Three Strikes & Black Skies

"C'mon, Jodie, it's not that hard!"

"You go straight to hell, mink!"

From his place sitting crosslegged on his bunk, Trigger watches his crew's antics with a corner of his mouth quirked up.

With the Aquila in drydock undergoing repairs, Strider Squadron had to be moved to an unused set of quarters at the Libret shipyard orbiting the planet of Killigan. The reactor replacement and the scheduled radiation clean-up that had to follow was the main deciding factor on the change of quarters.

The Haul-o-Rex and her crew made it to Killigan's orbital depot, a few thousand kilometers away from the shipyard, successfully; considering how the hauler escaped the dogfight a few days prior without so much as a scorch on its hull, Farworth was more than willing to wait for Strider to be back in fighting shape before moving on to the next stop.

However, in the aftermath of the recent attack that claimed several Libret frigates less than a lightyear away, the orbital fort-slash-shipyard is filled to the brim with reinforcements from other sectors. Even with Commander Kale's well-earned hospitality, both in repairing the Aquila and their provisional housing in the meantime, they've had to make due with a single set of quarters made to pack eight men in a tight space.

At least, Trigger thinks, there is no shortage of entertainment in the meantime.

On the tiled floor in front of the four bunk beds, Stella and Mila are in the middle of some morning stretches. Stella, it seems, is an early bird and woke up long before any alarms to sit and meditate for a bit. Trigger snapped awake as soon as something moved around him, and kept an eye on the skunk.

The rest of the crew groggily followed, and when Mila awakened, she spied Stella and decided to join in. Once Jodie was awake, Mila bothered the coyote until she joined them.

Or tried to join, at least.

Between Mila and Stella, Jodie shakes and struggles, trying to emulate the seated toe-touch both manage quite easily. The coyote's fingers are a few inches short of her goal, as she can't quite seem to manage the last few degrees of bend in her spine.

Mila and Stella, on the other hand, are both laid across their own legs without so much as a tremor. Mila's flexibility isn't a surprise, but Stella is unexpectedly limber.

'Maybe it's not that surprising,' Trigger muses. 'Being a criminal forces exercise on you.'

"Don't push it if it's starting to hurt, hon," Stella offers, sitting back up and brushing her short hair out of her eyes. "Forcing it can tear the muscle fibers instead of lengthening them, and you'll just end up stiff for a week. Stretch until you feel tension, not pain." Her gaze darts to Trigger for a second, like she half-expects him to punish her for speaking.

Jodie grumbles something under her breath and gives up, instead standing and returning to her bed, where she sits heavily. Her still-frizzy hair and the rumpled, oversized shirt she slept in make her seem all the more grumpy.

Back on the floor, Mila laughs at the sour look on Jodie. The mink then shows off, spreading her legs slightly, planting her hands on the floor side-by-side, then lifts herself up into a handstand by pivoting her body back. Before her shirt can fall and flash everyone, she flips forward onto her feet. "Ta-da!"

Mila's self-preening is cut off when a pillow hits her square in the face with a whump!

Lowering her hand with a smirk, Jodie easily ducks the return throw.

Trigger returns his attention to the disassembled pistol neatly laid out on his bed.

The Havoc Mk7 Laserbolter, which he traded his 9mm service pistol for, is certainly hardware made with military use in mind. The blocky gun is all right angles and machining marks half-heartedly hidden with a dark matte finish. The replaceable rubber grip panels, made to be gouged by claws for grip in white-knuckle firefights, is the only concession for comfort.

Trigger picks up the barrel assembly, turning it over in his hands. The business end houses the pulse laser emitter, a crystalline focusing array that would cost as much as a car back on Strangereal. But here? Standard issue, mass-produced by the millions. You can find replacements for as low as 300 creds in calmer areas of the galaxy.

The magazine well in the grip accepts a standardized power pack, made using the pragmatic 'Universal Pak - Pistol' or UP-P standard pioneered by Corneria, with the other standards having their own suffixes, like R for rifle. A few companies and governments, the Hajiti Collective in particular, make some proprietary weapons and ammo, but UP is still everywhere.

