"Here you are!" the smiling collie girl behind the glass, prize-laden arcade counter hands Trigger five little fobs on stretchy wristbands. "VR booths thirty-seven to forty-two are all yours! Please remember to return the keys when your rental runs out!"

  "Thank you," Trigger says with a nod, moving to the side with the rest of his team for the next people in line. Once they're out of the way, the man hands out the little RF keys.

  "Remind me again," Eli begins, taking his key and casting a narrow-eyed glare at the teenagers engrossed with the various games around them, "why are we using the VR booths of an arcade with a bunch of shitlings under heel?"

  "And why am I getting roped into this practice?" Jodie asks, accepting her fob with a frown. "I told you I'm no good in a dogfight. Besides, I'm supposed to be shopping around for the Wyvern's shields, remember?"

  Trigger raises a finger as he turns and starts the walk to the corner with the VR booths. "One, it's cheaper here," he says, addressing Eli before a second finger joins the first, "and everyone should have a grasp on dogfighting," he glances at Jodie. "I won't force you to fight, but you should know how," he finishes.

  The coyote fidgets under his stare, then gives in. "Fine…"

  "Aw, c'mon! Don't look so down!" Mila sidles up to Jodie with a smile. "It's practice, yeah, but that doesn't mean you can't have fun!"

  "How are we going to do this, boss?" Lars asks from his place at the rear of the group. "We running through the prefabbed sims, taking on other teams, or what?"

  "Team simulations at first, then inter-team dogfights so I can get a personal feel for everyone's skills," Trigger steps around a child who gapes at the group of obvious mercs walking by. "All of you versus me, then one-on-one duels. Afterward, we split up for our individual goals for the day."

  And what a list of goals it is. After their arrival last night, Trigger treated everyone to a hearty dinner in Tantalus' entertainment satellite. It was a quiet affair as everyone was still socially feeling each other out, then they found a place to stay for the night. With Tantalus' enormous size, space thankfully wasn't priced steeply, and they found a hotel that caters to groups. Mila and Jodie splurged a little to get an actual room to share, while Trigger, Lars, and Eli took a barracks-style room aimed at, and priced for, thrifty mercs.

  With the VR booths being the closest thing to the hotel, Trigger made the call to visit them first thing in the morning, and once they have some practice in, they'll split up: Trigger and Mila to do some supply shopping, Jodie to sniff around for fighter parts, and Eli and Lars to scrounge up a short contract to take while they wait for Farworth to finish his business on Tanatlus.

  As they go, Trigger casts his eyes around.

  The arcade looks much like one he and a few school acquaintances would sometimes go to when he was a child, with various games, claw machines, and video cabinets all occupied by a great medley of teens. The space-age tech he's quickly becoming used to has been neatly rolled into it all, with holograms and hard light used gratuitously.

  He spies one kid, a squinty bat, select a fast-paced shoot-em-up on a game cabinet's screen. Like magic, the cabinet's controls dissolve into blue light, revealing a faintly luminescent wireframe underneath. The wireframe breaks down, forming a joystick and a few buttons, then re-skins itself in another flash of blue, looking like glossy plastic once more.

  'If the VR booths are more advanced than that, then whatever mothership we end up with has to have some,' Trigger returns his eyes forward as his head swirls with ideas.

  If Nidhogg can interface with one…

  "Jodie," Trigger says, looking back.

  The coyote perks up. "Yeah?"

  "VR booths. Can they be fit on frigates?"

  "Like, proper sim booths, not ones just for fun?" She asks. When Trigger nods, she does so in return. "They can. It's not common, on account of the CPU resources they take up, but it can be done."

  Trigger files that away. "I see."

  "Already planning on a carrier ship?" Lars sounds amused. "That's ambitious, to say the least."

  "What's a spacer without ambition?" Mila chimes in, peering at the large dog over her shoulder.

  Eli shakes his head. "Dead."

  The rest of the chatter along the way is of little consequence and blends with the tunes and jingles of the arcade as the team walk, ride an escalator to the second floor, and then find themselves before the VR booths.

  A myriad of people are congregated on the second floor, surrounding the various black, frosted glass booths. Each one is a rough cube shape, with space for one person to move about comfortably, and are arranged in sets of eight around their towering central computers, which touch the ceiling and blink with LEDs.

  Holo displays on each side of the clusters show onlookers what the users are doing, be it plain old games or realistic sims. For the more realistic ones, the displays even have readouts for heart rate, G-load, the condition of gear and vehicles, and everything else imaginable.

  It's not just kids up here, either. A few adults and rough spacers sit around on the couches and chairs spread about, watching the displays and waiting their turns.

  Trigger looks between the obvious mercs using the cheaper arcade booths and Eli, an eyebrow raised.

  "Shut up," Eli grunts.

  Their booths are found in short order, and as Trigger enters his and shuts the door behind him, he turns and finds a black void, where a holographic screen hovers midair.

  Pensive, the man reaches an arm out and walks to the side. One step, two, five, ten. He should have hit the wall by now, but the uniform blackness just stretches on. 'The floor must be moving under me,' he realizes, looking down.

  The floor isn't totally dark, and is divided into tiles with green outlines. Walking, he finds the tiles move under his feet as expected.

