Chương 34: Chapter 31

When wakefulness finds Trigger, it's with him snuggled into the softest, most cozy pillow to ever grace his face. A soft inhale, bringing him further out of dreamland, fills his nose with minky vanilla and throws a speedbump in front of his usual jolt to full consciousness. A fortunate happenstance if there ever was one, as the back of his eyes throb faintly, courtesy of last night's drinks.

'Hmm? This isn't my bed…' Comes the unbidden thought, as his fingers, prickling with some pins and needles, pinch a rumpled comforter between them.

'Not the fuzzy blanket Mila just had to have.' One eye cracks open, and the pink nipple less than an inch away jogs Trigger's memory. Suffocating walls and judging eyes, then banished by a debauched game of dress-up.

'Ah, right. Mila's home.' The rest of his body swiftly comes online. The hand not groping the blankets is instead groping something else, something round, tender on the surface yet firm below, with a tail draped over his fingers. The weight of the toasty body on his is the next thing to be noticed, and finally… … Well, there is no polite way to refer to the morning wood Mila is almost laying on.

Trapped betwixt a pair of breasts, he can't see it, but the air free to move over his thighs under the blanket tells him that he's pointing straight at the ceiling. Mila shifts, grumbling something low and nonsensical in her sleep, and Trigger has to bite his lip. Every day, the tipping point between him and Mila wades closer, crossing the chest-high mire between them steadily, and he hasn't any idea what to do.

Women, relationships, and the minefield that is physical intimacy used to be such a distant concern, but just last night, Mila gladly stripped every covering from her body, giving him a taste of what is to come. Curves sheathed in silken fur, longingly pressed into his hands with only too-small clothes shielding them, stoked the fire that has yet to truly die down from the first kiss they shared. Thoughts of a foreign, dirty sort plagued him the entire night.

When clumsy, teenage stabs at romance fell flat years ago, Trigger simply left the idea of intimacy at the door, out in the cold. Things like studies and his eventually discovered purpose in the sky fulfilled him. Why would he ever bother with girls or pornography when he could enjoy a treatise on the changes air supremacy brought to modern combat? Or perhaps war footage of the venerated Mobius 1 at work? Now, he's beginning to understand why "missed milestones" was one of the flags on his first psych eval.

It's not fun to be floundering like this. Mila sucks in a slow breath, like she always does just before waking, and lets out a yawn before resting her chin on his head.

"Mornin' Trigger…" she manages before another yawn overtakes her. Before he can reply, Mila straights up, straddling him just above his hips, and the blanket falls away. Trigger's already dry mouth turns to sand, yet tries to water all at once. Bare sans a pair of thin, lacy panties, Mila raises her arms up in a great stretch, pushing her chest out. All poor Trigger can do is stare, and something in the back of his head goes into overdrive to try and prevent a foolish response.

Something he noticed the night prior, yet never thought too deeply on, was the shapes of the many cornierians under the Minks roof. Sleek forms dominated the lineup, with many of the women, particularly the ones who married in, possessing a beauty idealized on magazine covers and catwalks. They stepped lightly on legs of lean, understated muscle, feminine in a classical, delicate sense. Mila and many of the other Minks, however, break that mold with bold curves.

No one could ever call his mink unathletic, but a thin, plush layer over the surface hides her definition. The breasts that dare him to touch hang over him, taunting him with the promise of sensory thrill. With a sigh, Mila lowers her arms and catches him staring. Immediately, a minx of a smirk overtakes her mouth.

"See something you like?" She asks, leaning forward.

'Yes. A lot.' Both of Trigger's hands magnetize to her hips, then run up her sides, and before he can second guess, take hold of both creme-furred globes. He freezes.

'Was that too much? She was fine with me touching last night, but that was through her clothes. Too fast? She's not saying anything. Perhaps-'"Ooooohhhhh~" Mila shudders.

"Oh Trigger! I didn't take you as a guy who likes sugar in his morning 'kaf!" She grins down at him, ears blushing red. She looks over her shoulder, and that grin makes his stomach leap when she finds his arousal hidden only by his boxers.

"Oh whew…" She breathes, eyes sparkling.

"I've felt you poke my butt before, but that is…" Mila lifts herself and scoots back, too far for him to reach her chest anymore, much to Trigger's silent disgruntlement, and sets herself down on his thighs. Any disappointment is gone in a heartbeat, though, when she shimmies up her stomach to the tent in his underwear.

"Gosh…" Mila gulps. A jolt runs down his whole body when she fearlessly grasps him through the thin fabric and presses his erection to her middle, using her body like a ruler. Keeping a finger to where his tip comes up to, she pulls back, and it's more than halfway to her navel. Nevermind. Perhaps his worries about boundaries are unfounded.

"Oh jeez," she mutters, the red in her ears migrating down to bleed through her face fur.

"I might need to stretch a little first…" He cannot see the mirror of the vanity from his place on the bed, but Trigger is sure his own face is approaching the color of a cherry.

"You're being dramatic," he says firmly, looking away.

"I'm not overlarge for a human." Licking her lips, Mila can't meet his eye, and she is too busy staring down, distracted by the little black stain on the tip of the boxer tent.

"Okay, sure."

"I'm being serious," he insists. Should he be covering his shame? Is there a point? Mila has already seen, so the damage is already done, right?

"Well…" Mila finally tears her gaze from below and looks at him properly. She takes his hand with hers, lacing their fingers together.

"See that? You've got bigger hands!" He musters a deadpan look.

"I know."

"But, like, on a relative scale!" She scoots forward again, and his breath hitches.

"Theres… Proportions or something at play. I dunno. I forgot where I was going with this." Trigger sighs and shakes his head.

"A blonde forgetting something? Say it isn't so."

"Don't be mean to me!" Mila whines.

"Oh and before I forget, touch my boobs again!" The halfway normal moment is gone again, but the order cannot be denied, so Trigger sits up, and once more presses his sweating hands to her chest. Her hands cup his, spreading his fingers and coaxing a little squeeze.

"Perfect handful! I knew it!" Mila cheers, throwing a fist up and bouncing in his lap.

"Ah?" He cannot help but blink, confusion pushing past the awkwardness. Mila clears her throat, the flush in her ears now more embarrassed.

"I, uh, kinda bet with myself that my boobs would be a perfect fit for your hands awhile ago, because that's like a sign of true love, right?"

'This fucking mink…' She recoils at Trigger's unimpressed stare.

"What? What?!"

"Breakfast in fifteen!" Mireille's voice echoing up the stairway provides all the excuse Trigger needs to extract himself from under his furred lover. Shuffling off the bed and reaching for the small suitcase against the wall, packed and transported over by one of the labor bots the night prior, Trigger makes haste gathering an outfit.

"Hurry up. I don't want to be rude to your mother by making her wait." Mila just crosses her arms under her bust and huffs.

"We were just getting to the good part!" A shower and some fresh clothes goes a long way in restoring a sense of equilibrium, reigning both excitement and dread back into their corners. A set of relaxed fit jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and the olive green jacket Mila picked for him is about as civ casual as it comes. Mila follows right behind him down the somewhat creaky stairs. Her favorite off-duty sweater, with its wide, cleavage exposing neck, is absent.

In its place is a slightly more conservative sweater that properly covers her. Her skirt, rather than the usual red-plaid, is instead a wintery blue. As they descend into the living room, Trigger hazards a look at this wristcomm. No urgent messages, it seems. The low-prio group chat has a few new posts, one from Lars saying he'll be out and about, and another from Stella informing them that she'll be exploring the town to see if she wants to settle on Hjagard.

'Hopefully she'll enjoy it. The planet is hi-sec and she should be safe here,' he nods to himself, letting his arm fall. Humming greets them as they round the corner into the kitchen, and with a grin, Mila skips ahead and joins right in, humming along too. Clad in sweatpants, an old shirt, and a well-loved apron, Mireille stands at the stove, slowly swigging her hips and tail to her own tune. When Mila adds her own voice, Mireille turns with a smile and turns the little diddy into a duet."

IIIIII've got a crisp red crown," the elder of the duo begins, shimmying a pan in her grip.

"I've got it woven on my brow!" Mila sings back, taking three plates from a high cabinet.

"Fruitful up high, fruitful down low!" Mireille gyrates with down low, and with the spatula on her hand, plates out the contents of her pan on the plates Mila sets out.

"The eyes of the boys…" Mila hooks her arm with her mother's and they bump their hips together.

"... Got a special little glow!" They finish together amid a burst of giggles.

"Oh, Mila," Mireille sets her spatula aside and pulls her daughter into a hug.

"It's so nice to have you home."

"It's nice to be home, mom," Mila smiles right back, and it only widens when her mother takes her head and presses a kiss to her cheek. That's when Mireille takes notice of Trigger by the doorway, and beckons him in.

"Oh, Trigger, honey! Come in and have a seat! Mila, get the milk, please!" As Mila trots over to the fridge, Mireille comes around the island in the middle of the kitchen and takes one of Trigger's shoulders.

"How did you sleep, honey? Did you find the extra pillows and blankets okay?" she asks, blinking her large pink eyes at him.

"I slept well, Missus Minks, thank you," Trigger assures her with a small smile, letting himself be sat down at a little nook in the corner. The Minks matriarch huffs exactly like her daughter does and sets a plate in front of him, followed by some silverware.

"You can call me 'Mom', dear. Or if that's too much, just Mireille."

"I understand, Mireille," he answers, and another huff is the reply.

'Can't win with any of these minks, it seems,' he grumbles inwardly, looking down at his food. It's quickly becoming clear how important a staple fish is for the household, as the open-faced sandwich on his plate is piled high with smoky salmon and eggs, with a thin layer of roe between the toasted, dark-crumb bread and the rest. It's topped with what looks to be diced peppers and slices of cucumber. On the side of the plate, berries, sliced fruit, and a dollop of cream round it all out.

The finishing touch comes when a faintly steaming mug of skalkaf is pushed his way. Both Mila and Mireille flank him with their own plates, scooting in close, and Mila doesn't wait a single tick before digging in.

"Oh I've mished 'dis…" The mink moans through her first bite. It goes down in a flash, and her fork clacks her plate in her haste for another.

"It'sh never as good as fresssh…"

"Swallow first, Mila," Mireille tries to scold, but it's dulled by her focus on the man between them.