Putting the barrel down, Trigger inspects his spare mag, labeled Defender Series Rugged Pak - UP-P - Thrufite Labs.

It's a deceptively simple little box containing both a battery and a strip of naonite. One trigger pull sends a precise AC charge through a few micrograms of the metallic element, which undergoes some kind of breakdown that releases what Jodie had called 'mass-binding particles.' These novel elementary particles flood the firing chamber just as the pulse laser fires, somehow latching onto the photons and giving them actual mass.

The result? A bolt of heavy light that hits as hard as any powder propelled slug, with less recoil and a more shot-dense ammo source.

'Photons don't have mass on their own, do they? Nor should they ever be able to gain it, at least, I think,' he wonders. 'Seems like it breaks physics… Then again, FTL also breaks physics, and the universe still continues on. Starting to realize how little I understand.'

Trigger rolls the mag in his fingers, feeling its weight. A hundred shots per magazine, or twenty-five on overcharge mode, according to the manual. The naonite strip in each one is thin, only a few microns thick. The rest of the magazine's bulk is the battery used for energizing the exotic element and powering the gun's pulse laser.

'Naonite, trinium, xanion, ogonite, so many elements we never discovered,' he muses, reassembling the pistol as quickly as he can. Once it's whole in his lap, he waits for the sound of a buzzer only he can hear, then pulls it apart again, fingers moving in a cycle, over and over, until he's certain his weapon can be serviced blindfolded.

The laserbolter clicks together again with a satisfying sound, then seconds later, is in pieces again.

Whole.

Field stripped.

Whole.

Field stripped.

Whole.

Each one makes the next attempt a fraction of a second faster.

A grunt from across the room draws his attention. Lars is doing push-ups between the bunks, counting under his breath in what sounds like Sapinish, and Trigger has to wonder how much Lars' first language actually resembles Sapinish, or if he's just hearing things.

Eddy's eyes are glued to the TV on the wall, and it is a god-honest TV, not a holo projector, if impossibly flat on the wall. On the screen a pair of identical parrot women sing some of the most pop-styled music Trigger has ever heard between jumpshots of beach scenes. From how his head bobs in tune to the rhythm, it's uncertain what has more of Eddy's attention—the music itself, or their malfunction-waiting-to-happen bikinis.

We gotta get away, get away, get awaaaay from it all! Ditch the tie, don't be shy, the sun and sand is all you need!~♪

The tune is pretty catchy, though.

Eli, meanwhile, sits at the sole desk, pecking at the terminal on it with one talon while his cybernetic eye occasionally flickers, likely showing him something on his implant's HUD simultaneously.

The morning continues at its lazy pace for a time. Trigger checks his wristcomm once his field strip drills begin to yield only marginal improvements, and finds himself with a smile as a new message comes in.

FROM: LT. COMMANDER HARKINS - KILLIGAN ORBITAL DEFENCE LOGISTICS

SUBJECT: RE: VR Training Request

Captain Trigger,

Your request for two squads worth of VR booths has been approved. We've set aside Booths 12-19 in Training Bay C for Strider Squadron's use from 0900-1300 today.

Given your recent assistance with the Sovereign incursion, it's the least we can do. Please remember to keep the affiliate mercenary access cards provided to you handy, as officers may request to see them.

Your 'friend' will not be hassled during your stay, but please warn her to try not to stand out.

- Lt. Cmdr. Harkins

Trigger types a quick reply thanking the quartermaster, then stands, setting his reassembled pistol on the bed. The movement draws everyone's attention.

"Listen up," he announces, voice carrying easily through the cramped quarters. "I've secured us some VR training booths for the morning. We're going to use this downtime productively."

Mila perks up, while Jodie groans from her bunk. Eli simply nods, already logging off the terminal.

"Everyone get dressed and ready to move," Trigger continues. "Light breakfast, then we train."

Lars is already pulling a fresh shirt from his duffel. "About time. The last few days have been a bore."

Everyone starts moving except for two. Eddy, who'd been watching the girls on the small wall-mounted screen, turns with a confused expression. Stella, who finished her stretches and returned to her bunk, remains seated, uncertainty written across her features.

