When Kell opened their eyes -- they hadn't even realized they were squeezed shut -- the hangar sat waiting with open doors. A box sat in their lap from its temporary weightlessness, and gone was the neatly shoved pile behind them, now a crude mess of supplies. The plane sat still and grumbled with the exhaustion of their rough landing. Before them, the two flares smoked and sizzled. Cyri stood waiting, the flares in his hand. Kell wondered if disappointment was lurking behind his goggles and scarf.

They sighed. Their body melted into the leather of their seat, their adrenaline cooling. Though they had once been a pilot, being on the ground had never felt so nice.

Hands shaking, they slowly directed the plane into the hangar, following Cyri's motions as the open doors welcomed them back home. The two flares formed an X. Kell killed the engine.

Their gaze lowered when they heard a knock on the glass of the lower window. Distorted by the curve, Cyri stood down by the nose of the plane, wearing a smile on his wide, wrinkled face and a look of worry hiding just underneath. Come on out, he mouthed, each word exaggerated by his grin. Kell only nodded, slow and tired, their head lulling down. They knew Cyri, all of his quirks and thoughts, and they knew most of all that his enthusiasm was entirely fake. The thought of it sat on their chest like a weight, knowing he'd soon ask them why they nearly crashed, what went wrong, if they were okay.

So much for a decent start.

The hatch clicked open and Kell slowly pushed up against the wind canopy, ignoring the scraping sound of old metal hinges behind them. They itched to leap away, to run to their room and avoid Cyri's disappointment. They sat still in their seat.

Cyri clambered onto the wing and leaned an arm against the cockpit. He only offered the cargo a simple side glance, merely checking that it was there, and instead pressed his focus all on Kell's imperceptible mask. Kell breathed slowly, keeping the filter on their mask from pulsing in and out. The sight of Cyri was always a comfort to them. He was their mentor, their boss, their only friend. The one who picked them up when they were down. Now, though, they felt that they could not bear to even be in his presence.

"You did great!" He said with a smile, tilting his head in a funny way. Pale brown curls of hair hung over his forehead, curled around the nape of his neck. His grin brought clean lines to the corner of his lips. "I'd say you fixed her right up."

Kell's fingers, still trembling, twitched around the edge of their mask as they peeled it off, and it fell to their lap and settled in the crook between their knobbly knees. The cold air flattened against their face. The feeling of the mask's leather strap, though stifled by their gloves, was calming as they glossed their thumb back and forth. The motion kept them still and collected. They held their focus on the mask, if only to avoid Cyri's stare. In the gleam of the goggles they could see their reflection: tired eyes, shaggy hair, a frown that never left.

With a scowl, they muttered, "That landing would say otherwise." As they spoke, they unlatched the oxygen tubes from the mask and left them scattered about the floor of the cockpit. The plane itself worked well both on planet and in space, but the transition was always a hassle with the air tubes. It made zero-gravity a cumbersome tangle of cargo, tubes, and Kell right in the middle.

They stood, swung their leg over the ledge of the cockpit, and pressed down on the wing. Their dirt-covered shoes barely avoided denting the scrap metal -- or worse, staining it with footprints.

"The gear," they began in a bitter tone. "Ugh, what a bust. I thought I fixed it -- I know I did! But the whole thing was doomed until the last second."

Restoration was a forte of theirs, yet no matter how good they thought their work was, something always came and dominated at the very last second, whether it was a tear through the side or faulty landing gear. Always something that tested them, that kept them at bay. Always something that kept them grounded. Perhaps that should be rephrased, then: restoration should've been a forte of theirs.

But that didn't mean they didn't do a damn good job at restoration, they'd argue. This one was just as good as every other plane they painstakingly fixed up, painted, and flew. It was an old thing, far older than Kell, and it had enough bullet holes and rust to prove its mettle when Cyri first dragged it out of the storage hangar. Silver metal and navy trim and baby blue wings, splayed out like a bat in flight. Its name scrawled out on the side, hand-painted in Kell's own wobbly cursive: THE WINTERTIDE. They had taken it apart and welded it together piece by piece, bit by bit, heart by heart. Each piece was cradled in their hands. It wasn't a plane to call their own -- in fact, it was Cyri's old warplane -- but the two considered it a rite of passage for the young mechanic, made with craftsmanship and love. They didn't have much love to give elsewhere. It all went here.