"So, Trigger," she begins, leaning in.

"You said you were in the military? Why did you leave?" Taking care to fully chew the (frankly delicious) food in his mouth first, Trigger swallows and answers.

"Its not much of a tale," he explains.

"I joined the air force at eighteen, my planet's standard adulthood age, and later participated in what was called the Lighthouse War between the nations of Osea and Erusea on the side of Osea." Idly, he flips his fork between his fingers, and when he stops, stares down at his own dour reflection on the butt of the utensil.

"Once the war ended, I wasn't needed nor wanted any longer, so I left," he ends simply.

"Trigger, you're underselling yourself!" Mila is quick to press her shoulder to his, then to peer around him to her mother.

"Mom, if it wasn't for Trigger, that war would have never ended! He's the best pilot, like, ever. No one comes even close. He's a war hero!"

"Oh my…" Mireille presses a hand to her chest.

"Leaving that all behind… What did your family have to say about it?" Mireille's brows furrow when Mila winces. Trigger clears his throat after a sip of his not-coffee.

"I never knew them. I'm an orphan who aged out." Then, for the second time in just a few hours, Trigger finds his face squished between a pair of breasts.

"Oh, oh my goodness! I'm so sorry, honey! I didn't know!" Mireille cries. The outburst is paused just long enough for a pair of lips to press a kiss to his scalp.

"Oh, poor baby, I cannot even imagine… Is that why you don't want to call me 'Mom'? I didn't mean to be pushy!"

"Mom, he's turning blue!" Mila jumps in, taking Trigger's shoulders and tugging.

"Let 'em go!" Mila's own exclamation is enough to loosen Mireille's ironclad grip, and Trigger slowly sits back up straight, face as cool as he can make it. There should be a part of him galled by the pity. Pity has never gotten anyone anywhere, but inwardly, his thoughts are stuck on…

'Rather full chest for a woman in her fifties. I see where Mila gets it.' …Other things.

'Focus, Trigger. Not the time for that.' Not letting his thoughts rise to the surface, Trigger takes his napkin and wipes down the side of his mug, cleaning up a bit of 'kaf that rolled down the side from the jostling. It gives him a few precious seconds to formulate words.

"No harm done, Mireille. As you said, you didn't know." The older woman gladly takes the out, turning her eyes to her plate.

"So, what are you kids planning on doing today?" She asks a touch quickly, lifting a small forkful of egg and roe to her mouth. Once the bite goes down, she continues.

"The weather is looking so good today! Nice and clear, and a high of two-degrees!"

'Two degrees celsius is considered nice?' Trigger grimaces inwardly, spearing the last of his food, then washing it down with the last gulp of his 'kaf.

'An Oured winter rarely got down to ten.'

"Really?" Mila smiles.

"Then I can leave my coat behind!"

'Ugh. And Mila likes it. I'm going to have to get used to the cold, aren't I?' As Trigger ponders the pros and cons of buying a heated suit, Mila chatters on.

"I was going to show Trigger around town, you know? Show him all the places and introduce him to everyone, and…" Her smile dims somewhat.

"And… Mom?" she begins, looking past Trigger to Mireille once more.

"Did Cathy ever call you? I left her a message months ago and got nothing back…"

"I don't think she ever did, honey, not after the first time," now it's Mireille's turn to frown.

"She called the home terminal right after you left to see if you were joking, then I haven't heard from her since. I talked to her mother a little, and she said Cathy moved out and transferred to Njorddic Tech."

"Njorddic Tech, huh," Mila sighs, pushing her empty plate away so she can prop her head up with her elbow.

"That's on the other side of the planet… Did I really make her so mad that she couldn't stand just being here anymore?" Trigger runs his hand through his hair with a sigh.

'Getting too long for regs again.'

"Mila," he begins, snaking his arm across her shoulders.

"How long have you and Cathy been friends?"

"Since gradeschool…" She murmurs, leaning into him. One of her ears flicks, tickling his chin.

"I love my brothers, but being the only girl out of four kids could get, you know? Stifling. Cathy and I just clicked right away and she's been the sister I never had ever since." The mink in his arms slumps.

"Or she was… I screwed up so bad by yelling at her…"

"I'm no expert in friendships, as you know," Trigger glances leftward through the corner of his eye, and spies Mireille watching the exchange with care.

"But don't take all the blame yourself. Cathy isn't faultless here. You did reach back out, and got nothing but radio silence for months. Maybe this is something that has to be mended in person?" With a little sniffle, Mila's ears pin back.

"I don't know, Trigger. What if she hates me now? What if she'll never forgive me?"

"Then that's on her for throwing away such a long friendship," is his firm reply. When that fails to make her perk up, he pulls her closer, almost into his lap.

"Do you want to go see her? She can't ignore you face-to-face."

"How would we even find her?" Mila asks, looking up at him with furrowed brows. A click of a tongue prompts both man and mink to turn their heads back to Mireille, who is standing up and collecting plates from the nook table.

"What am I? Chopped liver?" She shakes her head, walking over to the sink with the dishes.

"I can call Felicia and ask her."

'Cathy's mother, I suppose?' Trigger thinks, as Mila scratches the back of her head.

