ZAT!

  HISS-THUNK!

  KA-CHUNK!

  In the hangerbay of the Aquila, an object of Trigger's hatred slowly takes form, one weld and rivet at a time. From his place sitting on the Wyvern's wing with a can of electrolyte drink in hand, Trigger pensively watches Jodie and the chore bots bring an MQ-99 to life.

  The skeletal frame of the drone hangs suspended in an anti-grav cradle, which dangles from the ceiling on chains. The drone's angular silhouette is unmistakable even in this incomplete state. Jodie welds a support strut into place with the kind of confidence that only comes from practice, her torch casting harsh shadows across the hangar while the chore bots hand her components in a steady relay. The coyote's welding mask hides her expression, but Trigger can read the enthusiasm in her body language, in how her tail wags with each successful join.

  He takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips, ignoring the chalky aftertaste.

  The MQ-99's distinctive stubby wings aren't attached yet, but even without them, the thing looks mean. Belkan engineering at its finest, designed for one purpose: to hunt and destroy anything that flies. During the Lighthouse War, swarms of these often turned routine sorties into headaches, and if he was unlucky, the headache came from returning home with a missing wingman.

  'How many of these did I kill?' he wonders, watching another piece of the fuselage slot into place. 'How many killed pilots I knew? Too many.'

  Trigger's grip tightens on his drink can, denting the thin metal.

  The irony isn't lost on him. The very weapons that claimed so many Osean pilots will now fly under his command, puppeted by Nidhogg, a Belkan AI, to keep his people alive. It's a practical decision, the right decision, at least he hopes so, but that doesn't make watching one take shape any easier.

  He forces himself to relax, popping out the dent in his can with a thumb.

  The past few days have been productive, at least. True to her word, Jodie completed her upgrade schedule with time to spare, though she worked herself ragged to get it done, to Trigger's chagrin. Seventy-two hours of near-constant labor, her parts printer humming away in the background while she crawled around in the Aquila's cramped maintenance vents and rebuilt them better than before.

  The electrical refit alone was a minor miracle. Javelin-class ships with their guts torn out in favor of a hanger tend to have corners cut in their power delivery, design concessions made by the shipyard that no one bothered to fix. Jodie ripped out the worst offenders and replaced them with cleaner designs pulled from Strangereal schematics, muttering something about "proper gauge wire" and "actual shielding" as she worked.

  She hit snags, of course. Some of the tolerances required components finer than her printer could produce, forcing her to improvise with hand-filed parts and creative workarounds, but she made it work.

  'Avril and Jodie would get along well,' Trigger muses, fondly remembering his crew chief during his time in the 444th.

  He hopes Avril forgives him for missing their bi-monthly leisure flight.

  The real prize was the mainframe swap. The donated RetSoft AG4350, newer and more capable than the ship's original system, now sits in the Aquila's computational bay with Nidhogg's partition at its core. The AI had been almost… eager? Or at least it seemed impatient to be installed, if such a word could apply to a machine, and the results speak for themselves.

  Twenty percent reduction in weapons power draw, and a nearly thirty percent increase to shield capacity between Nidhogg's management and Jodie's electrical rebuild. Response times across all systems had improved by margins that had Jodie grinning ear to ear, which is a feat considering her ears are on top of her head.

  'And Nidhogg can run the whole ship now,' Trigger glances at a nearby camera that he knows the AI is watching through. 'Every sensor, every system, every door. For better or worse…'

  The VR pods in the engine room went in last, almost an afterthought compared to the more intensive work. With the electrical improvements, the old mainframe dedicated to them, and Nidhogg's efficiency gains, powering them barely registers on the reactor load.

  Then Farworth came through.

  The old badger's network of contacts proved as extensive as Trigger expected. A delivery ship had pulled into Killigan's orbital shipyard the morning of their departure, its hold containing crates of drone components that would have cost a small fortune on the open market.

  It was a gamble, showing Farworth even what little he did. Trigger had sent over a schematic stripped of anything truly sensitive, just enough to convey what he needed without revealing the Strangereal origins of the design. The old badger's eyes had gleamed with the expected merchant's curiosity, but to his credit, he asked no questions beyond the practical.

  The price was steep regardless. Strider's mission take dropped from two and a half percent to a flat two, a loss of potentially hundreds of thousands of credits depending on how the rest of the Griath run played out. Trigger, however, accepted the terms with only minor reluctance. Speed mattered more than profit in this case, and Farworth understood that kind of urgency.

  Fast he promised, and fast he delivered, even out here in the sticks.

