Chương 27: Chapter 25

"You're so full of shit, gecko." Eddy raises his hands off the table in exasperation, nearly knocking over the tray of a passing waitress.

"No I ain't!" he retorts, forced to speak loud to be heard over the twangy music of the sports bar.

"I'm tryin' to be a swell pal and make everyone some money, and you gotta point fingers and mean mug me! What did I do to you?" Before Eli can answer, Eddy turns to Trigger, who has been silently watching the back and forth between sips of his beer.

"What about you, Trigger? You're a shrewd guy, good instincts and good luck and all that, you wanna turn ten Gs into thirty? And I'm talking cold, hard moolah Gs, not the flying kind." Trigger takes his time to answer, eyeballing a carving in the booth table that reads Mort x Janey 4 ever.

"I'm not one for sports betting. Or any betting at all, really," he answers plainly, turning his attention to one of the screens on the wall. The player in the center of the camera focus, a lanky antelope in a sweat-stained blue jersey, leaps way high into the air, soaring ten meters up easily. His hoofed leg swings out, his wrapped shin striking a white ball with crater decals that nearly zooms by, whipping it back to the other side of the field amid an uproar from the crowd.

A broad ox in a red and grey jersey, guarding a circular hoop, jumps several meters straight up to intercept, but it's too little, too late, as the ball grazes his fingers and slips by into the net. The entire bar erupts into boos as a buzzer sounds over the holoscreen. At the bottom of the feed, the score counter ticks over, and the visiting team gets their first goal over the Libret team. CORNERIAN COMETS - 1 | 3 - SILVER CITY STRIKERS Many of the sports back on Strangereal have an analog here, he's found.

Baseball, football, soccer (also called football in some places), and many others exist largely as he remembered them, but the Cornerian space age gave rise to the aptly named 'Moonball', a mish-mash of rugby and soccer in microgravity which has cemented itself as the favorite sport of spacers everywhere. Eddy leans forward, undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm.

"Listen, listen, listen," he says, tapping the table with each word. Each time he does, his sticky gecko finger peels off with a sound like tape being pulled up.

"The Strikers look good on paper, sure, but their whole offense runs through Darvey Holms. Big guy tore his ACL last month, out for the season. Without him, they got nothin'." He jabs a finger at the holoscreen, where the antelope who just scored is loping back to midfield in wide strides.

"The Comets know it, too. See how they're runnin' their B-string? They're wearin' down the Strikers' core so the A-team can mop up in the second half. It's strategy, boys." He spreads his hands wide, grinning.

"Easy money. Thirty large for the low, low price of ten. Whaddya say, big guy?" He turns to Lars, who sits hunched at the end of the booth with his elbows on the table and his chin propped on one massive fist. Blue and white paint streaks his muzzle in the Comets' colors, but the expression beneath it is anything but celebratory. Lars lets out a heavy breath through his nose.

"No way the Comets take this one, Eddy. This is the weakest roster they've had in years." He gestures at the screen with his free hand, where a Comets defender is getting bodied off the ball by a Striker half his size.

"And the Strikers? Their defense is a wall. Holms or no Holms, they don't need to score if they never let anything through." He shakes his head slowly, the motion carrying genuine disappointment.

"I want them to win more than anyone at this table, but I'm not throwing credits down a hole." Eli snorts into his glass.

"The Comets would've gotten washed regardless," he mutters, loud enough to carry.

"They've been shit all season." Lars turns his head, and for once, the easy-going rottweiler actually glares at the eagle. It's a brief thing, there and gone, but Trigger catches it. Eli either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He sets his drink down with a soft clink and fiddles with his wristcomm, pulling open a little rubber flap on the side and reaching a talon in. Click Trigger's own comm vibrates against his wrist. He glances down. [SIGNAL LOST - LOCAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED] Eddy's pocket chirps.

Lars's wrist buzzes. Both of them check their devices with varying degrees of confusion, but Trigger just looks back up at Eli, who meets his gaze with a flat, unblinking stare.

"Trigger." Eli keeps his voice low, pitched just above the bar's ambient noise.

"Giving the AI more autonomy than it already has. Was that a good idea?"

'A localized jammer,' Trigger realizes. Compact enough to fit in a wristcomm, strong enough to block their signals in a small radius.

'Eli came prepared for this conversation.' He takes a slow sip of his beer, letting the question sit for a moment.

"Mila made a convincing argument," he says finally.