And right now, it all seemed to be one big waste.

Cyri offered his hand to help them off the wing, but Kell brushed it away, rougher than they intended the action to be. Kell's silent frustration had always been a familiar feeling inside the walls of the hangar. They hopped off the wing, their hand ghosting along the Wintertide until it met nothing but air. They felt a dull ache in their knee as they landed. Those old crashes were always with them, existing in between their bones and the thoughts in their mind. They wouldn't wax poetic about it, though; bumps in the road and nothing more.

He followed behind them as they stormed towards the workbench. "Considering you rebuilt that landing gear all on your own, that's a reasonable thing to worry about. Not to mention the fact that you used only rusty scrap metal," he teased. "Were you scared?"

Kell scoffed and scrunched their nose. They weren't scared. They had been in crashes before, some nasty and others survivable only by a hair, and one that took everything it could from them. This was just like all the others. And, just like all the others, something about it was their fault.

They dug through their toolbox, feeling a sense of relief once they found their wrench in their grasp. "No," they muttered as they pulled it away. "I wasn't. You taught me, anyway. If you're worried about my skills, that says a lot about your own."

Their workbench -- actually, it used to be Cyri's before Kell invaded -- was littered with tools that never returned back to their home, and soon that wrench would be just like the others. For now, they swiped that and their cloak, which hung on the wall right next to them. On the top shelf, a small portrait had been pinned with a magnet, a little photograph with three people on it. Typically, Kell ignored the photo, chalking it up to nothing more than Cyri's nostalgia, but they glanced at it this time.

It was from a few years back -- maybe ten now, though they couldn't recall the specifics. If they were being honest, there was little from their youth they remembered now that they were twenty-two, and there was good reason for that; but dwelling on why brought fear to the pit of their stomach just as it always did, so they settled on staring at the photograph and pretending it made them warm inside. It was of them when they were little, only moments after their first flight. They sat smiling wide in the passenger seat, and Cyri sat in front, his grin just as big. And down on the ground before them was their father. He leaned on his cane casually. His smile was soft.

Was his smile always that soft? Was he always so kind?

They couldn't fully see it in their mind, only the picture's recollection. When they tried, it felt like they were close to stumbling into an endless hole. Their name was written on the backside of the image, along with Cyri's and their father's: the Ezradis visit the Wintertide. It was Cyri that wrote it.

Behind them, Cyri had slowly walked their way. As he did a simple check-up of the Wintertide, he spoke. Kell only half-listened. "Whatever you say, kid. You've been getting real gutsy lately, though. Don't think I'll let you gloss over that little slip-up."

Kell favored silence. They pursed their lips. They spared a glance back to the Wintertide and listened to the engine cool, spitting and ticking and muttering its old complaints. In comparison to the weightlessness they felt in space while inside that old warplane, the ground beneath their feet felt too solid, too unmoving. When they walked, they felt like they moved too fast.

Thinking of their mistake made their cheeks burn and their skin bristle. They tried to push it out of their mind by looking towards Cyri, but the gentle look on their mentor's face only brought it right back. Instead, they turned away, back to the workbench.

Cyri noticed their silence and nudged their elbow and tilted his head down, trying to look them in the eye. "I wasn't lying, though. You did a good job on this old hunk of junk. Really restored it to its former glory. In fact, it almost makes me nostalgic!"

Kell shot a skeptical glance towards Cyri. They knew him too well; he would never be nostalgic for the things he had done with the Wintertide.

Cyri smiled. "Almost."

He glanced around for a moment, then took a hand and felt the soft fur trim of Kell's cloak as they wrapped it over their arm. "If only you'd get around to fixing your cape, too. Poor thing looks worse for wear."

Kell's cape -- if they could even call it that, considering how tattered it was by now -- smelled of oil and dirt and metal. The billowing navy cloak was nothing more than fabric scraps and old, thrifted furs, hastily sewn together by Kell's amateur hand. Those hands had trembled when they made it; they were meant for threading sheets of metal together, not clothing. But in a way, that old cape suited them. It was the one thing that held all their comfort.

As they wrapped it around their neck and nuzzled their cheek into the fur trim, their chest swelled from Cyri's compliment. At least somehow, their work was appreciated. They fastened it with a large silver brooch in the shape of the Triumvirate emblem. Just like the Wintertide, it was originally Cyri's, a medal he had received for his service. He had given it to Kell one day, saying nothing of it. He was not one for trinkets. Part of Kell had always wondered if he felt he did not deserve it.

The two crossed the hangar together, their footsteps echoing off the cold metal walls. Cyri turned to shut the hangar door and Kell returned to the Wintertide's side, where they always felt more comfortable. They took the time to inspect the underside of the plane, picking at dirt and ice that had become ingrained into the underbelly.

"It's just an old warplane," they mumbled into the metal, finally answering Cyri. "They were manufactured terribly -- no offense. I know it was yours. I just read that in a book."

From the doors, Cyri scoffed a laugh. He grunted as he tried to pull the doors shut, only to find that they wouldn't budge. "Wow, you did your research," he said, a smile evident in his tone.

Kell huffed. He meant nothing by it. From their pocket they retrieved their wrench and tightened some bolts; they once thought their work was impeccable, but that rough landing left them wary, almost paranoid of something they could have previously looked over. They stared down at their wrench as they worked. On the handle was Cyri's last name, written in his own scrawl. Mallinek.

"A little," they said. The repetitive scrape of the bolts moving into place kept them steady as they thought to themself. They moved closer to the front of the landing gear. "They weren't meant to last this long. One hit and they crumple up like paper, you know? But fixing all those dents was kind of satisfying... hm?"

The landing gear caught their eye then. It sat neatly in a glittering silver, shining spotlessly. They hadn't had a chance to clean it before, they remembered. But it was...

Perfect. Without even a minuscule speck of dirt to its name. As if it was brand new.

Kell glanced towards Cyri. He was standing outside, searching the horizon for the sun, where it hung low. There would still be a few hours left of sunlight if it were still alive.

Slowly, they reached out for the landing gear with their wrench. It trembled in their hand. It clinked against the metal, but a sudden shock that ripped through the wrench and upon their arm frightened them. They winced and pulled away.

And then, it happened; something sudden, something odd. A crackle of electricity jumped from Kell's wrench and ran a course up and down the landing gear, and with it went the sight of the pristine metal. It was as if they were watching an electric current from a tesla coil, crackling, creeping along the gear, but every line of lightning left a trail behind; it took the shining silver and devoured it in a sharp display of chromatic distortion. They could only watch, transfixed by it all. It rippled with the scent of ozone. The sight of it burned a headache behind their eyes.

Once the electricity dissipated, all that was left was the landing gear Kell had known before: grimy, dull, unable to reflect anything but the dirt that covered it. The landing gear that had nearly gotten them killed. They realized a moment afterward that the wrench was missing from their hands. A glance left, right, behind them. It was gone.

They blinked. Seconds later, they realized Cyri was speaking to them. The echo of their headache from the landing still rang in their ear, leaving them struggling to focus until they finally tuned in to Cyri's words.

"-- but you've got all the time in the world to fix it, and I know you'll do a good job. You always do good on restorations."

"Did you see that?" Kell responded.

Cyri turned from the hangar entry, leaving his spot by the door. "See what?"

Kell stood up straight. They peered from behind the landing gear and pointed it out to Cyri, empty-handed. "The -- the gear. Did you see? It was different."

He tilted his head and took the time to inspect the landing gear. With his veteran knowledge of planes, his level of scrutiny was far beyond Kell's, but he resigned to a flippant smile. "Are you okay, kid? Did the jet lag mess with your head? It looks perfectly fine to me."

They sat frozen, dumbstruck. What had just happened?

It was... odd. Oddities were no stranger to them, but it was usually things that lingered in the peripheral, difficult to make out; in front of their eyes, this could not be so easily mistaken. They turned back to the landing gear and hesitantly wrapped a hand around it, but no static shock retaliated to their touch. They left a clean smudge where their gloved palm pressed against the thick layer of dirt.

"Well," Cyri sighed, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. "Did you get everything from Marvi's shipment?"

Of course they did, but they could barely focus on that now. The fresh memory in their mind of the way the gear convulsed into a glitching, electric mess left something amiss sitting in the pit of their stomach, and the more it was left there, the sicker it made Kell feel. They nodded silently.

Marvi was a decent enough distraction from their mounting confusion. They glanced around once more for the wrench, and upon seeing it was truly gone, they abandoned their post and crawled back up onto the wing of the Wintertide. They folded over the side of the cockpit and retrieved a few lighter boxes first, placing them on the wing. The boxes in their hands made them frustratingly empty; this was what they used to do. Cargo flights soaring over the mountains. This was the first time in a year they'd been allowed to fly, and it was only because they begged Cyri.

"All I do anymore is restorations. I'd really like to fly again, if you'd let me." They spoke more into the cockpit than they did over their shoulder to Cyri, almost hoping that he wouldn't hear. But he did, as always, and it earned a less than eager hum from him. He stood behind them as they tossed boxes his way. They pulled the invoice from their pocket and handed it to him as well.

"Not anytime soon, kid," he said with a sigh. "Letting you fly off to Pasri was far enough for me."

Kell could not help but glare over their shoulder, down toward Cyri. He was unaware of the silent, scowling remark, instead busying himself with sorting the boxes and checking over the invoice.

Pasri was the next ravine over. It was a small place down to the south, by no means remarkable, and traveling there was akin to a day trip or a spur-of-the-moment outing. It was practically nothing, and Kell voiced this aloud -- "Pasri? Pasri's nothing compared to what I used to do!" -- and pulled the last of the cargo from their plane. They smacked their hand against the top of the box, sending a plume of melting snow raining down.

They jumped next to Cyri, their cape billowing behind them, draping off the wing. "It was one crash," they continued. "It was practically nothing."

Cyri raised an eyebrow while folding up the invoice. "That was enough to put you out of commission, kid. Remember how long you were out for?"

"I know," Kell muttered in response. The two trudged across the hangar with stacks of boxes balanced precariously in their hold. Cyri, Kell noticed, was particularly careful with the cargo; both of them knew how overbearing their client was when it came to his product. One bump could cost them everything.

They carefully placed their stack next to the workbench, ignoring the plume of dust that curled into the air. They ignored the empty space the wrench once took up on the bench. Their stomach flipped just thinking of it.

"But -- that was years ago!" they said. "I've gotten better! I could easily fly circles around you."

It would be like old times, they thought bitterly, but they left that unsaid. When they were younger, they were put under Cyri's wing, and the pun was something they'd always laugh at. They were master and apprentice, teacher and student, friends above all else. Cyri taught them all that they knew. He took care of them when no one else would after their father died. Working for him as they got older was their way of paying back.

But when Kell crashed, the world screeched to a stop. They felt deep within their bones, all broken and fragmented, that this was it. That they finally had a life after losing one, and it was taken yet again.

Before they could reminisce or bitterly bring the thought to mind, a sharp pain behind their eye returned incessantly, a headache that they couldn't easily ignore. They pressed their hand against their head. Cyri had said something while they were thinking, something they just barely missed.

"It would do me good to get back out there," they said, blinking away their headache. "I want to! I haven't gotten off this planet in years. Hell, I've hardly flown in general."

Cyri grunted as he placed the last of the boxes onto the pile. He left the folded-up invoice to sit on top, pinning it with a crowbar from the workbench.

"Kid..." he started slowly.

Kid. Oh, how they hated the tone he used. The soft pity. They whirled around from the workbench, fists tucked by their side.

"A-and Marvi Patello has been asking me to fly cargo for him again! This was the first time in ages I got to do anything! He says Yona's losing pilots and he can't get anyone else as skilled as me, and that I'd be great for it." A hopeful pause dissolved into doubt. Kell added, "And I heard you talking to Marvi about it, too."

Slowly, Cyri stalked towards his side of the workbench, pulling a chair out and slumping down against it. He rested over an engine that had been left sitting out to be worked on. Kell's footsteps echoed -- click, click, click -- as they stepped in front of him. Their eyes burned with determination as they met his, exhaustion and kindness in his own.

With a heavy sigh, his shoulders dropped. "Marvi Patello is full of shit and I don't want you doing his dirty work. He'll keep you pinned under his foot and wear you down. Hand me a wrench, would you?"