"Well…" Mila's indecision bubbles to the surface once more, and Trigger can't help but find the expression odd on her usually smiling face.

"Yeah… I suppose I should, but I don't wanna go alone. Will you go with me, Trigger?"

"Do you even need to ask?" He gives her a smile, one that is faintly returned.

"I'll get the Wyvern warmed up." With a bit of help from Nidhogg, the Wyvern is ready and loaded with a day bag by the time Trigger and Mila are ready to go. After a message to the team informing them of where they're going, and after waving goodbye to Mireille outside the Aquila, the Stratos Wyvern is in the skies. With the city of Njorddic all the way on the opposite side of Hjagard, the fastest route there is to take to orbit, then cruise bereft of air resistance.

Even with the Wyvern's magnetoscoop eliminating the need for fuel stops, flying in-atmo would have been an all-day affair. The full burn up into Hjagard's thermosphere leaves the fuel gauge flashing angrily, but once they level out and begin to coast, the magnetoscoop begins the process of filling the tanks.

'That's an idea,' Trigger rubs his chin.

'The upper weapon mount of the Wyvern is currently empty, and an auxiliary tank of fuel for extended missions might come in handy.' This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The Wyvern wobbles, breaking his train of thought.

"It's a bit different, flying the real one versus a simulation, isn't it?" he asks, giving the instrument panel a look. In the forward pilot seat, Mila looks up and glares at him through the rearview mirror.

"Trigger, we've gotta get some kind of damper for the Wyvern if you want me to fly it more. I'm not in my flight suit, you know! I almost passed out just getting into orbit!"

"Almost, but not quite. You did well." Trigger sniffs. The praise takes the edge off of Mila's grumpy visage.

"Well, when I get my new fighter, I'm having Jodie put one in!" she declares.

"Oh?" Trigger looks up, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

"You looked through the designs I sent over?"

"Yep yep!" She wiggles in her seat, and the Wyvern mimics the giddy inputs through the flightstick.

"I'm calling dibs on the first one, though. Captain's girl privilege!"

"We'll see," he teases.

"Which one caught your eye?" Mila raises an eyebrow, her expression screaming Duh? It's not obvious?

"I want the XFA-27!"

'I somehow knew that would be the one.' He lifts his wristcomm, and pulls up the specs of the plane in question. And what a beautiful machine it is. The XFA takes yesteryear's idea of clean-lined futurism and brings it to life. The multirole fighter famously used by the ace Scarface 1 is razor-edge sleek, viciously fast, and confident, almost arrogant even as a still image. The variable sweep wings make supersonic flight a breeze when pulled in, and loitering nap-inducingly gentle when pushed out.

But anyone with an eye for military hardware would pick out the differences between the real deal and the schematics hovering above Trigger's wrist easily. For one, the original XFA's tail and lower canards aren't fitted with G-Diffusers. Oh, what Jodie and Nidhogg brainstormed to get to such a point, he can barely tell. The build notes, hidden away in a folder at the bottom of the model, could be an entire novel on their own, which can be said for every fighter Jodie wants to "modernize."

Something about redesigning the XFA's now plasma-fusion engines to use rounded, 3D vectoring nozzles caused a snag, and attempting to add more RCS thrusters to the altered design added another complication, so Jodie and Nidhogg deemed the best option was the expensive one: G-Diffusers. In yet another case of most of the math going over his head, Trigger can only vaguely point out what makes inertial dampeners different from g-diffusers.

Both use forms of grav-manipulation, he thinks, with dampeners not so much dampening as they do push gravity into a fighter's vector, trying to find equilibrium with pilot Gs. The G-Diffusers, however, seem to totally disconnect the vehicle from external Newtonian mechanics. So long as they are fed power, the ships equipped with them can change their vector near instantly and with almost no slow down.

Hell, even a fighter with a single diffuser can go from mach 1 to a dead stop in seconds with the pilot feeling nothing. … Not to say there aren't downsides, however. Besides the initial investment and costly maintenance, the devices have to be mounted externally, as not only do they vent novel particles during operation that could damage electronics, they're just too big to fit in a fighter's belly, as the pronounced shoulders of the Arwing shows off.

'Four smaller units in the rear canards should add up to two-and-a-half standard units of diffusion if Jodie's reworks go as planned.' Trigger smiles to himself and dismisses the projection, which fades out in a flash of blue.

'Mila is already a fearsome close-range skirmisher. Playing into her strengths with a maneuverable fighter is perfect. Lars seemed interested in that Estovakian fighter, the CFA-44, and Eli hasn't gotten back to me yet. Another thing for the agenda.' One hour bleeds into two, then three, then the nav panel beeps, catching Trigger's attention.

"Mila, we're on final approach. Turn our nose into our retrograde and throttle up to twenty percent."

"We wouldn't need to do that with a dampener…" she grumbles, but flips the fighter around with only a single overcorrection and hits the throttle. Both his and her harnesses go taut as G's yank them. The descent down into the atmosphere is bumpy, even when they turn right around and more or less glide, but not near as bumpy as the call to the local ATC to request a spot at the spaceport.

Just as was done with the Aquila, they're transferred several times, then finally have a reluctant supervisor clear a spot for the armed fighter with all its paperwork in order.