"She thought Nidhogg deserved some freedom. I agreed." Eddy's hand comes up in a loose curl, and he flicks his wrist with a sharp wa-kssshh! sound effect from his mouth. Trigger turns his head just enough to fix the gecko with a look. Eddy freezes. Then, very slowly, he reverses the motion, curling his fingers back in and lowering his hand to the table. His eyes drift to the holoscreen with exaggerated interest.

"Makes sense to me," Lars says, drawing attention back to himself. The big rottweiler shifts in his seat, the booth creaking under his weight.

"Nidhogg isn't some regular AI, Eli. You've heard him talk. You've seen how he acts." He taps a claw against the table, thoughtful.

"If he can feel things, if he's alive in some way... pushing him away would be a mistake. You don't make enemies out of people who watch your back." Trigger nods slowly, setting his glass down.

"Lars has more or less summed up my thoughts," he says.

"So long as Nidhogg holds to the parameters I set and keeps watch in the background, allowing him some leisure time has few downsides. The arrangement costs us nothing and may buy us goodwill with an asset we rely on daily." Eli's beak clicks, a sharp sound of disapproval.

"And what happens when the AI decides leisure time isn't enough? When it starts demanding more?"

"If that happens, then we cross that bridge when we get there," The man replies, draining the last of his glass and setting it aside.

"Nidhogg has had ample opportunity to ask and push boundaries, but didn't. I don't trust him, per se, but neither will I spend time better suited elsewhere worrying. Not until signs show, at least," he trails off, eyes gravitating to the short, short skirt of a weasel girl sauntering by the table. Ugh. Mila has really opened up a new world of distractions to him. Eli's feathers ruffle just slightly at the edges of his collar. The eagle clearly wants to push further, but sighs and stops himself short.

"Fine, but if this turns into a'I told you so' situation, it was your banana-brained idea." Lars clears his throat, drawing attention back his way.

"I don't think we gotta worry about that for a while, anyway." He picks up his drink, swirling the amber liquid.

"Overheard Jodie talking to herself while she was runnin' diagnostics the other day. Sounds like Niddy is giving his new freedom a lot of thought." He taps the side of his head with one thick finger.

"His mainframe's been running hot for days, and all the cooling systems check out fine. She figures he's just... processing." The rottweiler grins, showing a flash of teeth.

"Poor guy's even less social and more in his own head than you, capitán." Trigger regards Lars with a flat expression.

"My apologies for not finding loud music and the company of drunks to be my preferred evening activity." Lars barks out a laugh, his earlier gloom over the Comets' performance momentarily forgotten. Eddy snickers into his fist, his shoulders shaking. Eli just rolls his eye and reaches for his wristcomm. A few taps later, Trigger feels his own device vibrate as the connection restores. [SIGNAL RESTORED]"Moving on," Eli says, his tone shifting back to business.

"The interviews with the remaining legal consultants are finished. Did you look over the summary I sent?"

"The other night," Trigger confirms. He'd gone through the files after Mila fell asleep, scrolling through dossiers and interview notes in the dim glow of his wristcomm.

"There were a few standouts. Reginald Vance, the older hound. Thirty years of practice, solid portfolio, knows his way around Libret civil and criminal courts."

"But?" Eli prompts.

"Too much of a bleeding heart. His pro-bono record is admirable, but half his cases show a pattern of folding when the moral pressure mounts." Trigger shakes his head.

"We need someone who can compartmentalize and deal with incidents in the gray area. He can't." Eli grunts in agreement.

"And the ferret? Sato?"

"Seemed like a strong fit on paper. Sharp, aggressive, good instincts for contract law." Trigger pauses, recalling the catch that soured him on the candidate.

"But he wanted to bring his personal assistant along and refused to split his pay with them. An unnecessary expenditure."

"So Weissfeld," Eli says. It isn't a question.

"Weissfeld," Trigger confirms.

"She's the first choice. We should contact her today and make the offer official." He glances at the holoscreen, where the Comets are struggling to maintain possession near their own goal.

"We'll be searching for work that takes us toward LOSA space soon. Best to have our legal counsel squared away before we're in transit to the most bureaucratic territory outside the core." They stay long enough to watch the final minutes tick down. The Comets rally in the second half, just as Eddy predicted. Their A-string rotates in fresh and hungry, and the momentum shifts so dramatically that even Eli leans forward in his seat. The visiting team capitalizes with two rapid goals that bring the game to a tie.

