In a world where a fatally injured colleague was a cause of celebration over the alternative and where loved ones were either kept in the dark or braved the risk of turning out as dead bodies any day, Ian Vashti knew enough to count his blessings. In one of the morbid jokes flourishing in the kind of work they did, he'd once said that he'd turned this Celestial Being business into a family venture. It was true, of sorts. Everyone in Celestial Being was family.

But it sure wasn't the kind of life he thought he would be leading. No less than his longtime friend had bitten the dust, only a few meters away from where he was standing. And his daughter was laughing on the bridge, his only daughter he let onboard the very ship where almost half dozen of his crewmates had been slaughtered just a few years back. Yet here he was, fussing over his daughter's choice of teenage crush with his amused wife as if they couldn't be gunned down any minute. No one was locked out of the loop.

He'd wished Mileina to lead a normal life, once upon a time, but he would be a hypocrite if he denied her the very same reason that brought him and his wife here in the first place. The goal they worked on was a lofty one, so grand that some nights even Ian had trouble to convince himself he believed in that wholeheartedly, but there was also a far simpler and less altruistic cause: Celestial Being was a marvel to work with from a technical standpoint. Nowhere else in the world they would be able to do the things they did. Veda saw through their heads as well as their hearts.

He'd seen several lifetimes worth of memories it was hard to believe that only a few years had passed. Of friendships grown and ruptured, love blossomed and died. He tried his best to preserve these memories, because for most of them memories were their only proof of existence. Those stories would never be known to the world, clad in countless security measures and buried under oath of secrecy. Many times, he wished he could tell Chris of her parents. Now he'd lost the chance to. It was hard to believe he was still alive when he'd seen two generations of a family perished.

He did that every night in his quarter, counting his blessings. Only then he would be able to smile and keep jolly all day, ready to deal with whoever might be in need of a friendly talk or a pat in the back. (They were so young, the tactical strike team. So young, and so damaged).

A newer recruit had asked him once whether he regretted his choice and whether he intended to stay down the line, even after the war ended. He guffawed, because after many years of observing, first as a civilian engineer then a renegade technician, he knew the war would never truly end. Not so soon with things staying as they were, though the crews had certainly did their fair share of work and he hoped the day they fulfilled their mission would be near. He would stay through the very end, that's the least he could do. For those who preceded him, and for the sake of those in the future. No one should go through the kind of things they had endured.

Besides, every dysfunctional family needed a grumpy old man to count on.