"That means you two as well," Trigger adds, looking between them.

Eddy's eyes widen. "Wait, what? But I'm not a pilot! I'm more of a... ground support specialist." He gestures vaguely at himself. "You know, doing all kinds of important… stuff. Stuff that isn't flying!"

"I understand that," Trigger replies evenly. "But I expect everyone on my crew to be able to handle a fighter in an emergency. Everyone trains."

"But I don't even know which end of a joystick is up! I'll probably crash into the first asteroid I see, or worse, one of you! That's just asking for-"

Trigger's eyes narrow slightly.

Eddy's protests die in his throat. "Right. Training. Got it. I'll just..." He scrambles to his feet, making for the bathroom, only to get there half a second after Jodie, who slips inside and locks the door with a triumphant click.

"Ha! Too slow, scales!" comes her muffled voice through the door.

"Dibs after her!" Mila is quick to call, jumping between Eddy and the door with folded clothes and a towel in hand.

"Oh, come on!" Eddy whines, slumping.

Stella remains frozen on her bunk, watching the chaos pensively. When Trigger turns his attention to her with one eyebrow raised, she seems to get the message.

"I'll... get ready," she says quietly, standing and moving to gather her things, careful to stay out of everyone's way.

The bathroom and its single shower is once again the bottleneck of their morning, but once everyone is washed and dressed, they can finally leave.

Opening the air-tight door of their bunk and stepping out, Trigger looks up and is once again hit with a thrill.

High above them, hanging like a great vaulted ceiling, is the planet of Killigan, so close it feels like one could jump and fall upward into the emerald planet's gravity. The planet and the wreath of stars around it take up the entire open sky of the orbital station, which is without any solid top layer.

Even after having an Ensign explain that the open-air bottom of the station is protected by an unearthly atmo-shield, stepping out into a futuristic, yet achingly familiar airfield with seemingly nothing between them and cold vacuum is still a touch alarming.

Trigger tears his gaze away from the impossible sky and takes in their surroundings. The bottom level of the orbital station is laid out remarkably like an air base back on Strangereal - rows of hangars with their massive doors, squat administrative buildings, and blocks of barracks housing the garrison. The familiar geometry brings a pang of something he can't quite name.

The main difference is the lack of runways. Since nearly every starfighter here can take off using VTOL systems, what would have been kilometers of tarmac back home is instead filled with more structures - maintenance bays, supply depots, and defensive hardpoints. The efficiency of it appeals to him, even as part of his brain insists something is missing without those long strips of concrete.

Trigger glances down at the reinforced deck plating beneath his boots. Somewhere below, through layers of armor and structural supports, the actual drydock clings to the station's underside (overside?). He can picture it in his mind - the Aquila and several wounded Libret frigates wrapped in anti-grav scaffolding like insects in metallic cocoons, repair crews swarming over hull breaches and burned-out systems, slowly erasing the scars of battle.

"You coming, Trigger?" Mila's voice breaks through his thoughts.

He turns to find his crew waiting a few paces behind, all watching him with varying degrees of patience. Eli taps his talons against his thigh, while Lars seems content to enjoy the artificial morning air.

"Let's move," Trigger says, leading them across the open space toward a low building simply marked 'commissary'.

The commissary doors slide open as they approach, their ID cards chirping softly as the scanner reads them. Inside, the smell of processed protein and synthetic coffee fills the air. They grab boxed meals from rugged, soldier-proof automated dispensers, with Trigger splurging for his team and buying the more expensive variant that is actually dispensed fresh and hot for each of them.

With their food in hand, they eat crowded into a single booth in the corner, where Libret navymen at other tables regard them with whispers. More than one finger points towards Trigger, and a few lonely eyes from the mostly male tables steal longing glances at Mila, Stella, and Jodie.

After breakfast, they make their way to the main administrative complex, an imposing structure of poured concrete and steel that rises several stories from a square of astroturf. Their boots echo in the lobby as they cross to the bank of elevators. Yet again, they're subject to looks from the various navymen inside.