  The unmarked cargo pod that arrived contained everything needed for four modified MQ-99 airframes. Chassis plates stamped with no manufacturer codes, RCS thrusters wrapped in plain packaging, fighter-grade laserbolters nestled in foam with their serial numbers conspicuously absent, blank memory slates, cameras and sensors with no labels, all fresh from whatever factory Farworth's contacts had access to, and ready to accept Nidhogg's programming. Whatever Jodie couldn't make herself, Farworth provided.

  For the last few days, Jodie and the chore bots have been assembling them one by one. The space required forced every fighter in the hangar to be parked uncomfortably close, wingtips nearly kissing and access panels blocked by neighboring fuselages. Mila complained about having to squeeze between her Slinky-II and Lars's Aggressor just to reach some chapstick she left in her cockpit, but the arrangement held.

  One drone per day, each completed unit pushed out through the hangar's atmospheric barrier during non-superluminal stretches of their journey. From there, Nidhogg guided them to their berths on the Aquila's belly.

  Jodie's docking solution proved far more elegant than Trigger's original design. He'd sketched out an overbuilt cradle system with mechanical clamps and redundant locking mechanisms, the kind of robust engineering that would survive anything short of a crash landing. Jodie took one hard look at it, made a face, and spent an afternoon welding four powerful electromagnets into the ventral hull instead.

  Each magnet is fitted with charging pins that mate to ports she added on the drone's dorsal surface, letting them draw power directly from the Aquila's reactor. A simple solution, lightweight and efficient, with the added benefit of easy release in combat situations.

  'She's right, of course,' Trigger admits to himself. 'My design was overengineered. Too used to having a military budget.'

  Three drones hang beneath the ship now, charging quietly as they cruise toward Griath III. This fourth will join them by this evening, assuming Jodie's pace holds. Their weapon bays remain empty for now, no missiles to load, not that they could hold much without armament displacement tech, but Trigger doubts the absence will reduce their effectiveness by much. Their laserbolters are standard fare, but the lethality of the abominable things comes from their flying, not their weapons. In fact, he-

  A warm hand settles over his.

  Trigger blinks, pulled from his thoughts. He turns his head to find Mila sitting beside him on the Wyvern's wing, her legs dangling over the edge and her tail curled around her thigh. She's dressed in some civvies, her favorite black sweater and a pair of rather short shorts.

  When did she get here? The fact that she managed to climb up beside him without him noticing is either a testament to how deep in thought he was… Or how comfortable her presence has become.

  "Are you brooding again?" the mink asks, giving him a knowing look.

  Trigger sniffs, but doesn't pull his hand from hers. "I was thinking."

  "You were brooding," her cheeks puff out in annoyance. She scoots closer, until her side is pressed to his, and her previously loose fingers wrap around his hand in a firm grip.

  Trigger rolls his eyes. "Believe whatever you wish."

  His hand, seemingly of its own accord, shifts against hers. Fingers lace together, slotting into the gaps between her smaller digits like they belong there. He doesn't notice the motion, his attention still half-fixed on the drone taking shape below.

  Mila notices, though. Her ears pin back and a flush creeps through the cream-colored fur of her cheeks, visible even in the hangar's dim lighting. She stares at their intertwined hands for a long moment, her tail going rigid behind her.

  The rhythmic sound of Jodie's work fills the silence.

  Mila clears her throat, catching Trigger's attention. She leans in closer, her voice dropping beneath the zaps of the welder.

  "You know, it's okay to have doubts," she says. "About the drones, I mean. If you end up not liking them after all this? We can just... toss them into a star or something."

  Trigger turns to look at her. "That would be an enormous waste."

  "Would it?" Mila tilts her head, her red eyes earnest. "It wouldn't be a waste if it makes you feel better."

  He shakes his head slowly. "We have very different ideas of what being wasteful entails."

  "Ugh." Now it's Mila's turn to roll her eyes. She slides off the Wyvern's wing, landing on the hangar deck with a soft thump, and tugs at his hand. "Come on. Brooding alone is definitely wasteful, so let's go do something."

  Trigger finds himself pulled along before he can mount a proper protest, half-sliding off the wing in an undignified scramble to keep his balance. Mila doesn't release his hand, instead towing him toward the bow hangar exit with the determination of a tug hauling a freighter.

  "Jodie!" she calls over her shoulder. "I'm taking Trigger!"

  The welding torch cuts off. Jodie raises her mask with a blink, her brown eyes owlish with confusion as she looks around the hangar.

  "Huh? Oh." The coyote spots them near the door. "Didn't even realize y'all were up there. Have fun, I guess?"

  The door hisses shut behind them before Trigger can respond.

  Mila leads him through the corridor, their joined hands swinging slightly between them. Trigger considers pointing out that he's capable of walking without guidance, but the words die somewhere between his brain and his mouth. It's not worth the effort, he decides.

  The rec room door slides open, letting out flashing lights and looping music with quite the tempo.

