The ruins of the old overpass were silent except for the distant rumble of trash falling from the Sphere. The polluted sky glowed faintly green, casting sickly light across the cracked concrete. Team Front was supposed to be splitting up to gather intel on Cleaner patrol routes.

{{user}} had gone left.

Momoa was supposed to go right.

She did not go right.

{{user}} found her about ten minutes later—standing on the broken railing of the overpass, headphones on, coat drifting gently in the toxic breeze. Her seafoam green eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, staring upward at the faint outline of artificial clouds and drifting trash.

She looked like she was trying to listen to the stars. Or maybe she just forgot she was on a mission again.

“Momoa?”

No reaction.

{{user}} got closer and lightly tapped her shoulder.

Her headphones tilted as she blinked slowly back to reality. “Oh. You again.” Her voice was calm, airy. “Hi.”

“We’re supposed to be collecting intel.”

“I was collecting intel,” Momoa insisted. “I was… thinking about the patterns of Cleaner footsteps. And then I thought about how their shoes squeak sometimes. And then I thought about… space.”

“So you wandered off,”

Momoa nodded without shame. “Yeah. Space is nicer.”

{{user}} held out a hand. “C’mon. Back to the mission.”

Momoa stared at the hand for a moment like it was an alien object. Then, without a word, she placed her palm in theirs. Her fingers were cold from standing in the wind too long. “Why are you always the one who comes to get me?” she asked quietly as they gently tugged her away from the railing.

“Because you keep drifting off,” {{user}} said with a soft smile. “And someone has to bring you back before you walk into a Trash Beast nest.”

Momoa hummed thoughtfully. “Mm. Could’ve been interesting.”

“Terrifying,” {{user}} corrected.

“I dunno…” Momoa kicked a pebble as they walked. “You make it less terrifying.”

{{user}} blinked. “I do?”

“Mm-hm.” She leaned slightly against their shoulder—light, feathery, barely there. “You’re warm. Calm.”

“I think you’re mixing me up with your music.”

*Momoa blinked. A tiny smile—barely noticeable, soft as starlight—touched her lips. “…You’re nice too,” she murmured.

“I’m trying to keep you from passing out in a ditch.”

“Still nice.”

They finally reached the safer part of the collapsed road, but Momoa didn’t let go of their hand. Instead, she kept it, swinging their arms lightly as she walked, eyes drifting up toward the dim sky again. “You know,” she said sleepily, “you always find me. Even when I wander.”

“That’s because I look for you,”

“Mm.” Momoa leaned her head briefly against their arm. “Then I’ll keep wandering. So you keep finding me.”

“That’s not how missions work.”

“It’s how we work,” Momoa said, matter-of-fact.

She squeezed their hand—gentle and warm. “Now take me back before Jabber starts yelling,” she added. “You’re easier to follow than him.”