For a few glorious minutes, Lars is on his feet with the other handful of Comet fans, bellowing out cheers in a mix of Common and his native Sapinish-like tongue. Then the Strikers' defense locks down, and the stalemate is broken by a decisive goal. The final buzzer sounds with the score frozen at 3-4 for the Strikers. Close, agonizingly close, but not close enough. The bar erupts anyway, though not for the reasons Lars would have liked.

The Silver City Strikers are a Libret-native team, and their victory secures a spot in the upcoming Championship. Strangers embrace, drinks slosh, and somewhere near the back, a group starts up a chant that spreads through the crowd like wildfire." STRI-KERS! STRI-KERS! STRI-KERS! STRI-KERS!" Despite the impressive volume, Eddy's anguished cry when his ten-thousand cred bet goes up in smoke almost pierces through, second only to Eli's open cackling. Lars' reaction is much more subdued.

He slumps back into the booth, his painted face the picture of defeat. The walk back to the docks, which requires pulling Eddy's buzzed, weepy self along, takes them through a thick security presence. Station officers in reflective vests direct foot traffic away from the bar district's main arteries, and more than a few revelers are being helped, dragged, or outright carried toward what Trigger assumes is a drunk tank somewhere in the station's lower levels.

One enthusiastic lizard man in a Strikers jersey has to be physically restrained from climbing a lamp post.

'Mila would have fit right in,' Trigger thinks, and the thought brings the faintest hint of a smile to his face.

"My money…" Eddy's wet eyes are on the floor as Lars pulls him along. His scaled tail rasps on uneven bits of the floor as it trails limply.

"Ten thousand creds… Fuckin' gone…"

"Get over it," Eli grunts, thoroughly over Eddy's misery by the ten minute mark. He takes a fist of Eddy's shirt and yanks him on as the tram back to the docks pulls up.

"You were told not to spend your money on dumb bullshit, and you did it anyway." The tram ride is quiet, the car mostly empty save for a few tired dockworkers heading home after a late shift. Eddy fiddles with his comm morosely. Lars stares out the window at the passing station infrastructure, his expression distant. Eli sits with his arms crossed, eye half-lidded, either dozing or thinking. They disembark at the platform nearest the Aquila's berth and make the short walk to the ship.

Trigger's gaze catches on the front ramp door as they approach, noting the fresh welds where the bounty hunters' breaching charge had blown the hinges. Jodie's work, clean and solid. In time, the new metal will have oxidized enough to match the rest of the hull, and no one will be able to tell the difference. The interior of the Aquila is dim and quiet, the overhead lights dialed down to their nighttime setting. Trigger leads the way up from the hangar, through the corridor, and into the rec room.

Inside, the girls have claimed the room to themselves. Mila is curled up at one end in an oversized Moonbeam Mink shirt that Trigger is certain she bought for him then promptly stole, her legs tucked beneath her and her tail draped over the armrest. Jodie occupies the middle cushion in a faded tank top and shorts, crunching on pretzels from a bowl in her lap that Mila occasionally reaches into.

Stella sits at the far end, more upright than the other two but no less comfortable in a cut-off shirt and sweatpants, her short white hair a bit mussed. On the holoprojector, a man in a cheap rubber monster suit that his muzzle sticks out of waves his clawed hands, menacing a screaming actress whose hair won't move despite the supposed gale-force winds in the background.

"Comets lose?" Jodie boredly asks without looking away from the screen, sounding like she already knows how it went down. Lars tugs at both of his ears with a groan far more emotional than physical.

"Three to four," he mutters, already shuffling toward the lavatory.

"Broken dreams, crumby two-credit face paint… It's going to take forever to get off..."

"Knew they weren't gonna make it past SCS's defence," Jodie idly comments, taking her beer can from the coffee table and downing the last gulp. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Lalala I can't hear my unsupportive team!" Lars claps his large hands over his ears.

"They definitely don't wanna make me drown myself in the sink!"

"Don't clog the drain!" Mila calls after him before the rottweiler disappears around the corner. Trigger steps further into the room, drawing the attention of the three women. Mila's ears perk up at his approach, and she shifts to make room on the couch, but he remains standing for now.

"We've come to a final decision on the legal consultant," he says.

"Catrina Weissfeld. I expect her to accept the position when we make the offer." He pauses, letting the words land.

"When she arrives, please be presentable. And keep up the facade for the first few days, at least."