  Lars and Eddy occupy the main couch, both in civvie outfits like Mila, their attention fixed on the holoprojector that dominates the far wall. Hard-light controllers shimmer in their hands, casting faint blue glows across their faces as pixelated fighters clash on screen. On the opposite couch, Stella sits with her legs tucked beneath her, watching the match with an expression of polite disinterest.

  On screen, Lars's character, a hulking jaguar brawler with fists the size of small children, winds up for a devastating uppercut. Eddy's fighter, a lithe and quick falcon, tries to roll away but mistimes the dodge. The punch connects with a meaty crunch, and Eddy's fighter flies up into the air trailing smoke.

  Thud!

  The falcon hits the fourth wall of the screen, staring at them in pained shock, then slides down with a glassy squeak.

  "K.O.!"

  "NO!" Eddy launches to his feet, scales flushing an angry red. He dashes his controller against the floor with all the fury his wiry frame can muster, but the hard-light construct shatters into a cascade of glittering motes that dissolve before they hit the deck. "You're cheatin'! You gotta be cheatin'!"

  Lars laughs, a warm sound. "How am I cheating, hombre? You're the one who said you were a Superb Smack Bros champion."

  "I don't know how, but you are!" Eddy's finger jabs accusingly at the larger man. Behind him, his tail smacks a coffee table that Jodie ended up taking from Killigan, forcing Stella to jump up and save a mug from being turned over by the impact. "Nobody reads that many hits in a row! That's insane! Incanine! In-whatever-you-are!"

  The rottweiler shakes his head, still chuckling, then notices the new arrivals. Looking over the back of the couch, his eyes flick from Trigger to Mila, then down to their joined hands. A slow, odd grin spreads across his muzzle, but he keeps whatever comment springs to mind behind his teeth.

  "Hey, boss," Lars says instead. "Done brooding by yourself?"

  "Apparently I'm not allowed to think alone," Trigger replies dryly. "I was dragged here against my will."

  "Uh-huh." Lars's grin doesn't falter. He gestures to the empty space beside him on the couch. "Well, since you're here, why not sit down and play a few rounds? Eddy's being a sore loser, so I need a new opponent."

  "I ain't a sore loser!" Eddy squawks. "I'm a man cheated out of his rightful wins! There's a difference!"

  Trigger opens his mouth to decline, but Mila's fingers squeeze his, gentle but insistent. He glances at her, catches the forward, hopeful tilt of her ears, and sighs.

  "I'm not very good at video games," he says, the refusal morphing before he can let it fly.

  Lars's grin widens. "No better time to learn than these long stretches in space." He pats the cushion beside him. "We've got a whole week to Griath III, after all."

  Seeing no way out, Trigger finishes off the last pull of the can in his free hand and hucks the empty drink to the trashcan in the corner. "Okay…"

  Mila releases his hand with a pleased smile, and bounds off to the starboard side of the room where the kitchen is. Opening the fridge, she pulls out a red can of her own labeled 'Collie-Cola' and cracks it open before ambling back.

  Trigger, meanwhile, takes the spot Eddy vacated and pulls back his flightsuit sleeve. With a flick of his wrist, his wristcomm syncs up to the projector and a controller flashes into existence in his hands.

  Eddy, who is still standing, realizes quickly that Mila is heading right for the last open spot next to Stella, and before he can be left without a seat, he jets over and seats himself, giving Mila a smug smirk.

  "You're a real ass, Eddy…" The mink frowns, then looks at Trigger.

  …Or more specifically, his lap.

  Mila bites her lip with indecision, then schools her face. As nonchalantly as she can, she marches over, then plants herself sideways on her captain's legs.

  Trigger stiffens.

  His brain, honed by years of combat, processes the situation in a fraction of a second: Mila is now sitting on his lap, her weight settled against his thighs, her tail curling around to rest on the couch cushion beside them. She leans back to get comfortable, and overcorrects.

  Instinct takes over, and his free arm wraps around her waist before she can topple, steadying her against him with a grip that's… perhaps firmer than strictly necessary.

  'Tell her to get off,' the rational part of his mind insists. 'This is too much to be appropriate. Tell her to take a chair from the kitchen if she wants a seat.'

  But his mouth doesn't cooperate. The words tangle somewhere in his throat, and by the time he might have forced them out, the moment has passed. Mila settles against him with a contented little wiggle, and Trigger resigns himself to his fate.

  He takes hold of his controller with his free hand, and his other arm loops around her waist to take the other side, which has the effect of pulling the mink even closer.

  He'll just... have to deal with it.

  Across the room, Stella's purple fur darkens with a flush. She suddenly finds the far wall very interesting, her violet eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the holoprojector.

