have fun," she said over her shoulder, walking away.
Martin pulled open the drawer, and there it was, a stack of credits, far more than what most people would ever see in their lives. He'd always kept large sums of money stored away, just in case. Credits in banks could be frozen, but physical currency… that was his insurance policy. He took about a third of the total, around 350k credits, and tucked them away into a pouch he found in the locker.
He stared at the pile of credits for a moment, a strange sense of detachment washing over him. He had the money, sure. But what he needed now was the things that made a merc, a real merc. Armor. Omni-tools. Weapons.
Things that made someone like him dangerous again.
He closed the locker, securing the credits he didn't take, and exited the vault, stepping back into the city with a plan forming in his mind.
Martin stepped into the arms dealer's shop, the familiar scent of gun lubricant and metal filling the air like a comforting embrace. The shop was a cluttered maze of deadly hardware, rifles, pistols, heavy weapons, and armor from every corner of the galaxy. The walls were lined with weapons of every shape and color, some old enough to be relics and others brand new, fresh off the production line. It was the kind of place where you could feel the weight of history in every corner, where the tools of war told their own stories.
Behind the counter stood the grizzled Turian dealer, arms crossed over his chest. The scars etched into his face were as much a part of him as the shop itself, making him look like a living relic of a dozen battles. Martin had been here more times than he could count, and though he'd never caught the Turian's name, the man always seemed to remember him.
"Martin," the Turian grunted, his mandibles twitching slightly in what passed for a smirk among his kind. "Didn't figure you'd be back."
Martin gave a half-smirk in return. "Didn't think I'd be back either." He cleared his throat, eyeing the weapons on the wall. "I need Hydra armor, a Viper rifle with the same upgrades as my old one, and a Carnifex."
The Turian raised an eyebrow plate, his mandibles clicking as he considered the request. "What happened to the Terminus armor you bought last time?"
"Lost," Martin shrugged, the word carrying a weight of finality that didn't invite further questions.
The Turian shook his head, turning toward the back of the shop. "Humans…" he muttered under his breath, disappearing behind a stack of crates. Martin leaned against the counter, letting his gaze wander around the shop as he waited.
The place was a mess, but a well-stocked one. Every inch of the walls was covered in gear, rifles, shotguns, pistols, grenades. Everything a merc could want or need to wage their own personal war. It felt like home in a strange way, a comforting reminder that he was still in this fight, no matter how many times the galaxy tried to snuff him out.
The quiet hum of the shop's ambient noise was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Martin glanced over his shoulder, expecting another customer, but instead, he saw her.
A short Asari with a sharp presence stepped inside, her posture radiating authority and control. Her eyes locked on Martin immediately, and she approached him with purpose, her steps quick and deliberate.
"Martin Winters," she said, her voice carrying a tone of authority that Martin immediately recognized.
"Bira," Martin replied, exasperated as he turned fully to face her. He wasn't in the mood for this. Not today.
"I thought I told you to stay away from Nos Astra," Bira said, her voice low but edged with frustration.
"No," Martin corrected, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You pushed me off the planet. Very different."
"It was implied," she shot back, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.
Martin shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Anything I should know about? Any more firefights I'm gonna have to clean up after?" Bira asked, her tone half-joking but with a serious undertone.
Martin was about to respond when the Turian returned, dragging a heavy load of gear and laying it out on the counter. The Hydra armor, the Viper rifle with the requested upgrades, and the Carnifex pistol, everything Martin had asked for, all spread out in pristine condition. Martin glanced at the equipment, then back at Bira.
She turned her gaze to the array of weapons and armor, then back to him, her brow furrowed in concern. "Martin, I'm serious here."
Martin let out a sigh, his annoyance rising in his chest. "Bira, all my shit blew up. I'm just replacing it. Relax." He stepped over to the counter, picking up an omni-tool bracelet and adding it to the pile. "I'll need this, too."
The Turian reached over, adding the bracelet to his tally. Bira, however, wasn't done with him. She crossed her arms, her eyes locking onto Martin with an intensity that made it clear she wasn't going to let this go.
"You're not going to ignore me, Martin," she demanded.
But Martin did just that, turning his attention to the Turian, who rang up the items with a practiced efficiency. "275,000 credits," the Turian said, holding out a data pad for Martin to transfer the funds. Without hesitation, Martin handed over a credit chit, swiping it across the scanner. The number was steep, but he'd expected it. Besides, it was nothing compared to what he had stashed away.
With the transaction complete, Martin grabbed the cases containing his new gear and turned to leave. Bira, however, was standing directly in front of him, blocking his path. He tried to sidestep her, but she mirrored his movement, her arms crossed, her gaze unwavering.
"Bira, I don't know what you want from me," Martin said, edging toward frustration. "I'm not in the mood for it. Either arrest me, shoot me, or get out of the way."
Bira's expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with irritation. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he thought she might actually take him up on one of his offers. But instead, she stepped aside, her gaze following him as he walked past.