"Don't want her running for the hills screaming before the ink dries?" Mila jokes, craning her head back to look at him upside down over the couch headrest. But then Stella's expression shifts, a frown creasing her brow.

"The snow leopard?" she asks.

"The one Eli met at the cafe down by the tram station?" Trigger glances at Eli, then back to Stella.

"That's right. Why do you ask?" The skunk doesn't answer immediately. Her purple eyes drift to some middle distance, and her fingers curl against the cushion beneath her. When she speaks, each word is careful.

"After much training attempting to develop psionic empathy, I've learned to perceive... disturbances in the noosphere." She gestures vaguely, searching for the right words.

"Purely passive, mind you," she is quick to add.

"Some individuals have a certain 'presence' to them. There's no emotion behind it, nothing I can read, just a tiny pressure. Like knowing someone is in the room without seeing them." She looks up at Trigger, then at Eli.

"You two, I can feel from a distance. Through walls, even. Lars as well, erm..." She hesitates, her tail curling tighter around her legs.

"To a similar extent."

'Interesting,' Trigger thinks, filing away the tidbit as well as the little hiccup before her addendum.

'Perhaps I should sit down and talk with Stella sometime. How much of my reading into psychics is fact or fiction?'

"When Eli went to meet Weissfeld," Stella continues, "I was here on the ship. It was right at the edge of my range, but..." She meets Trigger's eyes.

"I swear I felt another presence with him." Mila and Jodie turn their heads to look at Stella, one surprised and the other barely keeping her curiosity hidden. At Trigger's side, Eli's right eye narrows, and the aperture on his left constricts, leaving just a yellow glint. Eddy meanwhile silently excuses himself and slinks away, allergic to any kind of psychic mess. Trigger inclines his head.

"Noted. We're aware that Weissfeld may be more than she appears." He pauses, then adds, "Thank you for the warning, Stella. Keep your senses open when she comes aboard." The skunk offers him a shy smile in reply and tries to return her attention to the movie. Eli marches past to the men's bunks and Trigger follows, walking to his quarters. Before he can shut the door, Mila slips in, making sure to pull her tail along before it can get pinched between the sliding metal slab and the wall.

Mila drapes herself over his shoulders before he's even fully settled into the desk chair, her chin hooking over his collarbone and her arms looping loosely around his chest. The familiar scent of mink fills his nose as she nuzzles against the side of his neck.

"How was the bar?" she asks, her breath warm against his skin.

"Noisy." Mila giggles, the sound vibrating through her chest and into his back.

"That's it? Just noisy?"

"Very noisy," Trigger amends, reaching forward to wake his desk terminal.

"I'm about to make a call. If you want to stay, you need to be out of the camera's field of view."

"That's fine." She squeezes him a little tighter, her tail swishing contentedly behind her.

"I'm just happy you're willing to go out and do stuff with the guys, y'know? Back in my hometown, I knew this one guy who was kinda like you. Not a pilot or anything, but he was a veteran, and he had this whole thing where he'd just stay inside all the time and never wanted to go anywhere, and it really drove his wife nuts. One time, she-" Trigger turns his head just enough to catch her lips with his. The contact is brief, barely more than a brush, but the effect is as immediate as a lightning strike.

His whole body feels lighter, the same weightless sensation that caught him off guard the first time and hasn't totally faded since. Mila's chatter dies in her throat, and her tail poofs out in the corner of his eye. Before she can recover and turn the gesture into something longer, he pulls away.

"Camera," he reminds her. Mila's muzzle scrunches. For a moment, she looks like she wants to whine, or maybe drag him away from the desk entirely, but instead she lets out a theatrical grumble and unwinds herself from his shoulders.

"Fine, fine..." She bends down and pulls open the drawer where she's taken to stashing her junk (which there seems to be a lot of), and retrieves her datapad. Then she flops onto the bed on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows to scroll through whatever she's reading. Her tail flicks, and the stolen Moonbeam Mink shirt rides up, and… Oh…

She isn't wearing anything at all underneath the shirt, showing off how the cream of her underbelly extends down between her thighs and curls back up, forming a rough heart shape on her butt. Trigger stares for a second longer than is strictly necessary.

'This mink...' He drags his attention back to the terminal and runs a quick test of the camera angle, confirming that the bed and its minx occupant is safely out of frame. Satisfied, he pulls up Catrina Weissfeld's contact information and initiates the call. She answers on the first ring, video and audio both active. The snow leopard's face fills the screen, her ice-blue eyes sharp and alert despite the late hour.

Behind her, the wall of what looks like a well-appointed office, or perhaps a personal den is visible, all dark wood and tasteful lighting.

"Captain Trigger," she greets, inclining her head.

"I was beginning to wonder if I'd hear from you."

"Missus Weissfeld." He mirrors the gesture.

"I'll keep this brief. After reviewing all candidates, we believe you're the best fit for the position. I'd like to invite you to the Aquila tomorrow morning to meet the crew before we finalize anything." Catrina's expression doesn't change dramatically, but there's a subtle shift in the set of her shoulders, a relaxation of tension he hadn't noticed was there. Pleased, but too disciplined to show it openly.

"I accept," she says.

"Though I would request that we block out some time to go over contracts, obligations, and expectations before any signing takes place. I find it's best for all parties to have a clear understanding of the arrangement beforehand."

"Agreed. We can discuss terms in detail when you arrive. How does 0800 hours sound?"" Agreeable, captain. I will be there."

"Good." Trigger pauses, then adds, "I hope we can come to an agreement that satisfies everyone involved."

"As do I, Captain." The ghost of a smile touches her muzzle.

"I'll see you in the morning. Good evening."

"Good evening." The call disconnects, and the terminal screen goes dark. Trigger sits back in his chair for a moment, letting out a slow breath. Then he rises and sheds the olive drab jacket that Mila picked out for him, still unused to regular clothes after months of flightsuits, and tosses it onto the chair. His boots follow, thumped into the corner by the desk. He crosses to the bed, reaches down, and yanks the hem of Mila's shirt down to cover her bare rear.

"Hey!" Mila twists to look at him over her shoulder, her ears pinned back in indignation.

"What was that for?!"

"You were being a distraction," Trigger replies flatly, settling onto the mattress beside her.

"Intentionally." Mila's offended expression cracks into a grin.

"Did it work?" He doesn't dignify that with an answer. The next morning, at 8 AM on the dot, Nidhogg chirps the intercom.

"Asset Weissfeld requesting entry at front ramp." Trigger looks up from the captain's chair terminal, where he's been scanning the station bulletin board for escort contracts headed north toward LOSA space. A few possibilities have caught his eye, though none are confirmed departures yet. He'll need to follow up once the morning's business is concluded. His gaze flicks to the clock in the corner of the display, which reads 0800, exactly.

'Punctual.' He rises from the chair and taps his wristcomm.

"All hands, bridge. Our guest has arrived." Acknowledgments filter back through the channel as he descends the stairs to the hangar level and crosses to the front ramp. The control panel responds to his thumb press, and the heavy door unseals with a hydraulic hiss, folding down to reveal their guest at the bottom of the landing pad. Catrina Weissfeld stands at the base of the ramp, dressed in a charcoal blazer over a cream blouse, her spotted tail swaying once behind her.

A slim attache case hangs from one shoulder. She looks exactly as composed as she did outside the detention center, not a whisker out of place.

"Missus Weissfeld." Trigger greets and he steps down to meet her. He extends his hand.

"Welcome aboard the Aquila."

"Captain." Her grip is firm, professional, and brief.

"Thank you for having me." He gestures for her to follow and leads her up the ramp into the hangar. The space is tidier than it was a week ago, the supply crates organized into neat stacks along the starboard wall and the fighters arranged in their designated berths. The two labor bots stand dormant in their charging docks near the cargo lift, their optical sensors dark. Catrina's pace is exactly as fast as it has to be, matching Trigger and never pushing him.

Her icy eyes sweep the space with what seems to be casual interest at first glance, but the glint of something deeper is there. It reminds him of the look Colonel McKinsey gave him when he returned unharmed following Operation Flush, yet another suicide mission that Trigger had to carry on his back. Trigger catches her gaze lingering on the RK-4 stationed near the stairs, its red slits glowing faintly in the hangar's industrial lighting.

Her attention shifts to the fighters: Mila's Caracal, the bulky Aggressor, Eli's heavily customized Revived, and finally the Stratos Wyvern, its white hull and angular frame unlike anything else in the bay. She says nothing, but Trigger can practically hear the lines snapping between dots behind her eyes. They ascend the stairs to the main corridor, and Catrina's inspection continues.

The patched blaster scoring on the walls near the crew quarters, the new wiring conduit that Jodie installed after the firefight, the faint discoloration of age.

'She's cataloging damage,' Trigger realizes.

'Assessing what kind of trouble we've seen.' The bridge is occupied when they arrive. Lars stands near the viewport, arms crossed, his bulk taking up a considerable amount of real estate. Mila perches on the edge of the sensor console, her legs swinging idly. Jodie leans against the pilot's chair, and Eddy hovers near one of the auxiliary stations, doing his best to look like he belongs there. Eli waits near the captain's chair, his posture parade-ground straight.

"Missus Weissfeld," Trigger begins, gesturing to each crew member in turn, "allow me to introduce Strider Squadron. Lars Ortiz and Mila Minks, pilots and ground team. Elijah Gunjar, my executive officer, also a pilot and ground team. Jodie Coyote, crew chief and mothership pilot. Edward McCarick, auxiliary bridge crew." Each of them offers a nod or a word of greeting as their name is called.

Lars's is warm, Mila's is bright, Eli's is curt, Jodie's is polite, and Eddy's comes with a little two-fingered salute that earns him a sidelong look from Eli. Catrina inclines her head to each in turn, then pauses. Her eyes sweep the bridge once more, counting.

"I was told your crew numbered seven," she says, her tone light but pointed.

"I only count six, Captain." Trigger keeps his expression neutral.

"Our medical officer is currently refitting her workspace. She won't be available for some time." The lie comes easily enough. Stella is in the infirmary with the door locked, under strict instructions to stay out of sight until the NDA is signed. Introducing a wanted psychic fugitive before they have legal protection in place would be foolish in the extreme. Catrina's eyes narrow, just a fraction, and the silence stretches for a beat.

"Of course," she says slowly, her tone carrying the faintest edge of amusement.

"It wouldn't do to disturb a doctor in the middle of their work. We can be introduced at a later time."

'She knows something's off.' But she doesn't press, and Trigger doesn't offer more.

"Eli, if you would." Trigger gestures toward the corridor.

"Let's give Missus Weissfeld a tour of the ship before we sit down to discuss terms." The eagle nods and falls into step as Trigger leads Catrina back out of the bridge. They move through the Aquila at an unhurried pace, Trigger pointing out the key areas: the crew quarters, the galley, the rec room, the cargo (which is really just the hangar walls). Eli trails a half-step behind, his presence a silent reminder that Catrina is being watched as much as she is watching. And she is watching. Constantly.

"An interesting vessel," Catrina remarks as they pass through the rec room, her gaze lingering on the new table and the mismatched furniture.

"I've heard rumors about the crew who calls it home, as well.

'Three Strikes,' they call you." She glances at Trigger.

"An unusual moniker. I don't believe I've heard its origin."

"It's a long story," Trigger replies.

"I imagine most good stories are." He doesn't take the bait. They return to the hangar, and Catrina's attention drifts back to the fighters. The Wyvern, in particular, seems to draw her eye.

"That white craft," she says, nodding toward it.

"I don't recognize the make. It's not Cornerian, certainly not Macbeth or Space Dynamics. The design language is... foreign."

"Custom build," Trigger says, allowing the Wyvern to have a second of his attention.

"One of one."

"Fascinating." The word hangs in the air, an invitation to elaborate. He doesn't. Catrina's lips twitch, but she doesn't seem annoyed, oh no. If anything, she seems intrigued.' Why do I not like that?' Trigger holds back a frown and stops his eyes from narrowing too much. The tour comes to an end back in the rec room, where the table is cleared off to make room for paper and datapads.

The snow leopard lifts her briefcase and sets it down on the table, right on its metal legs with a click just loud enough to draw attention, but not enough to come off as a disturbance.' Has to have been practiced.' The negotiation begins in earnest. Catrina opens her attache case and produces a stack of documents, both physical and digital across several datapads, spreading them across the table like someone who has done this a thousand times.

Trigger and Eli take seats across from her, and for the next two hours, the rec room transforms into a makeshift conference room. She starts with compensation, as Trigger expected.

Her opening ask is aggressive despite their disclaimer of poor potential pay, as she asks for a monthly retainer of fifteen thousand credits, plus a percentage of any legal settlements she secures on the squadron's behalf, plus hazard pay for any engagement where she's required to be present in a combat zone, all on top of a take on any jobs. Eli's feathers ruffle at the number, but Trigger keeps his expression flat.

