A Melanie Destin Bonus Story  

This short scene takes place just before the events of Armstrong Station, the opening of The Destin Chronicles. Mel is already the ship’s doctor aboard Requiem—bored, stuck on the Moon, and one bad decision away from the kind of trouble that will change her life.

Read this first if you’re curious what Mel is like before everything goes sideways.

Six Days on Luna

A Melanie Destin Story

I have six days with nothing to do.

Literally, nothing.

If I were almost anywhere else in the solar system, I’d have my pick of diversions to waste my not‑so‑hard‑earned money on.

But I’m stuck here on the Moon at Armstrong Station, and I have absolutely nothing to do.

I mean, if all I want to do is drink until I’m blind, it’s probably no different than any other merchant port of call. My goddamned medical nanites take most of the edge off that kind of fun, anyway. So, what’s the point?

Oh sure, I can turn them off and get stinking drunk like any other spacer, but I’m getting too old for doing that dumb shit more than once or twice a year, and it’s not my birthday or Christmas.

And besides, this is supposed to be one of the most dangerous ports around. I’m required to be on call if any of the ship’s crew happen to need a doctor while we all sit around and wait for Requiem to clear customs quarantine.

I made it clear to those idiots that I’m not available for self‑inflicted alcohol poisoning, so barring a broken arm or a knife wound, they’re on their own. I wanted to enjoy a few days off.

Well, that was my plan, but like I said, this is the asshole of the system, and there is literally nothing to do if I intend to stay out of trouble and alive. I’m so bored, I almost wish Chambers or Schmaltz would get into a fight and need some patching up. But they are amicable drunks, and unlikely to do more than pass out if they drink too much.

Pussies.

I suppose I could go start a bar fight, but I’ve been punched in the face before, so no. We won’t be trying that again anytime soon.

When Requiem set down here, Chambers assured me it was a short stopover to pick up supplies and our next cargo. In, out, nobody arrested, nobody shot. That sort of thing.

Nobody said anything about the possibility of being tagged by the port authority for a random quarantine and search of the ship. We were all booted off with only the clothes on our backs and told not to come back for six days.

Let me tell you, there was some frantic scrambling to make sure the smuggling holds really were empty before we cycled the locks, and I can only pray they don’t find the safe hidden under the floor of the medical bay. If they do, things won’t be boring anymore. I’ll be spending a few weeks in a Morality Police re‑education centre learning about the evils of smuggling contraband medical supplies.

Definitely not on my bucket list.

Predictably, Chambers apologized all over himself when this little setback happened. I think he’s worried I’ll quit and find something else.

Normally, there would be a real risk of me doing that, but the truth is that he doesn’t have anything to worry about.

Despite my bitchy, high‑maintenance façade, I have been enjoying my time aboard Requiem and have no plans to look for anything else in the foreseeable future.

I just won’t be telling that to Chambers.

Keep the captain nervous. It’s healthy.

In the meantime, here I am: one small bag of personal essentials, one thin Moon‑issue station card, one bored ship’s doctor, and nowhere to go.

Armstrong Station isn’t much to look at. Once you get past the shiny arrival concourse with its fake plants and holos of smiling families frolicking on lunar regolith, you hit the real station—the bit they don’t put on recruitment posters.

Narrow corridors. Scuffed bulkheads. Air that smells faintly of recycled sweat, spilt beer, and industrial cleanser that the Morality Police swear is antiseptic and not at all full of carcinogens. Flickering signs in three languages advertising pawnshops, noodle stalls, and “moral recreation centres” that everyone pretends are something other than what they are.

I wander anyway, hands in my pockets, trying not to look like I’m casing the joint and also trying not to look like a lost tourist. It’s a delicate balance.

There’s a bar on every other corner. Most of them are dives: hard chairs bolted to the deck, screens on mute showing last season’s grav‑ball games, and bartenders who size you up in one glance and decide how watered your drink will be.

I pause at the entrance to one of them, watching through the hazy plex. A group of haulers are playing some kind of card game with real, printed cards. One of them has that particular sway of somebody who’s one shot away from making a very bad decision.

My fingers itch. A bar fight would at least be entertaining.

Then I remember the last time someone’s fist connected with my face, the way my teeth clacked together and the world went momentarily sideways.

My jaw twinges at the memory. I decide I can live without that particular flavour of nostalgia.

Instead, I find a narrow bench against a bulkhead shaped almost, but not quite, like it was intended for human spines, and sit. I watch people go by.

Dock workers in stained coveralls. Pilots with that loose, rolling gait that says “thrust and spin are my natural habitat.” Morality Police patrols, black uniforms crisp, batons and sidearms very visible. Their eyes skim over me, dismissing me as just another spacer between contracts.

I smile at them, wide and innocent. It’s always good to remind myself how convincing I can be when I need to.

My wrist‑comp pings. A short, encrypted burst from Chambers.

“Quarantine sweep started. Haven’t found anything yet. Don’t go far.”

As if I have anywhere to go.

I send back a single emoji—an old Terran skull and crossbones—and tuck the comp away. If they do find the safe under my medbay floor, I probably won’t get a warning. Armstrong’s Morality Police don’t strike me as the “let the suspect pack a bag” types.

A gaggle of tourists drifts past, all wide eyes and station‑branded jumpsuits, following a guide with a cheery voice and a flag that says in blinking letters: WELCOME TO THE PRIDE OF LUNA.

Pride of Luna, my ass.

One of the tourists—a woman about my age, hair dyed an impossible shade of blue—glances my way. Our eyes meet for half a second. She gives me a small, conspiratorial smile, like we’re sharing a joke about this place.

Then the tour guide herds her around the corner and out of sight.

I blow out a slow breath.

Six days.

“How much trouble could I actually get into if I tried?” I mutter.

Armstrong answers with a distant clang of metal on metal, the thrum of a cargo pod locking into place somewhere below my feet, and an announcement in three languages about a delayed shuttle.

No dramatic explosion. No sudden bar brawl. No enraged customs official storming down the corridor shouting my name.

Just the same bored hum of a station that’s seen too many shiploads of people like me pass through and vanish.

Which, if I’m honest, is exactly the kind of place where trouble likes to hide.

I stand up, stretch until my spine pops, and roll my shoulders.

“Fine,” I tell the empty air. “If you’re not going to entertain me, I guess I’ll have to go looking.”

I pick a corridor at random—the one with the slightly worse lighting and the faint smell of ozone and burnt coffee—and start walking.

After all, a part of me is interested in learning how well-deserved this place’s reputation really is.

And Armstrong Station, I suspect, is very interested in me.

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Liked this slice of Mel’s downtime on Armstrong Station?

This is the calm before the storm. The real trouble starts when a dying stowaway shows up in Requiem’s hold and drags Mel into a fight that runs from Luna to the Jovian moons.

To follow what happens next, start with the Destin Chronicles Requiem Bundle—5 novels + 2 companion novellas, complete and ready for instant download.

👉 Begin The Destin Chronicles with the 7‑Book Requiem Bundle