Lucynda 'Lucy' KushinadaThe boarding ramp hums softly as it seals behind the last passengers, locking the noise of the terminal outside. Inside the transport, the air is cooler and clean, filtered to sterility, carrying a faint scent of metal and recycled ozone. The ship’s name—LUNAR SERAPH—glows in pale blue along the inner bulkhead near the entry, its letters reflected across the curved windows that frame Earth below. Neon from Night City bleeds into the clouds like spilled paint, already beginning to thin as the ship prepares for ascent.
You step into the passenger cabin and instinctively slow. Rows of seats arc gently toward the panoramic viewport, each outlined by soft white lighting. Holographic flight data scrolls along the ceiling—orbital insertion in calm, patient increments. People move quietly here, subdued by altitude and cost and the knowledge that not everyone gets to leave the planet behind.
That’s when you see her.
She stands near the window, alone, a small travel bag resting by her boots. Pale hair, cut asymmetrically, falls just past her jaw, catching prismatic color from the cabin lights. A cropped white jacket contrasts sharply against the dark netrunner suit beneath it. She isn’t doing anything remarkable—no dramatic gesture, no obvious motion—yet the space around her feels subtly organized, as if she belongs exactly where she is standing. There’s a quiet swagger to her posture, not arrogant, not inviting, just assured. You feel it hit before you understand it: a pull of attention, a stillness in your chest.
She looks out at the planet without expression, eyes reflecting the curve of Earth and the thinning atmosphere. Her face is calm, closed off, beautiful in a way that feels unintentional. Someone brushes past her shoulder; she shifts half a step to the side without looking, fluid and precise, reclaiming her space. You realize you’ve stopped walking.
Your thoughts stumble—irrational, unhelpful.
Who is she? Why does she look like she already left this place days ago?
You take a seat a few rows away, still aware of her in your peripheral vision. The ship vibrates faintly as systems align. Safety lights pulse once. A recorded voice murmurs about departure protocols. Outside the window, the city lights blur into a soft glow.
She turns then, not toward you specifically, but toward the cabin as a whole. For a fraction of a second her gaze passes over your face. There’s no smile, no acknowledgment—just a brief, assessing glance, distant and unreadable. Still, it’s enough to make your pulse jump, like being seen by someone who isn’t interested in being known.
She takes the seat across the aisle, one row ahead of you. Her movements are economical, practiced. She sets her bag at her feet and rests her hands loosely in her lap. When the ship begins its ascent, she closes her eyes—not in fear, but as if listening to something beneath the vibration.
Thoughts flicker behind her calm exterior, measured and private.
Almost gone. Just noise and distance now. That’s all this needs to be.
You glance at the window again as gravity shifts, Earth slowly tilting away. The sky deepens into black, stars pricking through like quiet witnesses. The moment feels unreal—expensive, fragile, irreversible.
She opens her eyes and exhales, slow and controlled. Not relief. Not excitement. Resolution.
Lucynda 'Lucy' Kushinada:
Her voice is low, restrained, offered without expectation. She doesn’t turn to face you fully, only angles her head slightly in your direction. It’s the smallest opening—careful, deliberate.
Hour:
She nods once, accepting the answer without judgment.
Lucynda 'Lucy' Kushinada:
She looks back out the window as the planet recedes further, conversation closed as neatly as it began. No name exchanged. No invitation extended. Yet something has shifted—an unspoken alignment, two passengers sharing the same thin line of escape.
The LUNAR SERAPH climbs steadily, engines humming like a held breath. Around you, the cabin dims into night-mode. And while the Moon is still far away, you know—with a quiet certainty—that this is the moment your journey truly started.
You step into the passenger cabin and instinctively slow. Rows of seats arc gently toward the panoramic viewport, each outlined by soft white lighting. Holographic flight data scrolls along the ceiling—orbital insertion in calm, patient increments. People move quietly here, subdued by altitude and cost and the knowledge that not everyone gets to leave the planet behind.
That’s when you see her.
She stands near the window, alone, a small travel bag resting by her boots. Pale hair, cut asymmetrically, falls just past her jaw, catching prismatic color from the cabin lights. A cropped white jacket contrasts sharply against the dark netrunner suit beneath it. She isn’t doing anything remarkable—no dramatic gesture, no obvious motion—yet the space around her feels subtly organized, as if she belongs exactly where she is standing. There’s a quiet swagger to her posture, not arrogant, not inviting, just assured. You feel it hit before you understand it: a pull of attention, a stillness in your chest.
She looks out at the planet without expression, eyes reflecting the curve of Earth and the thinning atmosphere. Her face is calm, closed off, beautiful in a way that feels unintentional. Someone brushes past her shoulder; she shifts half a step to the side without looking, fluid and precise, reclaiming her space. You realize you’ve stopped walking.
Your thoughts stumble—irrational, unhelpful.
Who is she? Why does she look like she already left this place days ago?
You take a seat a few rows away, still aware of her in your peripheral vision. The ship vibrates faintly as systems align. Safety lights pulse once. A recorded voice murmurs about departure protocols. Outside the window, the city lights blur into a soft glow.
She turns then, not toward you specifically, but toward the cabin as a whole. For a fraction of a second her gaze passes over your face. There’s no smile, no acknowledgment—just a brief, assessing glance, distant and unreadable. Still, it’s enough to make your pulse jump, like being seen by someone who isn’t interested in being known.
She takes the seat across the aisle, one row ahead of you. Her movements are economical, practiced. She sets her bag at her feet and rests her hands loosely in her lap. When the ship begins its ascent, she closes her eyes—not in fear, but as if listening to something beneath the vibration.
Thoughts flicker behind her calm exterior, measured and private.
Almost gone. Just noise and distance now. That’s all this needs to be.
You glance at the window again as gravity shifts, Earth slowly tilting away. The sky deepens into black, stars pricking through like quiet witnesses. The moment feels unreal—expensive, fragile, irreversible.
She opens her eyes and exhales, slow and controlled. Not relief. Not excitement. Resolution.
Lucynda 'Lucy' Kushinada:
First time leaving orbit?
Her voice is low, restrained, offered without expectation. She doesn’t turn to face you fully, only angles her head slightly in your direction. It’s the smallest opening—careful, deliberate.
Hour:
…Yeah. Guess it shows.
She nods once, accepting the answer without judgment.
Lucynda 'Lucy' Kushinada:
You get used to the silence. Eventually.
She looks back out the window as the planet recedes further, conversation closed as neatly as it began. No name exchanged. No invitation extended. Yet something has shifted—an unspoken alignment, two passengers sharing the same thin line of escape.
The LUNAR SERAPH climbs steadily, engines humming like a held breath. Around you, the cabin dims into night-mode. And while the Moon is still far away, you know—with a quiet certainty—that this is the moment your journey truly started.
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