"Damn woman," Martin muttered under his breath as he exited the shop, the heat of Nos Astra once again hitting him like a wall. He pushed the door open and walked out into the bustling streets. Whatever she wanted from him, he wasn't interested. Not now. Not ever.
Martin moved through the city streets, the heat of Nos Astra pressing down on him, making the task of juggling two large plastic cases and a smaller one all the more irritating. He was headed toward the skycab area, thinking about the apartment he'd blown up not too long ago. Hopefully, it had been repaired by now, and if he was lucky, maybe he wasn't locked out. If not, that was a problem for another time. He had enough on his plate without worrying about real estate.
His muscles ached as he navigated the busy streets, his eyes scanning the towering buildings and the constant stream of people around him. The clamor of the city was almost overwhelming, but it was better than the quiet, cold emptiness of Elysium. He could deal with the noise, the people, and even the heat. But as he glanced over his shoulder, his pace quickened. Of course, Bira wasn't done. He spotted her trailing behind, closing in with her persistent stride.
"Goddamn it," Martin muttered under his breath, shifting the weight of the cases and picking up his pace.
Bira had been a problem from the start, ever since that messy job taking down Fask Rak'maros. The mission had been anything but clean, and the property damage they'd caused still lingered like a bad memory. A lot of it hadn't been his fault, Fask had set off a cascade of chaos before they could pin him down, but Bira had blamed him for the fallout, even though she was more or less the cause of it. But Wasn't the type to forget easily, and wasn't the type to take blame, we and Martin suspected she saw him as an easy target whenever something went wrong.
He made it to the skycab area and hurriedly opened the first cab he could find, tossing his gear inside as fast as he could. The last thing he wanted was another confrontation with her, especially not after the hell he'd just been through. But as he climbed into the cab and tried to slam the door shut, Bira wedged her body between the door and the frame, the door bouncing off her ass.
Martin looked up, a weary smirk forming on his lips. "You gonna move, or am I gonna have to beat you with the door, again?" His tone was as dry as the heat around them.
Bira arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smug smile. "Are you threatening to harm an officer, Winters?" she asked, leaning just enough to keep the door from closing. "...Yes."
Martin let go of the door, exasperation clear in his eyes. "What do you want, Bira?" He asked dismissively.
Bira straightened up, the authority in her voice returning. "I'm serious. I need to know if you're going to be active here." Her eyes bored into him, not quite demanding but far from casual.
Martin raised an eyebrow, more out of habit than actual curiosity. "No, I'm on vacation," he quipped.
Bira sighed, clearly not amused. "Look, just keep me in the loop. My boss isn't going to like this. She's already hounding me, and the last thing I need is you stirring up more trouble."
Martin rolled his eyes, biting back the urge to snap at her again. He wasn't in the mood for this game of cat and mouse. "Not my problem." He said.
Without another word, he scooted her aside and slammed the door shut, the sound muffling Bira's frustration.
Bira took a step back as Martin's skycar lifted off, her eyes following the vehicle as it disappeared into the flow of traffic above. Her frustration simmered just below the surface, but there was something else there, something deeper that gnawed at her every time she dealt with him.
"Sleep with a human, they said," Bira muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she turned away from the departing cab. "They'll come running back to you, they are obsessed with Asari... such bullshit."
She had heard the advice too many times, the clichéd reassurances from her friends about her troubled relationships. It never did. Not with him. She walked away, her thoughts bouncing between her duty and the strange, complicated history with this unbearable asshole of a human.
Martin leaned back in the seat of the skycar as it soared through the air, heading toward his old apartment. The familiar sights of Nos Astra blurred past the windows, but his mind wasn't on the view. He reached over to his newly acquired omni-tool, strapping it onto his wrist. The device hummed to life, its soft glow flickering as it ran through its startup sequence.
It took him a minute to remember his login information, his mind still hazy from everything he'd been through. A few failed attempts later, he finally got it right, and the omni-tool synced to his old profile. Slowly, data began trickling in, syncing from his previous setup.
Thank fucking christ for backups, Martin thought, a small sigh of relief escaping him. He wasn't sure how long he'd been without one, but the familiarity of having the tool back was comforting. His files, preferences, and even some old messages reappeared as the device reconfigured itself. It felt like reclaiming a piece of himself.
But something in the settings caught his eye. His old omni-tool, the one he'd lost, was still active. He couldn't track it or see its exact location, but the system flagged it as connected. Someone, somewhere, was using it. The thought of who might have it crossed his mind. The Alliance? Probably. Maybe someone else? He clenched his jaw at the thought.
He didn't hesitate. With a few quick taps, he remotely reset the old omni-tool, wiping it clean and severing its connection to his profile. The process took only a few seconds, but it felt like a small victory. Whoever had it, Alliance or not, would find nothing useful now.