  Finally giving the floating window his attention, Trigger scrolls through the options with a finger, finally landing on Space Dynamics Co Presents: Any-Sim Ver. 1.12 - True to life flight simulator for professional and recreational use.

  Tapping it with a finger, the space around Trigger lights up. A loading bar flashes past in half a second, and then Trigger finds himself standing on a tiny platform, high above the clouds with a new menu urging him to sit to continue.

  Ignoring the hyper-realistic, acrophobia inducing sight, Trigger turns his head and spies a harness-fitted seat behind him. Sitting down, he finds the hard-light construct to be rather hard despite it having the appearance of being cushioned.

  Once he's sat down, the menu moves in closer.

  SELECT SPACECRAFT AND SCENARIO TO CONTINUE.

  Two scrolling menus pop up, and for the first time in a while, Trigger finds himself at a loss.

  The menu for the available spacecraft is enormous. There has to be a thousand entries at least for just fighters, and each selection branches off into a dozen variants for each one. All of them have differing loadouts, estimated combat attributes, and parts that can be swapped around before deployment.

  Scrolling through the list, the pilot frowns. "I'm going to need to study more than I thought if enemies can be this varied…"

  Finally, he decides on a J Slinger-2, blocky fighter built a bit like a pick-up truck with middle of the road performance. The fighter is loaded with a pair of coaxial laserbolters and an underbelly fitted with ten missiles. The program tries to warn him that missiles have finite ammo and "aren't recommended for first-time users", but he ignores that.

  Once he's made his choices, the air around him lights up as a wireframe snakes up from the floor, forming a cockpit around him. Once the frame is in place, the whole thing shines blue, then all the details of the controls are filled in. Over each switch and button is a little, floating tag that tells him what each one does.

  Trigger reaches a tentative hand out, finding all the surfaces have a texture like plastic. He shakes his head as he takes it all in. 'Imagine if we had these back in Osea. How many of my wingmates would still be alive if they had training materials like this?'

  After a moment of quiet, Trigger reaches up and disables the comfort settings one by one. No motion dampeners, no collision avoidance, no G-load limits. He wants reality.

  As soon as the simulation begins, the world transitions in a snap. The Slinger-2 hurtles forward from a hangar bay into open vacuum, the HUD flickering to life as the curve of a planet rolls into view. Trigger grips the flightstick, banks hard to the left, and throttles up. The cockpit rattles, his seat hums beneath him, and the inertial feedback slams into his chest as expected.

  It's good. It's very good.

  But it's not real.

  His fingertips don't buzz with engine vibration, the air doesn't carry the faint, ozone-like tang of a pressurized cockpit, and above all, he can feel the computer hesitate before hitting him with several Gs. The tenth of a second delay throws everything off.

  Trigger frowns, pulling the fighter into a wide, looping spiral before cutting the throttle and rolling inverted.

  A notification blinks in the upper corner of his HUD.

  INCOMING SIM LINK-UP REQUEST — MILA MINKS

  ACCEPT?

  He taps "yes" with a thumb, the simulated cockpit around him warping as the link initializes. In the distance, four new blips form on radar, and a familiar voice filters into the channel.

  "Alright, Trigger," Mila says, "ready when you are."

  "Good," Trigger flips a switch and primes his weapons. He takes a deep breath, letting himself start to go numb, as he did with the ambush a few days prior.

  This is no true fighter, but it's close enough. Come hell or high water, he'll mold Strider Squadron into something unstoppable.

  "Show me what you can do."

  Lars checks his simulated systems one last time, flexing his fingers over the controls. The MVF Aggressor, blocky and brutal even in simulation, hums beneath him. Twin coaxials up front, turret underneath, and thick armor plating mapped into the code, close enough to the real thing to feel familiar.

  He frowns at the empty space on his radar. It's just the calm before the storm.

  The pirate ambush still sits heavy in his mind. Trigger had torn through the enemy like a reaper with afterburners. No fear, no wasted movement, just kill after kill. Even now, Lars isn't sure how he feels about it.

  Lars rolls his shoulders, feeling the phantom weight of the Aggressor's frame around him. The sim's good, and he's always impressed with it. Every rivet, every panel, all perfect. If not for the lack of scuff marks on his console, he'd swear he's in the real thing. He can almost smell the recycled air and old hydraulic fluid.

  "Hey Lars, you awake in there?" Mila's voice crackles through comms, bright as can be. "We're about ready to start!"

  "Copy that," he rumbles back, checking his turret rotation one more time. The servos whine exactly like they should. "Just making sure everything's calibrated."

  Through the shared tactical display, he watches the others settle into formation. Eli's sleek, custom fighter hovers at the edge of sensor range, practically invisible even to friendlies. Mila's Sparrowhawk bounces restlessly in space, unable to hold still, just like her, as he's learning. And Jodie... poor Jodie sits in a Sparrowhawk, too, her vitals showing elevated stress levels already.

  "I still don't see why I have to do this," Jodie mutters. "I'm a mechanic, not a pilot."

  "Because the monk - Trigger said so," Eli cuts in, his tone carrying that perpetual edge. "Besides, it might save your life someday. Better to freeze up in here than out there."

