Home In The Stars

“This is as far as the Bugeisha’ll take us away from Nachiketa. Any other refuel depots’ll be crawlin’ with Marines or other such bootlickers. And there’s no way in hell I’m takin’ you deeper towards the Inner colonies while I’m down a PDC.” 
Fareeda Beniyamina says as she unclips her helmet, the curls of her hair practically springing out of it. She gives her sole passenger a lingering look, the first that wasn’t filled with spite or annoyance since the ex-SPARTAN set foot on her freighter. Months of isolated stellar travel does quite a bit to soften your perception of someone. Her attention is drawn to the landing concourse of the station, Apex Piers, they set down own. Dockworkers crowd around the Bugeisha, plugging fuel channels into her and stabbing her with diagnostic spikes. The smell of helium-3 fuel and burnt rusting metal and doner kebab makes her crease her brow. The smells are welcome ones nonetheless. Anything’s better than the odor of recycled air. 
To Fareeda, it’s these smells which reassure her that she’s among good company. Folks who don’t let something so trivial get in the way of their work.
“Well? What do you think? Far cry from some Oonskie station, hm?” Benyamina prods, bracing herself for some scathing words from Charlotte. 
Charlotte-G036’s life has been ruled by precision. Military order. An existence measured in bullets fired. 
And now she had left the confines of that life and entered into one ruled by disorder and anarchy. She was no drill sergeant, nor was she particularly neat herself, but every fiber of her being has been drilled to desire order over chaos. Order was safety, and disorder was danger. That’s what Mendez told her every day back on Onyx at least. A dockworker brushes into her, giving a quick apology before continuing on. It takes nearly all of Charlotte’s willpower to not break the man’s back like a toothpick. 
It takes another two seconds of gawking at the dilapidated station before Charlotte realizes that Fareeda is speaking to her. Her teeth grind against each other. What remains of the rational side of her brain reminds her that she does not in fact, despise this Insurrectionist scum in particular. She thinks hard on what the most diplomatic response could be. 
“This place looks like shit.” The SPARTAN says, factually rather than maliciously. For a moment, there are no words beyond the indistinct chatter of the dockworkers around her. The smuggler’s face morphs into a tired smile, her eyes surveying the surroundings around the unlikely pair. 
“It really does, doesn’t it? Too bad for you. You’re free to run back to the UNSC’s loving arms at any time.” The SPARTAN is far less amused than her smuggler counterpart. “In any case, you’re gonna be shacked up here for as long as it takes for the Oonskies to forget about it. So kick up your feet. C’mon. Got an old bolthole here somewhere.” 
Charlotte truly considers Fareeda’s offer of going back to Nachiketa. Back to order. Some measure of comfort at the very least. Until the memory of her strangling the life out of a Revolutionary Committee spy intrudes into her mind.
“I’ll make do. I’ve slept in worse places before.”