At least now they won't get anything… assholes, he thought, shaking his head as he leaned back into his seat again, letting the cool air of the skycar's ventilation system wash over him.
His mind wandered back to the apartment he was headed toward. It had been a while since he'd seen it, and for all he knew, at worse, it was still destroyed, or it could be fixed and someone else could live their now. Nos Astra wasn't exactly known for its rapid repairs even in the middle areas of the towers, but maybe, just maybe, it had been fixed. He'd find out soon enough.
The city's towering structures loomed closer as the skycar approached his destination. The neon signs of the bustling lower levels flashed below him, a constant reminder of the chaos that lurked beneath the polished upper city. He'd lived in that chaos for too long, and even now, he wasn't sure if he was returning to it or finally moving on from it.
As the skycar descended, Martin thought back to Bira. Her persistence grated on him, but he couldn't completely fault her. She had every reason to be suspicious… well, kinda. Their history was brief but messy, Fask, the firefights, the property damage, and she'd never fully trusted him after that. He wouldn't have trusted himself either. But now, she was pushing him again, sensing trouble on the horizon.
He shook his head. Sleep with someone once, and they stick to you. Clingy. It happened one night in the heat of the moment; stupid, he thought. After the mission she hired him for ended, the way he did, she turned on him… she still had to pay him, though, but he made sure he was paid extra for the sex. She didn't like that.
The skycar landed smoothly, and Martin grabbed his cases, hauling them out as he stepped onto the familiar area near his old apartment building. The heat was still oppressive, but the shadows cast by the towering structures above offered some relief. He stood there momentarily, staring at the building, wondering what he'd find inside. Martin took a breath and moved forward. Time to see what was left of his new-old life and whether or not it was worth picking up the pieces.
Martin stood in front of the door to his old apartment, feeling a small knot of tension in his gut. He wasn't sure what he'd find inside, if anything at all. The door was locked, but a quick swipe of his omni-tool was enough to slide it open. The familiar whir of the mechanics greeted him as he pushed the door just enough to peek in.
Everything looked repaired. The walls were patched, the scorch marks from the explosion gone, and no debris littered the floor. It was as if nothing had happened. He stepped inside, lugging the plastic cases with him and letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. The door slid shut behind him, sealing him in the quiet of the apartment.
Martin scanned the room with a practiced eye, looking for anything that might have been tampered with, but nothing seemed out of place. Everything was… fine. He let out a small breath, his body relaxing just slightly. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to go his way. He wasn't about to let his guard down, though. Not yet.
His eyes caught something on the counter, a box, plain and unassuming. It wasn't there the last time he'd been in the apartment, which made him instantly suspicious. He walked over to it, fingers brushing the top before flipping it open. Inside, there was a letter neatly tucked on top of a few items.
He picked it up and unfolded it, reading the contents aloud to himself, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Office of Personnel Affairs
Systems Alliance
February 21st, 2184
To the Next of Kin of Martin Winters,
We regret to inform you of the passing of Martin Winters. It is with a heavy heart that we extend our deepest condolences on behalf of the Alliance Navy for your loss…"
Martin chuckled. Next of kin? He hadn't had any family for over eighty years. The idea that the Alliance thought he had someone to send his effects to was laughable. He scanned the rest of the letter, the list of items they had enclosed: his pistol, a credit chit, a knife, and some necklace with an owl pendant that he didn't recognize. He shook his head.
"Idiots," he muttered, tossing the letter aside.
He reached into the box, his fingers wrapping around the handle of his pistol, the same large black revolver-style gun that had been with him through more battles than he cared to remember. The weight of it felt good in his hand, familiar. It was one of the few things in his life that had never let him down, and just holding it gave him a small sense of control.
He extended his arm, pointing the gun straight ahead as if testing it. The familiar weight and balance brought a fleeting sense of satisfaction. It felt natural, like an extension of himself. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it.
Satisfied, he set the pistol down on the counter and returned to the box, lifting out the small gold necklace with the owl pendant. He frowned, turning it over in his hand. This wasn't his. Someone in the Alliance had clearly screwed up, but it didn't really matter. He wasn't sentimental about keepsakes, certainly not something that wasn't his to begin with.
With a dismissive shrug, he tossed the necklace back into the box and grabbed his pistol again. He carried the box and his gear into the living room, noting how empty the place felt. The walls were repaired, but the apartment itself was bare. No furniture, no decorations, just an empty shell. He wasn't surprised. The landlord may have done the repairs wouldn't have bothered replacing his belongings.
Not that he cared. He'd never been one for creature comforts. A bed, a chair, maybe a table, that was all he needed. The rest was just noise. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, his pistol resting across his lap. It was quiet in the apartment, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside.
For a moment, Martin let himself relax. The weight of the day, the weight of everything, settled over him, but for once, it didn't feel unbearable. He was back in Nos Astra, his gear was back in hand, and at least for now, the world wasn't trying to kill him.
That would probably change soon, but for now, it was enough.