  Lars looks like a man trying very hard not to laugh. His grin stretches so wide it must be painful, and his shoulders shake with suppressed mirth.

  Eddy, strangely, barely reacts at all. He just crosses his arms and settles in to watch the projector.

  "So," Trigger says, doing his level best to ignore the warmth pressed against him. A soft curve pushes against his cheek as Mila shifts, and he very deliberately does not think about what part of her anatomy that might be. "How do I play this?"

  Lars, still grinning, walks him through the basics. Movement, attacks, blocking, special moves. The roster screen displays dozens of fighters, each one apparently a reference to something Trigger doesn't recognize. A blue porcupine, a pink fuzzball, a mustachioed electrician, characters that clearly mean something to everyone else in the room but draw only blank confusion from him.

  He selects a middleweight swordsman at random, a blue-haired dog boy with an impractically large blade, and the match begins.

  The first round is a massacre. Lars's jaguar brawler pummels Trigger's swordsman into the ground with brutal efficiency, reading every attack and punishing every mistake.

  The second round goes slightly better. Trigger's stock of three lives are torn though anyway.

  By the third match, something clicks. His fingers start moving faster, reflexes kicking in as his brain maps the controller inputs to muscle memory. He's still losing, but now Lars actually has to work for it, his brow furrowing in concentration as Trigger's swordsman weaves through attacks that should have connected. Then with a nasty horizontal swing, Lars' fighter is launched off the screen, and Trigger nets his first win.

  Honestly? It's more fun than he expected.

  "Ay, not bad," Lars smiles, taking a victory in their fifth bout with only one life left. "Here I thought I was gonna have to spank Eddy until he manned up and learned to do something other than roll."

  "Up yours, rottie!"

  Trigger grunts in acknowledgment, already queuing up the next match.

  As they play, a familiar scent fills his nose. Vanilla, warm and sweet, the same smell that's been clinging to his clothes for the past week. He'd assumed it was new detergent, but with Mila pressed so close, the source becomes obvious.

  'She must have bought it,' he concludes. 'That's why my clothes smell like her.'

  Without conscious thought, he leans a little further into the mink, chasing that pleasant warmth. On his lap, Mila's ears perk up, and a grin spreads across her face that he completely fails to notice.

  Several matches pass in a comfortable rhythm. Trigger wins a few, loses a few more, and finds himself not minding either outcome as much as he expected. The weight against him has stopped feeling intrusive and started feeling almost natural.

  Then Stella clears her throat.

  "Um, Mila?" The skunk has been fidgeting for the past ten minutes, her hand repeatedly drifting to the back of her neck. "Could I trouble you to help with something?"

  Mila twists to look at her. "Hm? What's up?"

  "My medication cartridge." Stella's fingers brush the metallic port jutting from her neck fur. "I don't believe it's seated correctly. It's been pinching all day, and I can't see it properly myself."

  "Oh, sure!" Mila agrees, then hesitates. She glances down at Trigger, at the arm still wrapped around her waist, and something like reluctance flickers across her face.

  She stands anyway, smoothing down her sweater. "Be right back," she tells Trigger, giving his shoulder a squeeze before following Stella toward the corridor. "Don't let Lars beat you too badly while I'm gone!"

  The door hisses shut behind them.

  The rec room feels oddly quiet without Mila's presence, despite the game music still pulsing from the holoprojector. Trigger becomes acutely aware of the empty space on his lap, the lingering warmth where she'd been sitting, the fading scent in the air.

  Lars lands a combo on screen, but Trigger barely notices his character getting juggled into oblivion.

  "Okay, boss. It was funny at first, but this is starting to get loco."

  Trigger glances over. Lars is giving him a sidelong look, his expression somewhere between amused and incredulous.

  "You can't be that dense, right?"

  A frown flashes across Trigger's face. "I'm not certain I know what you mean?"

  "Dense?" Eddy parrots, blinking in confusion.

  The gecko is ignored for now. Lars leans towards Trigger, an elbow on his knee and an eyebrow raised. "C'mon, Trigger. You know what I mean," the dog begins. "The touchy-feelies, the scent marking, how your quarters are her new favorite hangout spot? Mila's screaming that she likes you, and yes, I mean in that way."

  "Friendliness does not equate to romantic interest," Trigger shoots back near instantly. "Besides, relationships between superiors and subordinates are inappropriate." Then he fully catches up with Lars' words and finds himself lost. "Scent marking? I don't follow?"

  Lars' jaw drops. "You're serious?"

  "Whoa whoa WHOA HOLD UP!" Eddy jumps to his feet yet again, his expression mirroring Lars'. "You mean you ain't porking minky?" the gecko asks, gobsmacked. "Fuckin'... Had me fooled."