"Dickhead," Mila curses the flaky supervisor under her breath, banking the Wyvern to bring them in.

"... Say again, Stratos Wyvern?" The radio practically sprouts eyes to glare right in Mila's face. She stares daggers right back.

"I said DICKHEAD!" She shouts, shaking the cockpit glass with her voice, then whacks the radio to swap channels.

"Mila, I understand that you're wound up, but please don't get us kicked out of the spaceport or my fighter impounded," Trigger rubs his forehead and peers out the canopy. Below, the city of Njorddic is a proper metropolis, making Braskel seem a simple village by comparison. Tall buildings radiate out from the center, growing shorter as they go. The streets enjoy the simplicity of a city well-planned in advance, forming a neat, near uniform grid.

Foot traffic makes up the bulk of the road, with a floating car occasionally hovering down from the three tiers of flying traffic overhead, often to pick up or drop off passengers. From how clear the roads are of ice and sleet, they must be heated. Trigger leans his head. To the east must be the university, for apartment blocks, dorms, and a great array of businesses surround a great campus, itself filled with squat halls and buildings.

"Hmm…" An earbud projects itself into Trigger's ear with a tap of his wristcomm, then he brings it up to his mouth.

"Nidhogg, tell me what you can about one Cathy Kats," he whispers.

"Accessing public records. Standby," Nidhogg dutifully replies.

"Catherine "Cathy" Kats - age 23. Birthplace - Braskel, Hjagard. Graduated Saint Oat's Highschool, class of 2555, same as Pilot Minks. Recently acquired PhD in Aerospace Engineering from Njorddic Institute of Technology. Employment records and social media presence indicates prior experience in aerospace technology. Owner of Ninth Life LLC."

'A PhD and a business? Mila doesn't keep boring company,' Trigger peers at his instruments to make sure Mila is coming in soft enough, then quietly asks: "What does her business, Ninth Life do?"

"Accessing… Business founded this year. No transactions on record. Business likely in set-up stage. Mission statement claims goal of production of specialty and 3rd party aerospace parts, and refurbishment of OEM parts, with focus on usually unserviceable components. Interest noted from local entrepreneurs and investors," Nidhogg transmits into his ear.

"I see," Trigger murmurs.

"How did she get her PhD?"

"Accessing…" the AI recites once more. Nidhogg begins to speak again, but there is a tenth of a second where he starts, then stops, as if needing to re-read.

"Catherine Kats' PhD awarded following dissertation and demonstration of new method of G-Diffuser refurbishment, successfully extending life of demo unit for less than cost of total replacement." Oh, oh. Now he wants to meet Cathy himself.

'Specialty parts and unserviceable components, hmm?' The Wyvern's engines turn all the frost on their landing zone to high-speed vapor, then cease their roar as the jet powers down. The moment Mila cracks the canopy, icy wind cuts just under Trigger's nose, and he realizes leaving a scarf behind was a poor idea. After checking in with an attendant on the landing strip and having their IDs checked yet again, they walk hand-in-hand to the street and start the trek to Cathy's apartment.

Trigger's thoughts about the heated road seem to be true from how warmth seeps up from his boots into his feet. Another biting wind quickly reminds that it does squat for the rest of him, though.

"We should get a taxi," Trigger tries to withhold a shiver, and can't quite do it.

"Awww, are you cold?" Mila smiles up at him. Wrapping her arms around one of his, she snuggles into his side. It does help, but…

"I'm saying we should get a taxi because it'll make things more expedient," Trigger insists, pulling up the hood of the coat over his olive jacket.

"And that you're cold," she grins.

"C'mon, the place is only like a twenty minute walk from the port. A little cold will put some fluff on your chest!"

"Nineteen A, twenty A… Aha! Twenty-one A! This is the one!" Mila raises a hand to knock on the door of apartment 21A, on the corner of Clue and Pebble Place, just as Mireille said. And the hand stays raised. Mila unfolds her fingers twice, then falters, stepping back into Trigger's chest.

"Ah… Maybe she's out or something right now. Should we call and come back later?"

"You're the one who wanted to try and make a surprise out of it," Trigger dryly retorts.

"And you said her routine is rigid, so she should be at home at noon on a Sunday."

"Ugh. You're supposed to support me, you know?" The blonde looks up at him with a sour face.

"And I am," Trigger wraps an arm around her waist, a thumb slipping up her sweater to pet the fur on her hip.

"By doing this." Distracted by his touch, Mila can't do much when Trigger's free hand swings up and knocks thrice, each one good and loud.

"No, no! Shit!" Mila seizes his hand and yanks it down, "I'm not ready for-!" The door swings inward, just enough for grumpy yellow eyes framed by pink to peer out. When they land on Mila, frozen and shocked, the triangular ears above them shoot straight up.

"Mila?" The mink straightens up, her lips quivering.

"Cathy…" Hinges creak as the door opens all the way, and Trigger finally gets his first real look at the legendary Cathy. Pink is the first thing to strike him. The cat cornerian's hair and fur share a bright, cotton candy hue, with white running down the bottom of her face, her neck, and vanishing down her shirt to break up the color. Large, slitted eyes like gold coins stare at Mila, wide as can be.