  Lars grimaces. Out there. Where Trigger had danced through plasma fire like it was rain in slow motion, methodical and merciless. Where pirates no doubt screamed their last, alone, while the Wyvern's muon cannon turned them to expanding gas.

  Where the hell did he get a particle cannon that small?

  "Alright, patching Trigger in now!" Mila announces, her enthusiasm jarring against his memories. "Remember, we've got numbers. We can do this!"

  Click!

  Trigger's in.

  "Alright, Trigger," Mila sends, "ready when you are!"

  Their new captain doesn't say anything right away, then there is a crackle of static. "Good. Show me what you can do."

  Trigger's voice is soft, almost gentle. It makes Lars' skin crawl.

  The IFF tag flips from blue to red so fast Lars almost misses it. His collision alarms shriek to life a heartbeat later, as Trigger barrels right at them in a joust. He covers a hundred kilometers in a blink, his fighter's engines pushed to their max.

  "BREAK!" Eli roars, but it's too late.

  Trigger's fighter flies past, bare inches away from smashing into Eli, engines blazing white-hot. Mila barely gets her shields up before a simulated laserbolt burst tears through where she'd been hovering. The near-miss leaves her Sparrowhawk spinning, and she wrestles with the controls while swearing up a storm.

  Lars swings his turret around, trying to track, but Trigger's already gone, having rolled inverted and burning hard toward Jodie. The coyote freezes for half a second, exactly what you should never do, and pays for it. The Slinger-2's lasers flash, and Jodie screams in panic as three dead-center shots take her down to half shields in under a second.

  "Shit! Jodie's hit!" he calls out, opening up with everything he's got. The Aggressor's gatlings fill space with tungsten-tipped lead, a wall of death that should catch anything.

  Should.

  Trigger threads between the streams like they're not even there, rolling and sliding with movements that shouldn't be possible. The Slinger he's flying is supposed to be average, bog-standard, but in his hands it moves like liquid mercury.

  "On your six, Lars!" Mila shouts, finally recovered and burning hard to intercept. Her lasers flash, forcing Trigger to bank away from his attack run.

  "Got him!" Eli materializes from stealth, his hard-light lance already charged. The spear sears through space where Trigger was.

  Was. Past tense.

  The Slinger pulls a maneuver Lars has never seen before, thrusters flaring to spin the fighter on three axes at once. It's not quite a proper post-stall, those don't exist in space, but it's something similar, something that turns physics into a suggestion. Eli's shot passes harmlessly through empty vacuum.

  Still in a wild spin, Trigger fires back.

  Laser fire catches Eli's right side, making his shields flare. The eagle pilot curses, trying to compensate, but Trigger's already launching missiles. Not at Eli, at Mila, who'd overcommitted trying to save Lars.

  She sees them coming, dumps chaff and flares, pulls hard into a corkscrew. It's textbook evasion, exactly what she should do.

  But it doesn't matter. The missiles ignore the countermeasures entirely, their tracking too sophisticated or Trigger's launch angle too perfect. Mila manages to flip around and shoot down one with desperate laser fire, but the second slips through and hits her with a thundering explosion.

  "Fuck! My shields are fried!" Mila's voice crackles.

  Lars grits his teeth as another of Trigger's laser bursts clips his starboard armor, not enough to hurt but enough to remind him it's there. The Slinger dances away before his turret can track, always just out of reach.

  "Dammit, he's toying with us," Lars growls over comms. Another burst of his gatlings goes wide as Trigger rolls between the streams. Always moving, never quite where they expect.

  "No shit," Eli snarls back. "I can't get a clean shot. Every time I line up-"

  "I'm in the way, I know!" Mila cuts him off, frustration bleeding through. "It's like he knows exactly where we're going to be!"

  Lars watches the pattern, really watches this time. Trigger isn't going for kills. He's herding them, pushing and pulling their formation like a sheepdog with particularly stubborn sheep. Every attack run forces one of them to dodge into another's line of fire. Every feint makes them cluster up or separates one for a shot to the rear.

  "Wait," Lars says, a realization hitting him. "He's doing it on purpose. The formation disruption. We can't shoot without risking friendly fire."

  "Then let's not give him a formation to disrupt," Eli says. "Scatter pattern. Wide dispersal. Make him work for it."

  They break apart, each fighter taking a different vector. For a moment, Lars thinks they might have him. Trigger's Slinger can't be everywhere at once. He has to pick a target and open his back.

  Then Trigger's nose tips down toward the planet below.

  "Where's he go— Hey!" Mila starts.

  The Slinger's engines flare brilliant white as Trigger dives, pulling into a steep descent toward the simulated world's atmosphere.

  "Fucker!" Eli curses, gunning his engines and following hot on Trigger's tail. "I'm not letting you run!"

  They all dive, with Lars bringing up the rear in hesitation. The reason he's not quite as eager to follow?

  Trigger is beelining for a massive storm swirling over the planet's ocean.

  Outside VR booth thirty-seven, a small crowd has gathered around the holo-display, murmuring. A pair of teenageers share a bag of popcorn, eyes wide as they watch the vitals readout.

  "Is that thing broken?" one asks, pointing at Trigger's bio-signs.

  Heart rate: 72 bpm. Steady as a metronome. G-load: 8.5G sustained. Should be unconscious. Stress indicators: Baseline normal.

  "Has to be," his friend replies. "Nobody pulls eight Gs and looks bored."

  An older parrot in mechanic's coveralls shakes his head, his eyes glued to the action. "Display's not broken, kid. Look at the others."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The rest of the unknown team's vitals paint a very different picture. Heart rates spiking into the red, stress hormones flooding their systems, G-load warnings flashing as they chase the ape guy into atmosphere.

  "Who the hell is this guy?" someone mutters.

  On screen, Trigger's fighter begins to glow with reentry heat.

  The Aggressor hits atmosphere like a sledgehammer hitting an anvil. Lars' vision immediately starts to tunnel as the Gs pile on, his chest feeling like someone parked a truck on it. The inertial dampeners whine in protest, and he's running them at full power.

  Lars shuts his eyes for a second, just long enough to reach inward. 'I don't need a ton. Just enough for reentry…'

  A touch of a migraine throbs behind his eyes as all of his muscles coil, veins standing up in sharp relief as blood is squeezed back into his head. The hard-light controls in his grip groan and crack, cutting into his palm a little.

  When Lars reopens his eyes, there is only a hint of black in his peripherals.

  "God damn!" Mila gasps over comms. "How is he…"

  Her question cuts off in a strangled sound. Lars can't spare the attention to check on her. It's taking everything he has just to keep his fighter stable in the turbulence. The planet's atmosphere tears at the Aggressor's bulk, trying to flip him into an uncontrolled tumble.

  Ahead, Trigger's Slinger cuts through the air like it was born for it, smooth and controlled despite the violence of reentry.

  "Hey, Coyote!" Eli barks. "Pull up! You're coming in too steep!"

  Lars catches a glimpse of Jodie's Sparrowhawk in his peripheral vision, its nose glowing cherry-red. She's fighting the controls, overcorrecting, making it worse.

  "I can't…" Jodie's voice is thin, strained. "Can't breathe…"

  "She's in G-loc!" Mila shouts.

  Lars watches helplessly as Jodie's fighter starts to tumble, her vitals flatlining as she blacks out. She vanishes below the dark clouds, then…

  <<

  >>

  "Shit," Lars breathes, finally breaking through the worst of reentry. The sky around them is dark, angry. Roiling clouds stretch as far as he can see, lit from within by constant lightning.

  "" Eli demands, his ship's stealth systems useless in the atmospheric chaos.

  A laserbolt answers him, slicing through the clouds from above. Eli rolls hard, shields flaring.

  "Contact 6'o'clock!" Mila calls out, but Trigger's already gone, vanished back into the storm.

  Rain starts to hammer Lars' canopy, so thick it might as well be a wall. His sensors scream warnings about wind shear, microbursts, electrical interference. The Aggressor bucks and fights him, too heavy for this kind of flying.

  Another laser burst, this time from below. Lars' turret swivels, spraying rounds into the murk, hitting nothing but rain and turbulence.

  "Did we get baited? I feel like we got baited…" Mila groans. "Sensors are useless in this mess."

  "Then use your eyes!" Eli snaps, rolling through a particularly vicious downdraft.

  Lars looks down at his radar and grimaces at all the phantom signatures.

  Lightning illuminates everything for a split second. In that moment, Lars sees him - Trigger's Slinger knifing between cloud layers like a shark though water, already lining up another shot.

  "Break right!" Lars roars, but the thunder swallows his warning.

  The laser burst catches Mila's port engine. She screams, fighting to keep her damaged Sparrowhawk level as it starts to spin towards the ocean below.

  "I'm hit! Controls are out!"

  "Hold on!" Lars dives after her, suspecting it's exactly what Trigger wants.

  He's right.

  The Slinger drops out of the clouds behind him, so close Lars can see the simulated rain streaming off its hull. The targeting alarm screams.

  Lars throws his Aggressor into the hardest turn its frame can handle, feels the metal groan in protest. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  Trigger's lasers walk up his spine, shields failing, armor boiling away.

  Then Lars explodes.

  <<

  >>

  Lars slumps in his harness, watching through the death-cam as Eli tries to go evasive, alone now in the storm. He lasts maybe twenty seconds before Trigger materializes from a cloud bank and puts two missiles into him.

  The storm fades. Lars is back in the fake cockpit with a post-mission replay on a holo screen. He's drenched in sweat despite the climate control. When Trigger sends out a team call, he taps in without even thinking.

  When he connects, the others are already there. Jodie looks ready to throw up. Mila's exhilarated despite the loss. Eli just looks frustrated.

  Trigger is looking down at something in his booth, likely the replay.

  "Observations?" he asks without looking up.

  "Gravity and physics ain't supposed to be suggestions," Lars says bluntly.

  Now Trigger does look up, and there's something almost like amusement in his dark eyes.

  "In a dogfight, they can be," he says simply. "Good job dispersing when I was taking advantage of your formation." His gaze shifts to the others. "Mila, watch your engine management in atmosphere. You're redlining too much. Eli, good instincts when your stealth ended up compromised, but you relied on it too long. Jodie-"

  "I know," she says miserably. "I panicked, then I crashed."

