It isn't uncommon for his shift to align with Dureena's shortened sleep cycle; another trait alienating her from the rest. Physically, he may resemble them, but as the ship's only telepath... Her experiences are familiar.

"Do you ever resent it?" She leans across the table, voice lowered. "Saving someone else's home when you… don't have one of your own?"

He's transitional: a Psi Corps orphan under PMC's new rule. Gideon's trust is his only security. "I can't say I do. The captain gave me an opportunity. I'm grateful."

She slumps back. "Guess I'm still adjusting."

"The best of us are."

It was something Dureena had almost forgotten, the feeling of wind flowing through her hair without chains shackling her wrists. 

The ground shrank away as she scaled the rock formation, hands fitting into grooves and feet pushing herself up with ease. She almost felt lighter than she had climbing the cliffs near her childhood home with her brothers. 

She pushed herself up to the top, which was a smooth, slanted surface overlooking the ocean. Knees pulled to her chest, she lost herself in the lull of waves while twin suns chased the shadows away.

They welcomed her in their warmth.

No one sticks up for slaves or thieves. The Guild is fully prepared to cut all ties if it means saving their own skin. They don't need you. They only want in the most conditional sense.

Kinda like slave-owners.

Kinda like parents.

As soon as things get tough, Dureena is a pawn to shove off the board. If her edges chip or spirit cracks any more, she might just crumble into dust. 

She's still trying to figure out why history hasn't repeated itself with the Excalibur. Or, it hasn't yet, anyway. Within a week, she’s sure she'll be off the boat: dumped in prison, abandoned on a foreign planet, thrown to the wolves. Within two weeks, she'll be ground into the floor of some grimy docking port, forgotten by her long-gone “team.”

After three weeks, she's still here.

After four, she tempts fate.

She hesitantly makes her room a little more her own: ragged netting easing its emptiness and low candle-flames replacing bright lights. The ship might just finally fit her if she ignores the crew outside donning pristine uniforms in minimalist halls. 

Sure, the night crew gambles with her when she can't sleep. The chefs know how she likes her food without having to ask. Pilots know her name, and not in the way an ex-owner's skeevy friends once did. It's just that she's played this game too many times before.

Within a month, someone will knock over her plants, tear down the rags, blow out the candles. Within a month, it'll end as it always does.

After two months, Gideon buys her a candle from the planet below. It's made of something resembling wax. It's got a wick same as the rest. The container is kinda twisty, brown and glossy. It doesn't look stable enough to carry something as fickle as fire, but according to Gideon it works just fine.

She holds it to her chest and stares down the empty shelf space. When she sets it down, she bites her lip. It's color fits into the room so well despite its foreign design that the fear of falling apart subsides.

The match scratches as she lights it, passing its flame to the wick. It stands with the others on her shelf, keeping the dark at bay.

It's a start, she thinks, and it’s more than she's ever had before.