Kell groaned, tilting their head back. They surveyed his workbench and spotted his own sitting neatly in its place and obliged, all the while ignoring the thought of the one missing from their own space. "It would be good money," they mumbled. "Restorations only pay so much."

They watched as he worked. Their shadow stretched over his shoulder and spilled out onto the engine.

Cyri fiddled with the flywheel as he listened, occasionally grumbling down at the engine. "Kell, kid, you don't want to work with him directly. Letting you get his stuff is enough of a hassle already. Last time I helped him out, he stole my plane and abandoned me on Lorin."

"Don't forget who went and rescued you," Kell commented, grinning when Cyri shot them a halfhearted glare. "And landed back here during a snowstorm afterward, might I add."

They twirled on their heel and paced to the open door of the hangar. Cyri meant to close it, but they distracted him with the mention of the landing gear. It seemed to be stuck. They lazily tugged at the handle, but it refused to move. Even when they hung from it, it did not budge.

An anxious glance at the landing gear of the Wintertide confirmed what they had seen earlier: it was still just as old and worn as it was supposed to be, and what it had taken was nowhere in sight. Snow was inching closer inward, seeking to claim ownership of everything warm inside the hangar and snuff it out; it was what brought Kell back to the present, the sensation of cold snowflakes sticking to their face. They scuffed a small pile of snow away from their shoes.

"That was before your crash," Cyri noted. His voice echoed inside the hangar, along with the clinks and clangs as he worked on the old engine. "And you only know about it because I told you, so you can't even count that as gloating. I'm not letting you out of my sight anytime soon, kid. Someone's gotta take care of you."

And who better to take care of them than Cyri? They were indebted to him for everything -- their home, their skills, their entire livelihood. The company of someone who still remembered their father, years after he was gone.

Kell blinked the thought away.

Cyri wouldn't relinquish his verdict and Kell knew this. He was protective, knew when to pull the plug and let things go; and though Kell tried their best to emulate him, they were far too stubborn. This was all they had: their cloak slung over their shoulder and the knowledge that once, they had more freedom than they did now -- and that one crash had taken all that way. They could still feel the repercussions of their failures and the danger that ensued years after their crash; in their knee, when it creaks with every step, and their headaches that never ceased, and the spotty memories that clouded every thought.

He stood from his seat and squatted down closer to the engine, his eyes studying every intricacy of the mechanism like a book Kell was not allowed to read. They watched from the nose of the Wintertide. Their hands wrapped around the rotor, lazily pushing it down.

Even from a distance, Cyri was meticulous in an effortless manner. He was a hardworking man. He always had been all his life. His hunched back was a sign of it, spending day after day poring over machines. His hands could create flight by molding the wind to his will. Ever since they met him, Kell admired him -- no, idolized him. Now, though, above all else, they envied him.

"Cyri, come on--"

"Kid, I already told you my answer. I don't want you taking big flights for a while. Isn't Kepla enough for you? It's a big planet. There's lots to see here. Lots to do."

But it would never be enough to satiate them. Kepla was too old, too worn. They explored all the ruins nearby and all the tucked-away alleys of Zomir. There was nothing left to be discovered; nothing but war relics and bones, all of which were covered back up by the snow and left behind. They rolled their eyes along with the rotor. It sped up with every push. Cyri watched over his shoulder and Kell could feel his gaze settle on the back of their head. When they snapped their head around and glared, he turned back to the engine.

Kell was grounded and they hated it. They felt like a child; twenty-two, independent since they were twelve, and yet they still floundered under the watchful and stifling shadow of someone greater. They raised their hand to run it through their hair, but the rotor slammed to a stop against their forearm. They grimaced at the thud of pain in their arm. Reckless -- always so reckless. They brought their forearm to eye level, squinting at the line of dirt that was now smeared across the sleeve of their cream-colored button-up. Yet another problem that would plague them, another source of frustration bleeding inside.

"I don't even get to go that far," they scowled. "How far have I actually gone in the past year besides Pasri? The northern tip of Zomir, maybe? And before that?"

Cyri was silent, his focus dedicated to his work. He mumbled in reply. "That's not true."