  "You'll improve," Trigger says, and somehow it sounds like a statement of fact rather than plain encouragement. "Again. This time, atmosphere from the start. Let's see how you handle it when you can prepare."

  Lars shakes his head. 'What did I get myself into?'

  Trigger looks up from his datapad as the bathroom door to Mila and Jodie's hotel room hisses open, steam billowing out. Mila emerges with a towel wrapped around her body, her yellow fur still slightly damp, but she's looking considerably more alive than she had after their simulation sessions.

  "That was exactly what I needed," she sighs contentedly, walking towards the dresser and picking out some clothes. "Nothing like a hot shower after getting your tail kicked six ways to Sunday."

  Trigger returns his attention to his shopping list, scrolling through the items with a finger. Bank account, clothing, flightsuits, sidearm. The essentials for extended operation in this universe. The frontier barter notes in his breast pocket won't last forever, and the 9mm at his hip is only useful with ammo, which isn't worth the trouble of acquiring with energy weapons being so much more ubiquitous.

  "Ready in five!" Mila chirps, disappearing back into the bathroom. The rustle of fabric follows, along with some muttered cursing about zippers and tail-holes.

  When she steps out, Trigger raises an eyebrow. Gone is the partially-unzipped flightsuit he's grown accustomed to. Instead, she's wearing a black sweater that hangs off one shoulder and a red plaid skirt that stops just above her knees. It's casual, feminine, and completely at odds with the pilot who was screaming creative profanities at him in the sim an hour ago.

  "What?" Mila asks, catching his look. She does a little spin, her tail swishing and plaid flaring, showing him a hint of a holster hidden under her skirt. "A girl can't dress cute when she's not getting shot at?"

  "Just different," Trigger says, standing and pocketing his datapad. "You look nice."

  Her ears pink slightly. "Flatterer. Come on, let's get moving before the transit hub gets crowded."

  They leave the hotel and navigate through Tantalus' entertainment satellite toward the transit station. The corridors here are wider than Kalibo-III, designed for actual comfort rather than pure efficiency. Holographic advertisements float overhead, hawking everything from Cheyat-brand shampoo to exotic vacation destinations in Lylat.

  The bullet train platform is a marvel of engineering. A massive tube that runs through the station's superstructure like an artery. Through the thick windows, Trigger can see the other satellites connected by similar tubes, the whole system resembling a massive spider web in space.

  "First time on a bullet train?" Mila asks as they board, finding seats in a relatively empty car.

  "I'm not that backwater, but it's the first time on one that runs through vacuum," Trigger admits, watching the airlock seal behind them.

  The acceleration is smooth, barely noticeable thanks to the inertial dampeners. Within seconds, they're hurtling through the tube at what must be hundreds of kilometers per hour, the station's inner workings blurring past.

  Mila kicks her feet up on the opposite seat, getting comfortable. "So, Trade Union bank first? Cash is king in the frontier, but electronic transfers are way safer for big purchases."

  "Mm," Trigger agrees, then glances at her, curiosity tickling him. "You mentioned Hjagard before. Your homeworld. What's it like?"

  Mila's face lights up. "Oh, it's beautiful! Well, if you like snow and ice nine months out of the year." She laughs. "It's mostly tundra and taiga, with these massive mountain ranges that catch the aurora at night. My family lives in one of the industrial cities. Lots of factories, refineries, that sort of thing. Not glamorous, but honest work."

  She pulls her sleeve back to show her wristpad, swiping to show him a photo. Three male minks who share her coloring stand around Mila and a shorter female with duller yellow fur, all bundled in heavy coats.

  "That's mom and my brothers," she says, voice softer. "Bjorn, Erik, and Nils. They all work at the same plant dad did before..." She trails off, then forces brightness back into her tone. "Anyway, they think I'm crazy for becoming a spacer. Bjorn especially. He's the oldest, always trying to protect everyone. When we were kids, I could usually get him to kick Erik and Nils' asses if they were being pests."

  Trigger studies the photo. Despite Mila's small stature compared to her brothers, there's something in her posture, chin up, shoulders back, that speaks of someone who refused to be overshadowed.

  "You miss them," he observes.

  "Every day," she admits, letting her sleeve drop. "But I had to know if I could make it on my own, you know? Prove I'm more than just 'little Mila'." She grins. "Plus, the stories! When I go back, I'll have so many adventures to share. Getting saved by a mysterious ace pilot, forming our own merc squadron, diving through lightning storms..."

  "That last one was a simulation," Trigger adds dryly.

  "Who is keeping track?" she waves him off. "What about you? You mentioned being military, but what about before that? Did you have a family?" She pauses. "Or a wife?"

  Trigger shakes his head. "No family. Orphan. Raised in a state home."

  "Oh." Mila's ears droop. "Oh jeez, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

  "It's fine," he cuts her off gently. "It was a long time ago. I'm not beat up over it."

  The train begins to decelerate, a pleasant chime announcing their arrival at the commercial district. Through the windows, Trigger can see a massive promenade stretching out before them, multiple levels of shops and businesses creating a vertical, futuristic marketplace of shining metal and holograms.