Around her neck is a curious accessory, a red collar with a little bell that jingles when she slaps a hand over her slack jaw.

"Cathy…" Mila sniffles, then throws herself at the other woman.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it!" On reflex, Cathy catches the blubbery, minky missile in her arms and is nearly bowled over.

"I lied and said I changed my mind and you fixed up that old fighter for me, then I ran away anyway!" Mila cries into her childhood friend's chest.

"I didn't mean to call you stupid and selfish and, and, and those names just because you didn't want me to be a spacer! I-I didn't mean any of it!" She takes two fistfuls of Cathy's shirt and sobs.

"I was so mean to yo-u-u-u-u!" As awkward as being a witness to all of this is, the little voice in the back of Trigger's head saying Not your place. Don't interrupt is a hundred times worse. Just the sound of Mila's tears sends his stomach down to his toes. The cat finally finds her wits, and wraps her arms around the other woman.

"Oh my god, you're alive…" Cathy's own eyes tear up, but they don't fall.

"I thought you were dead, you stupid, stupid…" She sucks in a shaky breath, sparing Trigger only a half-second glance.

"Not in the doorway, let's go." With Mila still clinging to her, Cathy retreats inside, leaving Trigger to step in and shut the door behind him. Inside, the apartment is sparse in a way Trigger understands. At the end of the day, a rental dwelling is just a place to sleep, so why bother over decorating? It's not totally barren, as Cathy leads a quivering Mila to the single couch inside, where they both sit heavily. Unsure, Trigger just stands off to the side, hands behind his back as he plays witness.

Mila sniffles once more.

"Do you hate me, Cathy?"

"No! No, never!" she exclaimed, taking Mila's shoulders and pulling her off so puffy red eyes can meet stern yellow.

"Not even after all the nasty stuff I said?" Mila can't bear to meet her gaze for long, and turns her eyes down to the beige couch.

"Not even after that," Cathy squeezes her shoulder, then softens once more.

"I thought you were dead, Mila. How come you never called?"

"B-But I did!" Mila cries, twisting the hem of her skirt in a fist.

"I called and you didn't pick up, so I left a message and you never said anything back so I thought you hated me but I didn'twannaknowforsuresoIjust-" A pink finger on Mila's lips stops the waterfall of words before they flood the whole apartment.

"I tried to call you back, Mila…" Cathy begins gently, lowering her hand.

"I tried a dozen times, and got nothing." Taking a bulky datapad sitting on the scuffed coffee table, Cathy scrolls through it, then opens up her call list, scrolling down months, down to one missed call with a voicemail attached. When she clicks 'play', it's not Mila's apologetic voice flowing out, but harsh electronic warbles amid grating white noise. In the cacophony, only a few words can be made out.

"Cath-KZZZZK-Sorry-KZZZZZZZK-I di-KZZZZZZZZK-ee you-KZZZZZZZZZK!" When the playback ends, Cathy sets the pad on her lap and looks up to Mila's bone-white face.

"I know what a desperate last call sounds like, Mila." Cathy shudders.

"When you didn't pick up, I thought that you…" the cat bares her teeth, unable to say it once more.

"W-wha? How did-!" Mila cuts herself off and whirls her head around to Trigger, her blonde locks whipping.

"Trigger! Where were we when I tried to contact Cathy?! It was right before we made Strider Squadron, right?" He nods once, and Cathy's eyes snap to him.

"We were aboard the fueling station outside of rogue gas giant one-seven-zero-two-J-W-R dash zero-one." Despite her wet eyes, Mila manages a weak smile.

"You're such a nerd, having that memorized."

"Comes with the territory," he waves her off. There are a whole handful of questions in Cathy's eyes, but it's withheld as she turns back to Mila.

"So… You called from outside a gas giant?" Mila rubs her nose on her sleeve and nods.

"Uh-huh…"

"Where there is usually a strong magnetic field and a lot of atmospheric partoculate…"

"Y-Yes?"

"Both of which can foul up wireless transmissions?" When Mila says nothing, Cathy screws her eyes shut.

"You didn't use the high-power antenna on the station," she says, not asks.

"And because of that, my transmissions didn't route to it either."

"I-I didn't know!" Mila wails, throwing herself on Cathy with another hug.

"You have to believe me, Cathy! If I knew, I would have tried again! I-I thought that you hated me and that's why you didn't say anything!" Cathy sighs, and during the lull as she pulls herself free, the urge to defend Mila finally becomes too much for Trigger.

"It's true Mila only tried once, but you didn't hear from any other sources that Mila was regularly contacting her family?" He challenges.

"Seems odd." Those sharp yellow eyes turn to him, flashing.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced," she cooly replies.

"We haven't. My name is Trigger, and I'm Mila's captain," Trigger sends back, just as curt.

"Now, regarding my point. Can you explain?" Cathy's eyes narrow, but go soft once more when she turns back to Mila. With a great sigh, she combs her fingers through her long hair.

"I… Shit. The last year has had a lot going on, Mila. You called me right as I was beginning a project for my PhD, and… I don't know, I just shut down. It was just my work for weeks and weeks that was keeping me going, because if I stopped, I knew I'd have to face the reality that you were… gone." Mila's hand takes hers, and the cat pushes a ghost of a smile though.

