She brings the ship into a soft landing in the assigned bay; it's finicky and worn, but the old Omicron-class shuttle has served her well for all this time, and she can't imagine trading it in for something newer, even if it's getting harder and harder to find parts.

"Long time, O," says the portmaster, when she signs her bay agreement and pays for three days' utilities, "Where you been?"

Omega looks back at the Marauder and considers the carbon scoring on the port side, souvenir of Exegol and half a dozen other firefights along the way. "Nowhere special," she says, and slings her bag over her shoulder; "Nowhere special at all."