  "We are not in a relationship," Trigger states, his tone flat. "As I said, such a thing would be inappropriate."

  Lars opens his mouth to respond, but Eddy beats him to it.

  "Inappropriate?! Buddy, pal, amigo, compadre, whatever the hell humans call each other," the gecko sputters, his arms windmilling with each word, "she was just sittin' on your lap! In front of everyone! Like it was nothin'! And you had your arm around her like she was gonna float away! And she was all cuddled up against you like a... like a... I dunno, like somethin' that cuddles a lot! And you're tellin' me that ain't-"

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  "Eddy." Lars's voice cuts through the tirade like a knife. "Do you have anything constructive to add here?"

  The gecko's mouth snaps shut. He looks between Lars and Trigger, his tail twitching with nervous energy.

  "...No?"

  "Then maybe you should scram."

  Eddy throws his hands up. "Fine! Fine. I know when I ain't wanted." He turns toward the door, then pauses, one claw raised. "But hey, quick question bossman. If you and Mila really ain't a thing, does that mean she's fair game? 'Cause I gotta say, she's got a nice-"

  Trigger's head turns, eyes narrowed in a scowl that could curdle milk.

  Eddy is gone so fast it's as if he teleported.

  The silence that follows is broken only by the cheerful menu music of the video game still waiting to be played on the holo.

  Lars lets out a low whistle. "Ain't a thing, huh?"

  "There is nothing to discuss." Trigger turns back to the holoprojector, though his eyes don't quite focus on the screen. "Mila is friendly. That's her nature. It doesn't indicate romantic interest."

  "Boss." Lars sets his controller aside and shifts to face Trigger properly. "Did you really not know?"

  "There's nothing to know. I've seen no evidence of-"

  "The scent marking," Lars interrupts. "You seriously haven't noticed the..." He trails off, brow furrowing. Then his eyes widen slightly, and he snaps his fingers. "Wait. Hold up. Do humans do scent marking? Like, at all? For dating or property or… I dunno, anything?"

  Trigger's frown deepens. He shakes his head slowly. "I have no idea what that even entails."

  "Oh." Lars blinks. "Oh." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking awkward. "Okay, uh. So. How do I explain this?"

  He takes a breath.

  "When a Cornerian is, y'know, interested in someone, one of the ways they show it is by rubbing their scent on that person's stuff. Clothes, blankets, personal items. It's... it's a pretty bold move, actually. Like planting a flag that says 'I want this person' for anyone with a working nose to smell."

  Lars gestures vaguely at Trigger's flightsuit.

  "And Mila? She's been making it very obvious to everyone. For weeks now."

  Trigger stares at him.

  Then, slowly, he pinches a fold of his flightsuit and brings it to his nose.

  Vanilla. Warm and sweet. The same scent that's been on his clothes, his sheets, his towels. The scent he'd attributed to new detergent, or some quirk of the ship's laundry system.

  That's not detergent.

  His brain grinds to a complete halt. He sits there, flightsuit pinched between his fingers, staring at nothing while his thoughts try and fail to reorganize themselves into something coherent.

  "Trigger? You okay there, boss?"

  Lars takes the remote on the table and pressed up on the holoprojector's volume control, raising the game music loud enough to mask their conversation.

  "Look," the rottweiler continues, his voice gentler now. "I gotta ask. Do you feel the same way about her? About Mila?"

  The question finally snaps Trigger out of his stupor.

  "Relationships between superiors and subordinates are inappropriate," he recites, the words coming out automatic, reflexive. "So it doesn't matter."

  Lars lets the silence stretch.

  Trigger can see the gears turning behind the rottweiler's eyes, a quiet, careful consideration. Oh, Trigger knows that Lars is more perceptive than his appearance would lead one to think, but now he wonders if even he underestimated the bruiser of a dog.

  After a moment, the rottweiler nods slowly to himself.

  "Okay. Let's put the whole 'it is inappropriate' thing on the sideline for now," Lars says, his voice low but steady. "Forget rank. Forget regs. Forget all of that for just a second." He meets Trigger's gaze directly. "Do you feel the same way about Mila? Yes or no. No deflections this time."

  Trigger opens his mouth, ready to repeat the line about protocol, about propriety, about all the sensible reasons why this conversation shouldn't be happening. But Lars' eyes hold him in place, patient and unwavering.

  Does he enjoy Mila's company? That much is undeniable. When Mila is nearby, something in his chest loosens, and the weight he carries feels a fraction lighter. Smiles come easier around her, small ones that slip past his guard before he can stop them. The cheer and boundless energy that would grate on him from anyone else is somehow welcome when it comes from her.

  And never, not once, has she looked at him the way others do. Not with the wariness of someone regarding a bomb, nor with the distance people keep from things too sharp to touch. She looks at him like he's just... him. Someone worth knowing. Someone worth sitting next to on a fighter's wing, talking about nothing in particular until the hours slip away.

  Does he like her? Without question. She might be his closest friend. No, she is his closest friend, across two worlds and however many light-years separate him from Strangereal.

  He knows all about Hjagard and her family from listening to her ramble. The industrial sprawl, the bitter winters, the way the factories glow orange against the snow at night. He can recite the transformation phrases of Moonbeam Mink's heroine from memory, despite caring nothing for the show itself, simply because he watched two seasons of it with Mila curled against his side.

  The little Javelin-class model they built together sits in a glass case in his quarters. The paint is lumpy in places, and one of the engine nacelles lists slightly to port, both mistakes made by Mila's eager but clumsy hands. He could have fixed them. He didn't. The imperfections make it theirs, and some mornings he wakes early just to look at it, not admiring the model itself, but the memory of making it. The dramatic crocodile tears when she got primer on her sweater, the way her tongue poked out when she concentrated, the warmth of her shoulder pressed against his as they worked.

  But...

  Does that mean he can return her feelings? Is what he feels deep enough to count as... that?

  A more troubling question surfaces from somewhere he'd rather not examine.

  Is he even capable of those kinds of emotions? Can he actually return what she wishes to give?

  Trigger realizes he's been silent for a full minute.

  Lars hasn't moved, nor spoken. His brown eyes remain locked to Trigger's darker orbs, steady as can be.

  "I don't know," Trigger finally admits, the words rough in his throat. He shakes his head slowly, breaking eye contact. "I've never been in a relationship before. Seemed confusing and frustrating, so I never wanted one. Couldn't have one after the war, either. Not when I turned from a person to a symbol." His hands rest on his knees, his limbs thrumming with nervous, restless energy. "This is... uncharted territory."

  Lars reaches over and pats Trigger on the shoulder.

  "Hey. That's fine," he says, his tone easy. "There ain't anything wrong with being unsure. It's complicated stuff, yeah?"

  He withdraws his hand, settling back into the couch.

  "Just... think about it seriously, alright? Take the time you need, figure out what you actually feel." His expression sobers slightly. "But don't leave her hanging forever, either. There's a point where being indecisive stops being uncertainty and starts being cruel. Leading someone on, even if you don't mean to, hurts worse than a clean rejection."

  The Osean ace absorbs the words, turning them over in his mind. Frowning, he shakes his head.

  "Even setting aside my own feelings, the relationship itself would still be-"

  "Inappropriate, yeah, you've said." Lars holds up a hand to halt him. "Boss, you're looking at this too rigidly. You gotta consider the context."

  He shifts, angling himself toward Trigger more fully.

  "Sure, every military in the galaxy has rules against officers fraternizing with their soldiers. I get it. That rule exists because it's ripe for abuse, power imbalances and favoritism and all that ugly shit. It's there for good reason." Lars ticks off a finger. "But one, that rule probably wouldn't need to exist if every officer had the scruples not to abuse their position in the first place."

  A second finger joins the first.

  "And two? Strider Squadron ain't part of any formal military. We're mercs. Spacers. The regs you got drilled into your head back on Strangereal don't apply out here."

  Lars lowers his hand, his gaze steady.

  "Besides, you've already proven yourself to be a good captain. Fair. You don't play favorites, you don't throw your weight around, and I know you'd cut off your own arm before you'd abuse your place as captain." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his muzzle. "Least of all for Mila."

  Trigger wants to protest. The words are right there, lined up and ready to deploy, but Lars's logic is difficult to refute, and the counterarguments feel hollow even before he can voice them.

  "We've only known each other for two months," he says, even if he knows it's a weak pivot. "Slightly more. Isn't that too short a time for... this?"

  Lars shakes his head without hesitation.

  "Maybe two months would feel a little quick in a normal setting, where two people meet up for dates once a week, see each other for a few hours, then go back to their separate lives." He gestures vaguely at the walls around them, at the ship carrying them through the void. "But for a pair of spacers living together every single day? Sharing meals, sharing danger, watching each other's backs?"

  His voice drops lower, taking a tone somehow even more serious.

  "Spacers on the frontier live fast, Trigger. That includes loving fast. Out here, who knows if you'll see the sunrise tomorrow? I've seen what happens when people waste time on maybes and what-ifs."

  The words settle over Trigger like a heavy blanket.

  He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the holoprojector without really seeing it. The game's menu music loops endlessly in the background, cheerful and oblivious.

  Finally, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  "You've given me much to think about," he says. "Thank you, Lars. For the talk."

  The serious air around Lars evaporates, replaced by his usual easy grin. "No prob, boss. That's what wingmen are for, ay?"

