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Rust and Ashes

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The small frigate was practically falling apart, her hull covered in patches of rust and the engine block a ragged nightmare of warped, melted slag. Her blaster embankments had been ripped out, scavenged for parts years ago, and the transparisteel viewport on the bridge was scorched and cracked. She wasn’t space worthy, not anymore, and Phae had had to pay to have her specially transported to her Tatooine homestead, as it was the only property she owned big enough to house the old ship.

She was old and worn, but with enough time and credits - and a little bit of care and love and a whole lot of elbow grease - she could fly again.

Absolutely worth it, though, Phae thought, for the look on her husband’s face.

Andronikos’s eyes were wide with equal parts shock and wonder as he stared at the frigate, slack-jawed.

Phae grinned and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Happy birthday, Pirate,” she said.

Andronikos made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and abruptly sat down hard on the landing pad’s tarmac. He reached up blindly and grasped Phae’s hand, drawing it towards himself to kiss her knuckles, but he never once took his eyes off the ship, the undamaged portions of her hull gleaming in the Tatooine sunlight.

Still visible on the ship's side, in fading and peeling but still legible Aurebesh, was her name: