Yes, well, that whole ‘flying and shooting’ bit was something of a recent development. If he hadn’t trusted his own handiwork or was forced to use a different vessel, Dustin risked a good chance of passing out at the wheel. Or at least puking himself senseless, which he ended up doing anyways.

The short, scruffy man suddenly straightened—as well as that crutch and shattered right side would allow him to anyways—and beamed with arrogance and endless pride. There was a whole speech waiting for Trudy if she wanted it (and she probably didn’t), set up like the ramblings of a father describing a hugely successful child.

“From the blueprints up. I even synthesized the metal used for the hull.”

Modesty, thy name is not Dustin.