  He scoops up his controller and waggles it invitingly. "Now c'mon. I believe I was in the middle of kicking your ass."

  Trigger snorts, something almost like a laugh, and retrieves his own controller. They fall back into the rhythm of the game, trading blows on screen as if the last few minutes hadn't happened.

  The door hisses open.

  Mila walks in with Stella trailing behind her, the skunk looking more at ease than before. Mila's eyes sweep the room, find Trigger, and her face lights up.

  Trigger sees her coming.

  For a moment, his hands still on the controller. Lars' words echo in his head, tangling with his own jumbled thoughts. Then, before he can second-guess himself, he shifts his grip and opens his arms.

  Mila's ears shoot straight up. Her tail poofs out behind her, and the delighted grin that spreads across her face could power a small city. She crosses the room in three quick bounds and reclaims her spot on his lap, settling against him with a happy little wiggle.

  His arms close around her waist. She leans back into his chest, warm and soft and smelling of vanilla.

  On screen, Lars's brawler lands a devastating combo, but Trigger's hands keep moving on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him through the match, and one eye obscured by a curtain of blonde hair.

  'Can I actually do this?' he wonders, hyper-aware of every point of contact between them. 'Do I even know how?'

  He watches Mila's reflection in the polished surface of the coffee table, sees the way she's practically glowing with contentment, and something in his chest twists.

  'Do I have the nerve to talk to her about all of this?' He sighs. 'I think I'd rather stare down Hugin and Munin again.'

  The bridge of the Aquila hums quietly.

  Trigger stands behind Jodie's station, arms crossed, watching the console's main display. Beside him, Eli stands in an inverse posture, his arms behind his back, and his cybernetic eye whirring softly as it focuses on the feed.

  Four camera windows tile across the screen, each one showing a slightly different angle of open space. In the distance, the Haul-o-Rex lumbers along on its designated course, but the real show is much closer. Four angular shapes dance through the void alongside the Aquila, their movements unnaturally sharp.

  The MQ-99s are all complete.

  Jodie's fingers tap across her console, cycling through system readouts as the drones perform their calibration maneuvers. On screen, the lead drone banks hard to starboard, its RCS thrusters firing in a staccato burst that would look more at home on a missile than a fighter. The other three follow in perfect formation, matching the turn with the expected robotic sync.

  As Trigger expected, the drones are just as agile in vacuum as they are in atmosphere. The RCS thrusters Farworth sourced are rated for fighters three times the MQ-99's mass, and without shield generators, life support systems, or a pilot to weigh them down, the little craft zip and juke with an almost obscene nimbleness. The turns they pull would burn out most inertial dampeners in minutes.

  'And there's no one inside to get turned to paste,' Trigger thinks.

  On screen, the drones snap into a new formation, then scatter, then reform. Nidhogg runs them through another battery of maneuvers, each one more complex than the last.

  "Alright!" Jodie claps her hands together, tail wagging. "Looks like all four birds are fully calibrated. Tactical datalinks are showing green across the board, reaction times are nominal, and the charging systems are holding steady." She spins her chair to face Trigger with a grin. "They're ready for action, captain!"

  Trigger nods.

  His mind, however, is elsewhere.

  Last night's conversation with Lars plays on an endless loop behind his eyes. The revelation, the questions, the uncomfortable truths he'd been forced to confront. Sleep had eluded him for hours, his brain buzzing with too many thoughts to quiet, and by the time exhaustion finally dragged him under, it felt like only minutes before morning came.

  He woke to the same cavalcade of thoughts, except now they'd crystallized into something harder to ignore. The phantom warmth of a body pressed to his. Yellow fur and red eyes and that damned vanilla scent that clings to everything he owns.

  The revelation of Mila's attraction has recontextualized every interaction they've ever had. Every smile, every touch, every time she found an excuse to be near him. The memories replay incessantly, and with each repetition, the pattern becomes more obvious.

  Especially the moments where he was the one to initiate contact without even thinking.

  The more he ponders, the plainer his own feelings become, and the plainer they become, the more the dread mounts.

  Dread.

  He, a man who sent thousands of enemy pilots to their maker and stared death in the eye more times than he can count, is dreading a simple conversation with a woman.

  Why? He's not even certain. Fear of rejection? Fear of acceptance? Fear that he'll somehow break something precious through sheer incompetence?

  'How pathetic,' he thinks bitterly.

  "Trigger?"

  He blinks.

  Jodie is staring at him, one eyebrow raised and her ears canted forward with concern. Her mouth is set in the particular shape of someone who has just repeated themselves.

  "Sorry." Trigger shakes his head slightly, dispelling the fog. "I missed that. What were you saying?"

