The stench of unfiltered methane and fuel oil saturated the air. Sara helped the last person up the ramp to her ship, swaying as concussion waves passed through them like vengeful spirits of chaos. She was already over capacity, and dare not take anymore. Sweeping her gaze across at the spectacle around them, she punched the button to retract the ramp as her only goodbye.
Weaving her way through the crowd, she yelled for everyone to get ready, and started the liftoff sequence. Rockets roared.
Someone asked, “What’s your ship’s name?”
“Nadine. In the ancient tongue, it meant hope.”