"Thats all I did. Research, work, sleep. I didn't visit home for the holidays, or any of that. After I snapped at my dad to quit bugging me about it, he and mom stopped calling. I've just been in my own little bubble I guess…" The watery smile on Mila's face firms up, transforming into something less glum.

"I can tell. You look awful." Clicking her tongue, Cathy once more works her fingers through her messy mane of pink. Silence settles over the apartment. The faint hum of the heating unit and the muffled sound of foot traffic from the street below fill the gap, and for a long moment, neither woman seems to know what comes next. Then Mila takes a breath, steadier than the last dozen, and squares herself to Cathy properly.

"I'm sorry," she says, and this time the words aren't buried in sobs or muffled against a shirt. They come out clean and deliberate.

"Not just for the lying and the running away. For tearing you down when all you were trying to do was look out for me. You didn't deserve that." Cathy's ears flatten, and she opens her mouth, but Mila isn't done.

"You were scared for me, and I punished you for it." Her ruby eyes glisten, but the tears don't fall this time.

"That's not what a best friend does." The cat's jaw works once, then she lets out a breath that seems to take a year's worth of tension with it.

"I could've been better about it too, you know." She picks at a loose thread on the couch cushion between them, not quite meeting Mila's gaze.

"You told me your dream and I treated it like a phase, like you'd grow out of it if I just pushed hard enough." Her golden eyes finally lift.

"That wasn't fair either." Mila's lip wobbles dangerously, and Cathy must see it coming, because she holds up a finger.

"If you tackle me again, I swear on every saint this planet has..." Mila tackles her anyway. The hug is different from the desperate, sobbing collision at the door. This one is tight and sure, two women holding onto something they thought was lost and finding it whole. Cathy's bell jingles softly as Mila rocks them both side to side, and after a moment of token resistance, the cat gives in and squeezes back just as hard.

"Okay," Cathy says into Mila's hair, her voice thick despite her best efforts.

"Okay. We're good. We're good, you dummy." Mila laughs, wet and bright, and finally lets go. Cathy drags a wrist across her eyes, sniffs sharply, and claps both hands on her knees. The shift from emotional wreck to functional person is almost mechanical.

"Right. So." She fixes Mila with a look that is trying very hard to be stern and failing short.

"You've been gone for over a year, you're apparently alive, and you showed up with..." She gestures vaguely in Trigger's direction.

"... Him. So you're going to sit there and tell me everything, from the top, while I order food, because all this gushy heart-to-heart crap has me starving."

"Everything?" Mila perks up.

"Everything." Cathy is already reaching for her datapad.

"I'll get one of those big samplers from Korvald's down the road. The seafood one." More fish?' Trigger wonders to himself.

'If it's like Mireille's then little to complain about, I guess.' Before Cathy can tap in the order, he holds up a hand.

"Hold off on that. I'll cover it." The cat pauses, one claw hovering over the screen. Those yellow eyes slide to him, narrow.

"Why?"

"Business expense," Trigger says simply. The narrowness deepens, but Mila is already too buoyant to let suspicion take root, tugging Cathy's arm and launching into the first chapter of her saga before the cat can press further.

"... And then we landed at the spaceport, walked here, and knocked on your door!" Mila throws her hands wide, nearly clipping Trigger's nose from her spot between them on the couch.

"The end! For now!" The remains of a seafood sampler litter the coffee table in a graveyard of wax paper, sauce packets, and the hollowed husks of fried something-or-others that Trigger couldn't name but couldn't stop eating either. Cathy chews through the last bite of a fish taco, leans her head against the back of the couch, and stares at the ceiling.

"So," she says after she swallows, her tone the careful flatness of someone doing arithmetic they don't enjoy.

"You almost died, what, five times? Six? A couple in space, once on the ground?"

"Two at most!" Mila fires back, jabbing a finger toward her friend.

"The other times I was kicking ass!"

"Mila has become a formidable pilot over the last few months," Trigger says from the far end of the couch, wiping his fingers on a napkin.

"Her boasts aren't empty." The mink puffs up like a preening bird, tail swishing against the cushion. She basks in the validation for a moment, then angles herself toward Cathy with her legs tucked under her.

"Okay, your turn! What have you been doing since I left?" Cathy's gaze drops from the ceiling to the mess on the coffee table, and something in her expression dims.

"You've already seen it, Mila." She gestures loosely at the sparse apartment around them.

"This is it. I poured everything into my studies. Ate, slept, researched, repeat. Now I've got that magical slip of paper, and I'm trying to pivot into starting a business." A humorless little laugh escapes her.

"That's the whole story. It's not exactly blockbuster material, I know." Trigger sets his napkin down and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Your PhD in aerospace engineering is well earned, Cathy, if your dissertation is anything to go by." He keeps his voice conversational and unhurried, despite how he wants to spring forward to the good part.

"What made you want to break into the aftermarket scene for ships?" Cathy's ears swivel toward him before her eyes follow, and those golden slits sharpen.

"You're well informed," she observes, and the words carry an edge that isn't quite accusation, but lives next door. She holds his gaze for a beat, then seems to decide the question itself is worth answering regardless.