  The coyote's eyes narrow, studying his face. "You sleep okay last night? You look a little rough around the edges."

  Trigger considers a deflection for a moment, but deep down he knows he's had.

  "I had a long night," he admits.

  Eli makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a scoff. "After this, go turn in early," the eagle says, his tone brooking no argument. "I'll keep an eye on things and wake you if anything comes up."

  'For all his prickliness, Eli takes his role as XO seriously.'

  "Thank you, Eli," Trigger agrees without protest.

  Eli just waves him off.

  Trigger then turns back to Jodie. "Go ahead. You were saying?"

  The Aquila's crew chief spins back to her console, apparently satisfied that her captain isn't about to keel over. "I was saying that all the tests I could think of are done. The drones are calibrated, linked, and ready to go." She hovers a finger over a control. "Unless you can think of anything else, I'll bring 'em back in and redock."

  "Nothing for now. Bring them in."

  Jodie taps the command.

  Through the viewscreen, the four drones break from their formation and arc back toward the Aquila. They approach the ventral hull in a staggered line, each one aligning with its designated docking point carefully.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Four dull impacts reverberate through the deck plating as the electromagnets engage, pulling each drone flush against the hull. The charging indicators on Jodie's console flicker from amber to green, one after another.

  "Docked and charging," Jodie announces, grinning. "All systems nominal. Not bad for a first test, eh?"

  "We'll see how they perform under fire," Eli is quick to rain on her parade.

  Trigger leaves the bridge without fanfare, trading a nod with Eli as he passes.

  The walk to his quarters is short, but it feels longer than usual. His footsteps echo in the corridor, and the familiar hum of the ship's systems does nothing to quiet his thoughts.

  The door to his quarters slides open, then shuts behind him. He stands there for a moment, taking in the small space that's become something like a home. The neatly made bed. The desk with its terminal and scattered notes. The glass case on the shelf, where a slightly lopsided Javelin-class model sits in pride of place.

  He crosses to the bed and sits heavily, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

  The uncertainty gnaws at him, and the gnawing breeds frustration. He's not used to this. Problems, he can solve. Enemies, he can shoot down. But this? This murky tangle of feelings and implications and questions without clean answers?

  He doesn't know where to begin. Where does anyone?

  A tiny part of him, he now realizes, had wondered before yesterday. Brief flickers of suspicion when Mila pressed too close, lingered too long, smiled at him in ways that seemed to carry extra weight, but those suspicions were always dismissed before they could take root.

  'She's just friendly,' he'd told himself. 'That's how she is with everyone.'

  And beneath that, an uglier thought: 'I'm not the kind of person anyone would genuinely want.'

  Not without the feats. Not without the skills. Not without the resources he brings to the table. Strip away the ace pilot, the war hero, the captain with a ship and a crew, and what's left?

  Just… Trigger.

  Every outside example he's ever seen of relationships built on what someone has rather than who they are has been distasteful. Transactions dressed up as affection. Mutual use masquerading as love.

  The thought of Mila looking at him that way, wanting him for what he can provide rather than... whatever it is she actually sees...

  It made avoidance easier. Safer. If he never acknowledged the possibility, he never had to confront the question of whether her interest was genuine.

  Honestly, part of him wishes Lars had just left him ignorant. The nameless want was easier to bear precisely because it had no name. A vague warmth with no frame of reference, no expectations, no risk of disappointment. He could have carried it indefinitely, content in not knowing, and just enjoying it when it cropped up.

  Trigger stares at the floor for a long moment, watching a mote of dust drift in the recycled air.

  'Enough of this.' He physically shakes himself, then looks at the clock on his terminal, noting he's been fretting for… over two hours! 'Something as silly as angst doesn't have a place here, not when I need a clear head for Strider Squadron.'

  Trigger raises his wristcomm, and his thumb hovers over the interface for just a moment before he commits.

  "Nidhogg."

  The AI's response is immediate, its voice filtering through the small speaker. "Standing by."

  "Send Mila to my quarters, please."

  A pause.

  "Confirmed. Pilot Minks has been notified. She is en route. Estimated arrival: one minute."

  "Thank you," he mutters.

  Trigger lowers his arm and straightens his posture, waiting. In less than a minute, he'll know if what he's about to do will be a mistake or not.

  His heart beats steady in his chest, the same reliable rhythm that's carried him through dogfights, suicide missions, and what was nearly the end of the world.

  It should be beating a mile a minute, like it's trying to leap out of his chest, but it's not. An oddity from Trigger the pilot. Or, another oddity, that is. The bout of introspection over the last day is almost as bad as the situation he's barreling towards.

  Two quick knocks sound on his door, and Trigger steels himself.

  At least, he thinks, he gets a say in this life-altering decision.

  'How novel…'