"Yes it is!" Kell spat. "I used to go to Jhone and Yona every single week! To every stupid moon orbiting the goddess planets! Hell, we flew through an entire asteroid storm together once! Don't you remember that?"

Their heart thrummed in their ears, louder than the wind outside and the sound of Cyri's work. They heard themself breathing loudly. This was cruel; shouting at Cyri, looking at him as if he stole everything from them when they knew that this was all their own doing. They were the one that crashed.

They took a deep breath and continued, keeping their tone steady, their words carefully selected. "I miss that. I miss doing that with you. You don't even give me a chance anymore."

Turning, Cyri studied their stiff, wounded figure as they stood by the Wintertide, a ghost next to an empty husk. They were small in its massive presence. "I know you do," he said. His voice was too soft. His age and wisdom spoke far louder. "Maybe sometime soon. I want you here, helping me where I need it. My hands hurt too much to do any proper work and I can't do much else. I wish you could, but..."

But you'd make the same mistakes. But you'd mess up again. But you'd say you saw something strange. But, but, but. Always an excuse.

The clock in the hangar chimed the top of the hour, and distantly, the bells of the temples in Zomir agreed. The carillon was always a comfort to Kell, but it mocked them now. Cyri stood, and upon seeing that Kell was looking his way, tossed his wrench back to them. "Day's over, anyways," he continued. "We need to go get the rest of Marvi's supplies from town."

Kell did not move. They stood at the nose of the Wintertide. Their arm still stung from where it hit the rotor. Their lips were pressed tight together, and that alone kept them from saying what they shouldn't. Cyri's gentle smile washed the words away, but that could not stop the fact that they flinched when his hand slapped on their shoulder. It muddled the downy fur trim of their cloak with dirt and oil. He had surprised them; they were so consumed by their stewing that they hadn't noticed he had grown so close. They stared outside and refused to meet his gaze. It would only show pity, anyway.

"You're good at what you do, kid. Don't forget that," Cyri said. "And who knows? Maybe things'll change soon. Maybe you'll change my mind."

They could not hide the way his words stung. It should have been comforting for them to hear. Cyri's praise meant everything to them. Instead, they simply spat out a "fine."

"Come on, Kell," he mumbled. Out the door he went, and before he disappeared into the hall, he turned once more. "Don't forget to shut the door."

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Kell trudged back to the open door, grumbling all the way. Their shoes scuffed against the concrete, and the wind left their cloak curling around their ankles. The moons of Kepla took the place of sunlight, even if that light was dim and weak. Though synthetic, it warmed their cold face. Perhaps they merely imagined it did. Either way, they closed their eyes in the face of the light.

Perhaps there was something waiting for them out there. Freedom just out of their reach. They could see their escape in front of them, but they lay in wait, writhing against the bear trap caught upon their leg, all because the weight of Cyri's disappointment sat heavy on their shoulders, keeping them stuck to the ground.

They glanced back at the hallway Cyri disappeared into. No, this wasn't a punishment. Guilt festered in their stomach for even thinking so. They appreciated everything that Cyri had ever done for them. By staying here, were they not returning the favor?

And yet... the moons were so bright. They could envision the moonlight glistening off the cold metal shell of the Wintertide and upon the glass lenses of their goggles.

Anger brewed heavily inside of them, filling them up so deeply that they could choke on it. They wished the rust was gone from the door. They wished the wind wasn't working against them. There was more that they wished, so fervently, yet so inconsequential and fruitless; that the cold air wasn't biting at their nose, that their cape did more to protect against it, that they could leave this goddess-forsaken place and never look behind them.

They let go, rubbing their hands, then reached for the handle once more -- only to yelp when it shocked them. A bolt of static buzzed through the metal door, bristling white and churning through the metal like a shockwave. Their anger raged, blistering inside of them. Of all things today, of all things to go wrong!

They couldn't fly anymore. They couldn't do anything. Stuck here -- forever! Goddesses, forever! -- doing nothing but busy-work. They stained their clothes, shocked themself, making believe that they were seeing and hearing things as if they were meant for more than something as pathetic as the life they were dealt. And they finally got a chance to prove their mettle, only to nearly crash at the last second. Over and over, failure after failure.

Kell strangled the door handle, and with all the force in their body, they flung the door forward until it crashed to the other side in a torrent of dust and snow.