"It started as a business venture, pure and simple. The aftermarket for ship components is a mess of overpriced OEM parts and shoddy knockoffs, and I felt like being the diamond in a sea of chrome-sprayed crap is a good niche." She pauses, and her claws curl against the couch cushion.

"But if Mila and god knows how many other knuckleheads are dead-set on being spacers, I'd rather do my part to make sure their ships don't fall apart under them." Mila's face softens, and she reaches over to squeeze Cathy's arm.

"Cathy, that's wonderful!" The warmth holds for a half-second before her ears cant sideways.

"But I'm sensing a 'but' in there somewhere." The cat exhales through her nose, long and slow.

"Capital." The word comes out like it coats her tongue in ash.

"I've got the planning done. Back-end, supply chain contacts, facility requirements, all of it. None of it matters without starting capital." She counts off on her fingers.

"Business loans? The terms are outrageous. Might as well sign my soul away. Investors?" She wiggles the next finger.

"I've got a few interested parties, but none of them want to be the first one to commit to a total unknown. They all want someone else to take the leap so they can feel safe following." Her hand drops to her lap.

"If just one of them put their money where their mouth is, the rest would probably fall in line, but nobody wants to be first."

'This is almost too perfect.' Trigger pulls up his wristcomm and gazes down at a set of schematics, the title and classification header already scrubbed by Nidhogg's standing security protocols. What remains is the bare technical skeleton of the Wyvern's nosegun: the muon cannon. Charged particle weapons are a widely neglected branch of armament in the galaxy.

Most militaries and manufacturers moved on to plasma and laser-based systems generations ago, leaving the underlying science to gather dust in academic archives. These schematics would be hieroglyphs to nine out of ten engineers. If Cathy is the real deal, she won't be the tenth. Oh no, she'll be something rarer. He waves his wristcomm toward Cathy's datapad on the coffee table, and Nidhogg handles the handshake. A soft beep from the pad draws Cathy's attention.

She picks it up, checks the sender, then looks cautiously over at Trigger.

"Apologies for the abrupt change of topic," Trigger says, leaning back and lacing his fingers over one knee.

"Would you mind taking a look at what I just sent over? I'm curious if you can identify it." Cathy's gaze lingers on him for a moment, suspicion and curiosity visibly arm-wrestling behind her eyes. With an eke, curiosity wins, and she opens the file. At first, her brow furrows. She pinches to zoom, scrolls slowly across the schematic, and her lips move as she reads.

"These tolerances..." she murmurs, tracing a claw along a cross-section.

"And these energy figures. That can't be right. These seem impossible, but if they're truthful, and..." She trails off, pulling up a calculator in the corner of the screen. Mila glances between them, clearly lost, but has the sense not to interrupt. Numbers fly under Cathy's claws. She taps, pauses, frowns, taps again, then scrolls back to a different section of the schematic and cross-references something before returning to the calculator.

"Okay, so if the numbers are right, this is some kind of..." She chews her lower lip.

"Particle accelerator? No, that's not right, it's for subatomic particles. The focusing element is good and beefy, and the energizing figures would indicate a heavier, slower particle in its use..." Her ears press forward, flat with concentration.

"Hmmm." A few more minutes pass. Trigger watches without a word, and doesn't miss the way Cathy's posture has changed. She was slouching five minutes ago. Now her spine is straight, her tail curled tight around her own hip, every ounce of attention funneled into the screen. Finally, she sets the pad down on her knee and reaches for her drink.

"My best guess? It's some kind of muon-based particle weapon. Insanely unfeasible, but..." She takes a sip and shakes her head slowly.

"Not impossible. Not with the right fabrication pipeline." She lowers her cup.

"Where did you even get something this nutty?"

'She actually got it.' Trigger's composure holds, but just barely, because the grin pulling at his mouth is a stubborn one.

'Five minutes and a calculator. Jodie is going to try to steal Mila's best friend the moment she finds out. First Avril, then Jodie, and now Cathy, all genius. I'll hear no nonsense about women being the lesser sex.'

"You're right on the mark," he says, and this time he lets the smile through. He waves his wristcomm once more, and the schematics vanish from Cathy's screen in a blink.

"Hey!" The cat's ears snap back, and she looks down at her now-blank datapad with genuine offense.

"I wasn't done with that!"

"My apologies, but those plans are the property of Strider Squadron." Trigger's smile doesn't waver.

"Which brings me to my actual question. Would Ninth Life LLC be interested in an official partnership with Strider Squadron? A direct line with a specialty manufacturer is something we've been looking for." Cathy recovers quickly, to her credit. She sets the datapad aside and folds her arms, golden eyes fixed on him with a guarded sort of interest.

"I'd be lying if I said no. But like I told you, I'm stuck without starting capital." She picks her drink back up and takes a measured sip.

"Who knows when that's going to change." Trigger nods once.

"I was getting to that." He folds his hands together, resting them on his knee.

"I'll need to discuss the details with my legal consultant, crew chief, and executive officer, but I'm confident they'll see the value in a partnership with your company, and because of that, I'm comfortable putting forward an opening figure. How does one million credits of investment from Strider Squadron sound?" The plastic cup in Cathy's hands slips from limp fingers, spilling soda right into his lap.