  "Trade Union's on level three," Mila says, clearly eager to change the subject. They stand, and Mila leads him off the train and through the throng of bodies on the platform. "They've got a whole financial sector up there. Should be able to get you sorted quick. Then we can get you into the modern era with some clothes that don't scream 'I'm from a backwater that hasn't discovered holograms yet'."

  "My clothes are fine," Trigger protests mildly. "I just need a few spares in proper sizes."

  "Trigger, honey," Mila says, linking her arm through his, "you're wearing military surplus from a military no one has heard of. Trust me on this one."

  Despite himself, Trigger feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward as she pulls him toward the lifts.

  The Trade Union bank branch is exactly what Trigger expected from a financial powerhouse. Polished metal, holographic tellers, and an atmosphere of barely-hidden apathy for every customer inside. Getting an account, however, proves to be an exercise in bureaucratic hell. Forms for non-citizens, biometric scans, proof of employment (which Farworth's contract barely covers), and a "small" processing fee that makes Trigger want to kill someone.

  "I think," he mutters as they finally leave an hour later, "I'd rather suffer another stint through SERE than do that again."

  His yellow-furred companion giggles.

  The pawn shop in the satellite corner, by contrast, is refreshingly simple. A grizzled badger behind reinforced glass bluntly tells Trigger what he'll pay for a "chem-propelled curio" like Trigger's pistol. After the pistol and some money change hands, the man is the new owner of a chunky Havoc-7 laserbolter that's seen better days, but has "reliable" written all over it. Trigger adds his datapad to the deal and walks out with the blaster and a slim wrist-comm that Mila helps him sync to his new account.

  Trigger tightens the holster of the energy weapon on his hip as he and Mila exit the pawn shop and make their way back to the more reputable part of Tantalus' business disk. "I can't believe buying a gun was easier than opening a bank account," he shakes his head.

  "Welcome to the frontier," Mila replies with a cheeky grin.

  The spacer-friendly clothing store is where things go sideways.

  What starts as a simple mission to get Trigger some spare clothes and flightsuits quickly devolves into Mila dragging him through every section of the massive retailer.

  "Oh, this would look good on you!" She holds up a leather jacket with far too many buckles.

  "I need functional clothes, not-"

  "And these!" She's already moved on, grabbing a pair of pants that seem to be more zippers than fabric. "Very frontier chic."

  Trigger finds himself relegated to pack mule. His practical selections, plain shirts, sturdy pants with kneepad inserts, and two spare flightsuits, are on the bottom of a growing pile while Mila ricochets between racks like a pinball. When she gets bored of trying to dress up Trigger, she instead moves to shopping for herself.

  "What about this?" Mila emerges from a changing room in a dress that's more suggestion than clothing, striking a pose. "Too much?"

  "You'll freeze in space," Trigger says flatly.

  "It's not for space, dummy. It's for going out." She tilts her head. "Do you ever go out? Like, for fun?"

  Before he can answer, she's already disappeared back into the changing room, emerging moments later in her sweater and some shorts so tight they would send the religious sort into conniptions.

  "How about these?" she asks, turning and giving her tail a shake.

  "Hmm…" Is all he has to say.

  The mink looks over her shoulder at him, her cheeks puffed out in annoyance. "Trigger, c'mon! You could at least pretend to be more enthused!"

  The man sighs, then catches sight of a store map on the wall. His eyes track upward, noting the layout. "The used fighter dealership is one floor up."

  Mila freezes mid-pose. "The what now?"

  "Fighter dealership. You mentioned wanting to trade in your Sparrowhawk, remember?"

  The transformation is instant. Her eyes go wide, ears perking straight up. "Oh my god, I completely forgot!" She rushes back into the changing room, clothes flying. "Why didn't you say something sooner?!"

  "You seemed to be enjoying yourself," Trigger says mildly.

  "TRIGGER!" comes the muffled shout from behind the door. "This is IMPORTANT!"

  Two minutes later, she's back in her sweater and skirt, practically vibrating with excitement as they rush to the checkout. The cashier, a bored-looking rabbit, scans Trigger's practical selections while Mila dumps an armload of her own finds on the counter.

  "I thought we were in a hurry," Trigger notes.

  "We are, but a girl needs options," Mila replies. The instant everything is bagged and paid for, she's pulling him toward the exit. "Come on, come on! Do you know how long I've been waiting to get rid of that flying coffin?"

  The freight elevator to the next floor seems to move in slow motion for Mila, who's practically bouncing on her paws.

  "What kind of fighter are you thinking?" Trigger asks, amused by her energy.

  "Something that doesn't rattle when I breathe," she says immediately. "Something with shields that don't fail if someone sneezes at them. Something with guns that can actually punch through armor. Something-"

  The elevator doors open to reveal a massive showroom filled with gleaming fighters, and Mila's words die in her throat.

  "Something perfect," she whispers, red eyes sparkling.

  Trigger follows her gaze across the rows of ships. Sleek interceptors, bulky gunships, mid-range multi-roles. Even second-hand, even in a civilian showroom, there's something about being surrounded by fighters that feels like home.

  "Your jaw is hanging," he says quietly.

  Mila punches his arm without looking away from the ships. "Shut up and help me find my new baby."