The descent takes longer than expected, the digital display counting down through sub-levels. Training Bay C is deep in the station's superstructure, protected by layers of armor and redundant life support systems. When the doors finally open, they emerge into a dark, chilled corridor lined with numbered doors.

"Booths 12 through 19," Trigger reads from the placard on the wall, pointing down the hall. "This way."

The booths are arranged in short hallways, with four doors on each side. Each one a sealed pod with a heavy door marked with its number. Everyone claims their spot and settles in, the doors hissing shut with pressurized seals.

Inside Booth 12, Trigger drops into the padded seat that materializes under him and pulls up the control interface. The holographic menu springs to life around him, offering dozens of pre-loaded scenarios - everything from basic target practice to full fleet engagements, but at the bottom of the list, he finds what he's looking for: Custom Scenario.

He lifts his wristcomm. "Nidhogg?"

"Standing by," comes the flat reply.

"Is that side project I asked for complete?"

"Affirmative. Scenario compilation is ready for upload. Initiating transfer now."

The menu flickers as new options populate the list, each one tagged with ominous designations that would mean nothing to anyone but him.

In Booth 15, Mila fidgets with her controls, adjusting every setting until the hardlight cockpit perfectly matches her Caracal's layout. The familiar placement of switches and displays brings some comfort, but as she settles back to wait, her mind drifts to the skirmish three days ago.

The Sovereign Navy pilots had been different. Not just skilled, but disciplined. Where pirates broke formation at the first sign of real resistance, the Vipers had maintained their attack patterns even while their friends died in fireballs around them. She'd spent most of the fight just trying to stay alive, managing only occasional shots when someone else had drawn their attention.

Eli went toe-to-toe with them, taking on two or even three at once and keeping pace. Lars could brute force his way through with his gunship's superior armor and firepower. Even Trigger had... well, Trigger had been Trigger. Any enemy pilot who even thought about engaging him went up in smoke.

And her? She'd barely contributed with her three kills across a few dozen Vipers. The thought sits heavy in her stomach.

'Stop it,' she tells herself firmly, shaking her head. 'That's why we're here. To get better. To learn. Trigger has got all kinds of stuff to teach, and I'll learn it all!'

Her thoughts are interrupted by Trigger's voice crackling through the comm system.

"Everyone linked up?"

"Ready," Eli responds, sounding almost eager.

"No, not ready! Very not ready!" Eddy's voice climbs toward panic. "Can't I just watch? C'mon, captain, you know I'm just gonna drag things down. Don't you flyboys want a fun time? I'm really good at observation and all, I swear!"

"I've prepared some non-standard training for today," Trigger continues, ignoring the gecko's protests.

"Define non-standard," Eli says, interest clearly piqued.

"Please don't define it," Eddy whimpers. "I already don't like the sound of this."

"I had Nidhogg compile custom scenarios using combat data from Strangereal. Not just from my missions, but from recorded deployments of other ace squadrons as well."

The comm falls silent for a beat.

"Other aces?" Lars asks carefully. "Like... how ace are we talking?"

"The best," Trigger replies simply.

Mila swallows hard. She's heard Trigger's stories - pilots who could take on entire squadrons alone, weapons that defied physics, battles that sounded more like mythology than military history. Stella's continued silence on the comm reminds her that the skunk has no context for any of this, probably wondering what fresh hell she's stumbled into.

"Stand by while the scenarios load," Trigger continues. "We'll split into two flights for the first exercise. I'll take Eddy, Jodie, and Stella. We'll run through basic dogfighting drills. Need to get our newcomers up to speed and evaluate capabilities."

A pause, then: "Eli, you'll lead the second flight. Take Lars, Mila, and..."

There's a hesitation that makes Mila lean forward.

"...and Nidhogg will occupy the fourth slot."

"Wait, what?" Mila blurts out. "The AI's flying with us?"

"Affirmative," Nidhogg's voice joins the channel. "Loading combat protocols now."

"Your flight gets the advanced scenario," Trigger finishes. "Eli has tactical command. Don't hold back, these sims are meant to push you."

Before Mila can get another word in, the starry idle screen of her cockpit canopy dissolves into static, then goes black. After a few tense seconds, text types itself out on the virtual canopy.