He counters with a flat seventy-five hundred, no percentage, hazard pay negotiable and job take on case-by-case basis. Catrina's whiskers twitch, and she comes back with thirteen-five and a reduced percentage. They settle at ten thousand with a small bonus structure. From there, they move to scope of services.

Catrina wants clear boundaries on what constitutes "legal consultation" versus "general advisory work," arguing that her expertise shouldn't be diluted by being asked to weigh in on operational decisions outside her wheelhouse. The NDA section takes the longest. Catrina produces a standard confidentiality agreement, but Eli flags several clauses that would allow her to disclose information to "relevant authorities" under certain circumstances.

The eagle's yellow eye bores into the snow leopard as he methodically dissects each loophole, and Catrina, to her credit, doesn't seem offended. If anything, she appears pleased that someone is paying attention. They rework the NDA from scratch, tightening the language until it's ironclad. Anything Catrina learns in the course of her employment stays with Strider Squadron unless Trigger explicitly authorizes disclosure, full stop.

Termination clauses, chain of command, living arrangements, meal allotments, personal storage space, communication privileges, shore leave policies... The list goes on. Each item is discussed, debated, modified, debated again, and amended over and over. Trigger finds himself grudgingly impressed.

Catrina knows her craft, and she fights for every credit and comma with the tenacity that comes from decades in courtrooms, but she also knows when to concede, when to horse-trade, and when to let a minor point go in exchange for leverage on a larger one. It's like sparring with a skilled opponent who never hesitates or overextends. Hell, it almost seems like she's having fun. Between himself and Eli, they avoid any serious blunders.

The eagle's cynicism proves invaluable, catching subtle implications in the contract language that Trigger nearly glosses over. By the time they reach the final pages, the document has been marked up, amended, and rewritten so many times that the original draft is barely recognizable.

"One last matter," Catrina says, sliding a single sheet across the table.

"An addendum regarding physical fitness requirements." Trigger glances at the page. It's a request for exemption from the squadron's standard physical training regimen, citing her age as a mitigating factor.

"At my stage of life," Catrina continues, her tone measured, "I trust you'll understand that I cannot be expected to keep pace with crew members less than half my age. I would request that this exemption be formalized in writing." Trigger considers it. Sixty is getting up there, and he's not unreasonable. If she can't physically keep up with the younger crew members, forcing her to try would be counterproductive. He opens his mouth to agree.

"Captain." Eli's voice cuts in, flat and sharp.

"A word." The eagle leans closer, pitching his voice low enough that Catrina would have to strain to hear.

"Sixty isn't old. Not for a Cornerian with money. Average lifespan for someone with access to quality healthcare is a hundred and thirty, give or take." His cybernetic eye whirs as it refocuses on the snow leopard.

"She's middle-aged at worst. She's trying to pull a fast one." Trigger's gaze shifts back to Catrina. The snow leopard's expression hasn't changed, but there's a subtle tightness around her eyes now. A crinkle at the edges of her eyelids that wasn't there a moment ago.

'Caught.'

"Missus Weissfeld." Trigger's voice is cool.

"What was the purpose of that?"' Do you somehow know I have gaps in my knowledge about the wider galaxy?' he almost asks, but stifles it at the last moment. It wouldn't do to give her any ammo before the contract is signed and locked away. Catrina doesn't flinch, but she doesn't answer immediately either. When she does, her tone is carefully neutral.

"I was simply using the expected lifespan of the Free Sector colony where I spent my girlhood as a reference point. Many people hang on to their culture and identity when they move, even across borders," she says, adjusting the cuff of her blazer.

"Many of the settlements in the DMZ where I was born were quite perilous. Life expectancy varied... significantly." The lack of a real, concrete number isn't missed.

"Missus Weissfeld." Trigger's tone hardens.

"I hate very few things in this life, but people attempting to manipulate me for selfish gain is one of them." He holds her gaze, unblinking.

"If you're willing to lie by omission to the man who would be your captain, how can anyone on this crew trust you?" The silence that follows is heavy, dropping over all three of them like a lead-filled blanket. Then Catrina raises one spotted finger and waggles it slowly, a gesture that might be chiding if it weren't accompanied by that razor-thin smile.

"Now, now, Captain. It's rather poor form to be a hypocrite." She tilts her head, ice-blue eyes sparkling like a cat eyeballing a fat canary.

"Were you planning to tell me that you're harboring a fugitive aboard this vessel? Or was that introduction going to wait until after I'd signed?" Trigger's expression doesn't change. Inside, however, his stomach drops.

'Shit.'