  The dealership floor sprawls before them like a fighter pilot's candy store. Mila immediately darts toward the nearest display, a sleek Kestrel-class interceptor with swept wings and a predatory profile.

  "Look at those lines," she breathes, running a hand along the hull. "And it has working shields!"

  "The bar is that low?" Trigger asks, though he's already inspecting the craft with a careful eye before turning to the holo-placard by its pedestal. Decent thrust-to-weight ratio, standard hardpoints, nothing special but infinitely better than her Sparrowhawk.

  They move through the displays methodically. Mila coos over a bulky Rhino gunship ("Look at all those missile pods!"), wrinkles her nose at a stripped-down racer ("Where do the weapons go?"), and practically swoons over a crimson-painted Gargo-IV multirole ("It matches my eyes!").

  Then Trigger sees something that makes him pause.

  In a place of honor, surrounded by velvet ropes and holographic stat displays, sits an Arwing. Not the cutting-edge models he's seen in news footage of Star Fox, but clearly a superb-grade fighter only one generation old. The distinctive G-Diffuser system, the angular wings, even what looks like original Cornerian military markings barely painted over.

  The price tag, however, steals the show: 680,000 credits.

  "Oh my god..." Now Mila's jaw is actually dropped. "That's more than most mercs see in a decade!"

  "Military surplus?" Trigger asks, circling the display.

  "Has to be. Space Dynamics won't sell to just anyone, though that begs the question of how it ended up on the frontier." She sighs wistfully. "Can you imagine flying one of those? You'd be practically untouchable." Then she looks him in the eye and gives him a wink. "I think you would literally be untouchable in an Arwing, Trigger."

  "I like my Wyvern," he says back simply.

  They continue browsing, Mila's enthusiasm dimming slightly as she checks price tags. Eventually, she stops in front of an angular fighter with forward-swept wings and a narrow, rocket-like profile: a Caracal-7 Striker according to the placard.

  "This one," she says quietly, pressing her palm against the canopy. "This is the one."

  Trigger examines the specs. Good acceleration, excellent maneuverability, dual pulse lasers with a modular underbelly hardpoint. The kind of fighter that rewards pilot skill rather than relying on brute force.

  He glances under the fighter, noting a few painted-over scorches, and the cockpit looks like it's seen more than a bit of use.

  Definitely used, but it suits her, he thinks.

  "How much?" he asks.

  Mila's ears droop as she checks the price sticker. "Forty-two thousand. I've got..." She checks her wrist-comm. "Thirty-one and change, even with the bounty money and what you gave me."

  "The trade-in value of your Sparrowhawk-"

  "Would maybe cover the taxes," she finishes glumly.

  "Well, well! I see we have some discerning customers!"

  The voice makes them both turn. A fox in an eye-searing purple suit approaches, teeth gleaming in a predatory smile. His fur is overgroomed, slicked back with enough product to survive re-entry, and he walks with the aggressive friendliness of someone who works on commission.

  'Forget haircuts,' Trigger watches the fox approach with an amused huff under his breath. 'This guy gets oil changes from his barber.'

  "Vance Kilroy, senior sales associate," he says, shooting finger-guns at them. "I couldn't help but notice you admiring our Caracal-7. Excellent choice! Very popular with up-and-coming pilots. You must have quite the eye, Miss...?"

  "Mila," The mink supplies.

  "Mila! Beautiful name for a beautiful lady." Vance's grin somehow gets wider. "And you're absolutely right about the Caracal. But between you and me?" He leans in conspiratorially. "We just got in a Phantom-X that would be perfect for someone of your obvious talents. Only sixty thousand! Heck, for you, I'd round down a little and make it sixty out the door…"

  "I don't have sixty thousand," Mila shakes her head.

  "Oh, but that's the beauty of Tantalus Premium Financing!" Vance produces a datapad from nowhere. "We do it all in-house! Bad credit? No credit? No prob here! Low monthly payments, competitive rates, and you could fly out of here today in a top-tier fighter. Why settle for good when you could have great?"

  Mila looks away, rubbing her chin with an unsure face.

  "Because 'great' costs twice what she has," Trigger interjects.

  Vance's smile flickers for just a moment before returning full force. "And you are?"

  "Her captain."

  "Her captain, of course." Vance's eyes fall down to the bags of clothes in Trigger's hand before returning to Mila. "But surely you understand the value of investing in proper equipment? The Phantom-X has military-grade shields, enhanced targeting systems, even a small cargo hold for those lucrative courier missions… Or a place to stash your, uh, captain's gifts. The payments would practically make themselves!"

  "At what interest rate?" Trigger asks.

  "Well, that depends on credit history, down payment, various factors-"

  "Thirty thousand down. Give me a number."

  Vance's friendly mask slips. "Twenty-two percent APR for first-time buyers."

  Did he really just say…

  "Twenty-two percent?" Mila gasps.

  "That's highway robbery for half the value down," Trigger states with a frown.

  "Now see here," Vance's voice takes on an edge. "This is a premium establishment offering premium financing for premium fighters. If you can't appreciate-"

  "She wants the Caracal-7," Trigger cuts him off. "Can you finance the difference between her funds and the price?"

  "I... well..." Vance deflates slightly. "That would only be eleven thousand credits. Hardly worth the paperwork."

