Sarah McFarlen woke to the pounding beat of music, alongside an equally pounding migraine. Someone had wired RheinPunk up to the bay's intercom system and was playing electronic Christmas carols at a volume she was fairly certain would have broken at least two noise pollution laws if they'd been anywhere that cared about such laws. Groaning at the intrusion, she pulled the crumpled duffel bag that was currently serving as her pillow down to cover her ears and tried, unsuccessfully, to vanish into Strebepfeiler's steel and plastic bulkheads. When that failed to produce results, she fished in bag next to her, eyes still shut tight, until her hand closed around a box of painkillers. She peeled a single tablet from its blister and swallowed it, doing her best to ignore the faintly bitter taste. As the minutes dragged on her headache slowly retreated to a dull thudding at the back of her skull, a jackhammer rather then an industrial drill. It wasn't much of an improvement, but she was willing to accept anything her body was willing to sling her on that count.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the still-sleeping man next to her, she extradited herself from the corner she'd crept into, tightening her coat around her. With a pang of guilt, she realized that she couldn't remember his name. With a sharp jaw and almost-shaved hair, he had to former military. He was attractive enough, even through the post-New Years stupor that had settled over her brain like a worn quilt. She did remember his eyes, though. Intense brown orbs that had reflected, truly reflected, the earnestness in his voice. That was the difference here. These people weren't the hollow husks of human beings that clustered on Buffalo's lower levels like insects scurrying from the light. There was an enthusiasm in the air that was hard to describe. It wasn't about the money, the social climbing, or even about survival.The pilots of the Bundschuh believed, truly believed, in what they were doing. For someone who had spent most of her life concerned about where the next meal would be coming from, the altruism was strangely liberating.

The pounding music faded as she left the hangar bay behind her, carefully stepping over collapsed decorations and fallen party-goers alike, the exhaust-blackened steel pleasantly cool against her bare feet. The handful of dockworkers she saw passed without comment, tending to various hangovers of their own. Her datapad was where she'd left it the night before, resting on a tower of crates beside the station's central uplink, a thin bundle of wire connecting the two. Stealing base bandwidth for personal use wasn't technically allowed, but it was one of those quiet crimes that slipped past a dozen times a day without so much as a raised eyebrow. Besides, it was Christmas, or close enough to that it made no difference.

Hangar bay four was deserted. It was still early in the station's day in this part of the facility, and the lights were dimmed to simulate a planetary twilight. Her headache tapped its altogether too-cheerful approval of the new lighting arrangement against her skull. Sarah found seating space on the wing of a parked Wraith, though the climb up was harder then she remembered it being. She tapped on the datapad, squinting against the sudden light. She quickly dimmed it, navigating to the recent downloads section. There was one file waiting there, which she opened with a swipe of her thumb.

"Thousands have lined Manhattan's streets-" She dialed the volume down, quieting the reporter to a whisper. "-for the New Year's display." The camera panned over cheering crowds, most pressing to get a view over the luxurious VIP stands. Sarah's eyes traced the blue-velvet lined stands, looking for a familiar weathered face. Nothing. A ball of disappointment caught in her stomach. She hadn't really expected to see her family in the stands, but it had been long enough- A familiar corporate crest caught her eye, the image of a stylized feather jetting through the void of space. All these years, and he still hadn't changed it. She paused the footage, jumping to a camera atop a lamppost, one with a decent view of the booth.

Johnathon McFarlen stood at the front of the booth, hands clasped behind his back with the faint sense of resignation Sarah had come to expect of her father at official events. Given the choice, she knew Manhattan's resident nav system tychoon would rather have been at home with friends, and it showed in his eyes. A few streaks of gray now adorned his formerly black hair, but otherwise he looked healthy. Tanya stood next to him, Sarah's mother smiling at the toddler tugging at the hem of her dress. That would be Nick, little baby Nick, who had barely been beyond a cot when his older sister had stolen a CSV and fled into Manhattan's midnight fog to seek her fortune. She wondered vaguely if he'd remember her, Sarah donning a smile that threatened to break through to tears.

As far as her family were concerned, she'd vanished in the Badlands, another lost soul in a tally of hundreds. They'd looked, for a time, but all the money in Sirius wouldn't have been enough to find someone in the Rogue's nebula who didn't want to be found. And she hadn't. Even when she'd finally slipped free of the Rogues, it had seemed too late. What good would it have done, then? The family had come to terms with her apparent death. Reappearing would rip the old wounds open all over again, and she couldn't bring herself to do that to the peaceful family that stood smiling on her datapad, as much as a part of her longed to.

Watching was a selfishness, in a way. She couldn't bring herself to abandon them completely, even now. But they were safe, and they were well. She offered up a quiet prayer of thanks to whatever god it was that watched over sentimental revolutionaries and returned her attention to the screen, barely noticing the gentle smattering of tears that fell on it.