  "So no?"

  "I didn't say that!" The salesman shoots back. "But for such a small amount, the rate would be higher," he glances down at his datapad. "Say, twenty-eight percent. And really, at that point, why not go for something better?"

  Trigger's frown is slowly transforming into a scowl, and as he begins to wonder what the salesman's greasy neck fur would feel like between his hands, his wristcomm beeps. The noise cuts through his murderous thoughts, and he glances down, expecting a message from one of the team, but instead finds something else entirely.

  Three listings for Caracal-7 fighters, all within one jump of Tantalus. One on a station at the edge of the sector for 35,000 credits. Another on a mining planetoid for 36,500. The third, practically next door on Tantalus's industrial satellite, for 37,000, and according to the listing, in better condition than the showroom model.

  The messages have no sender ID.

  Trigger's eyes narrow. There's only one entity with access to his comm that could pull market data this quickly. A mix of irritation and… immensely grudging appreciation flickers through him.

  Nidhogg is listening, and apparently, trying to help. He'll deal with the AI's eavesdropping later.

  "Interesting," Trigger says, holding up his wrist to show Vance the listings. "Same fighter. Better condition. Twenty minutes away. Five thousand credits cheaper. Care to explain?"

  Vance's eyes dart between the listings and Trigger's face. "Well, those are... that is to say... Our models come with premium service packages, extended warranties, and-"

  "The one in the industrial satellite is listed as 'dealer refurbished' too," Trigger continues. "So what makes yours worth the markup?"

  "Our reputation!" Vance sputters, his composure cracking. "We're the station's premier fighter dealer! When you buy with us, you buy with confidence! You can't just compare prices without considering-"

  "Get me another salesperson," Trigger says flatly.

  "I... what?"

  "Another salesperson. Someone who can explain why I shouldn't walk my partner to a competitor offering better value."

  Vance's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "But I… There isn't… Look, sir, if you'd just-!"

  "Let's go," Trigger says, turning to Mila. "Industrial satellite's only twenty minutes by transit."

  "Wait! Hold on! Lady, don't let your boytoy bully you like that!" Vance calls after them, but Trigger's already walking away, Mila trailing behind.

  They make it halfway across the showroom floor before Mila speaks, her voice small. "I really wanted that one," she says, shoulders slumping.

  "I know," Trigger says, not slowing.

  "The swept wings, the profile... it was perfect." Her ears are flat against her head. "But you're right. Twenty-eight percent is insane. I just..." She sighs. "I got so excited, you know? Finally getting rid of the Sparrowhawk, finally having something that won't fall apart if someone looks at it wrong."

  "You'll get your fighter," Trigger assures her as they reach the exit. "Just not from a predator in a purple suit."

  She manages a small smile. "Thanks. For keeping me from doing something stupid. I probably would've signed whatever he put in front of me."

  "Don't worry about it."

  His wristcomm beeps again. This time it's a proper call, Eli's identifier flashing on the small screen.

  Trigger shifts his bags to one hand and taps his wrist, accepting the call. "Eli," he greets.

  "Trigger," Eli's voice crackles through. "Found us some work. Sending you the details. You done playing dress-up with the tubesock?"

  Mila makes an indignant noise that Trigger ignores in favor of opening up the message Eli just sent.

  FROM: E. GUNJAR (MVF REVIVED)

  TO: TRIGGER (MVF STRATOS WYVERN)

  TIMESTAMP: 1337:45 LST

  SUBJECT: Work Found - Escort Detail

  Trigger,

  Got us a job. Details below:

  CLIENT: Meridian Communications LLC

  CONTACT: H. Torval (Site Manager)

  LOCATION: Docking Ring 7, Berth 14-A

  BRIEFING: 0530 LST (Tomorrow morning)

  MISSION TYPE: Escort/Overwatch

  OBJECTIVE: Protect MCS Wavelength during comm buoy replacement operation

  LOCATION: Sector GH-7719

  DURATION: Est. 6-8 hours including transit

  PAY: 10,000cr per fighter (40k total for 4-ship escort)

  HAZARD PAY: 3,000cr per fighter if hostiles engaged

  NOTES:

  - Replacing decaying NavCom Buoy #4421-B

  - Previous buoy experiencing "irregular signal decay" (client's words, not mine)

  - Site is 0.3 parsecs from nearest patrol route

  - Client seems nervous about "equipment failures" in the area

  - Bringing full team recommended

  Ten thousand credits for a single day's work? Trigger has to hand it to Eli for a good find like this.

  "Client wants to meet the whole team before signing off." The eagle continues. "Nervous type, but the money's real. How close are you to Berth 14-A?"

  Trigger taps his wristpad, pulling up a map. "Twenty minutes. We'll be there," Trigger confirms, ending the call.

  He looks at Mila, whose glum face is gone after she reads the amount of credits that might be coming their way. "Come on. Let's get this meeting out of the way. We'll check the industrial satellite after the job."

  "Promise?" she asks, perking up further.

  "Promise."

  As they head for the transit station, Trigger makes a mental note to have a very specific conversation with Nidhogg about boundaries, eavesdropping, and unsolicited assistance.

  …Though he has to admit, it was convenient.