Three Strikes & Black Skies

Aboard the Great Fox, life has descended into an unusual peace.

Oh, things were different for sure, but peaceful, so Fay is counting her blessings. When it comes to team Star Fox, things are never normal, but just getting to slow down a bit is novel enough on its own.

After the diplomatic mission-turned-cluster on the environmentally protected planet of Sauria, the new addition to the crew in the form of a blue-furred Cerinian of all people shook things up for a few weeks. What went on between Krystal and Fox down on Sauria is anyone's guess, but Fay isn't blind. From how her captain steals little glances at the blue vixen when he thinks she isn't looking, something neither mentioned happened down there. Krystal's little smiles when she catches him may as well paint both of their hands red.

Years ago, seeing such a thing would have made the Spaniel heiress green with envy. How dare this little trollop just waltz in and charm her captain, the most wanted bachelor in known space? The name Fox McCloud is on every other woman's lips aged sixteen to a hundred and sixty, and the amount of hand-written love letters Fox gets a month necessitates a whole team in Corneria City's central post office to handle. Krystal never suffered the embarrassment of infatuation or the friendship-ruining rows over who would be Missus McCloud in the schoolyard, so how dare she?

But as they say, never meet your heroes. It only took one time catching Fox drinking straight from the milk carton in his boxers one dreary midnight in the kitchen to realize how normal he actually is.

Handsome and dashing, Fox is, but nowadays he's a beloved friend who moonlights as eyecandy.

"Who the fuck is 'Third Strike?!'"

Falco's enraged shout echoing off the walls is the first thing to hit Fay's sensitive ears when she steps into the Great Fox's lounge, and she stops to rub them with a grumble.

It might be a bit specist of her, but jeez, do birds always have to talk so loud?

Inside the spacious room, she finds Falco standing outside one of the VR booths in the corner, his face set into a deep, grumpy frown as he smoothes over his indigo feathers. On the nearby leather L couch (that Miyu begged Fox to buy, what with its massagers, footrests, gadget chargers, and other goodies), Slippy and Miyu both sit, dumbfounded and amused respectively.

"You don't have to yell, hotshot," Miyu leans back and flicks a tufted ear, looking at the wall-spanning holo-screen by the booths, where spectators can watch whatever games or training is going on in the land of VR. "So someone beat your high score. Who cares? Just beat them back."

"No one should have been able to beat my score in the first place!" Falco jabs a feathered finger at the screen. "I've held the number one spot in the Impossible Rakali Siege for a solid year. A year, Miyu. You know why? Because I optimized it. I squeezed every last point out of that scenario until there was nothing left to squeeze." His wings spread in exasperation. "To down all the targets faster and keep all the allied POIs undamaged? It can't be done. I did the math. I ran the simulations. It. Cannot. Be. Done."

Fay knows the scenario he's talking about. The Impossible Rakali Siege Scenario is one of Space Dynamics' more sadistic additions to their hit simulator Anysim, a solo gauntlet that she's attempted more times than she'd care to admit. Even flying a new Arwing and pushing herself to her limits, she can only crack 250,000 points before something gives. Either the timer runs out, or she eats one too many bolts, or some friendly structure she was supposed to be protecting goes up in flames while she's busy elsewhere.

She's certain that if she was allowed to use an accurate rendition of her own SFArwing Limited IV, then she could finish it, but Peppy rightfully shot the idea down, saying the galaxy doesn't need to know the specs of their customized fighters.

Fox was the first to actually beat it. Fay remembers the splash it made on the leaderboards, the way both gaming and merc forums lit up with speculation and breakdowns. And she remembers how Falco, unable to stomach his rival threatening his place as the "best pilot in the galaxy" threw himself at the scenario until he claimed the top spot with an even higher score.

They traded that crown back and forth for a while. Then Falco finally nailed what he called a "perfect" run, and that was supposed to be the end of it.

Apparently not.

Fay steps further into the lounge and leans forward on the back of the couch, her eyes finding the scoreboard displayed on the holoscreen.

At the top: 3RDSTRIKE - 546,600

Below that: REAL_F_LOMBARDI - 545,400

And third: FOXMCCLOUD - 542,200

The list continues downward, scores dropping off rapidly into the 400,000s, with the score in 10th place a comparatively paltry 302,700. Fay squints at some of the names further down, recognizing a few handles she's seen on competitive gaming circuits and streaming platforms.

'Whoever this '3rdstrike' is, they're in good company,' she thinks. 'Or bad company, depending on how Falco takes it.'

Falco whirls on Slippy, one wing gesturing sharply at the frog. "This guy's gotta be a cheat. Tell me he's a cheat, Slippy. Run your little diagnostic thing."

Slippy is already fishing a datapad out of the front pocket of his overalls. His stubby fingers tap across the screen, and he hums tunelessly as data scrolls past. After a moment, he shakes his head.

"Sanity check says the run's legit," Slippy reports, turning the pad so Falco can see. "This '3rdstrike' person really did beat the IRSS." He pauses, tilting his head. "But it wasn't a perfect run. Looks like they racked up a bunch of bonus points by flying with handicaps enabled."

Falco's feathers bristle. "Handicaps like what? What was he flying in?"

Slippy scrolls down, his eyes widening a fraction. "Uh... Wow. I didn't know flying in a grav-module pod with no inertial dampening was worth so much. That got him like fifty-k alone. As for what he flew…He hit 'random' and got a last gen Thunderer."

Miyu lets out a low whistle. Fay blinks, her mind turning the information over.

The Thunderer, if she's remembering right, is an older Macbeth multirole design that gets its name from a powerful, belly-mounted plas-missile launcher. Outmoded by newer fighters for sure, but still a solid pick that lots of old vets swear by. Regardless, doing the IRSS with no inertial dampening...

"Bullshit," Falco snaps, cutting through her thoughts. "Total bullshit. You know why? The climax of that siege requires a hazard-filled, high-speed tunnel run with hairpin turns to get into the core of the hostile flagship for a quick takedown. Anything less takes way too much time, and you bleed points." He makes a sharp gesture with one wing. "Pulling those maneuvers with full inertia? In a mail truck like a Thunderer? You'd turn yourself into ground meat. Either that or you'd blow out your VR booth from the stress. Whoever this guy is, he's cheating. Has to be. Who is he, Slippy?"

Once more, the squat toad types away at his datapad, skimming but not really reading. "Hmm… Not much personal activity in the usual places, but from what I'm seeing, he's a frontier guy from a newly formed PMC that registered in Libret space. Lots of chatter about him recently, but who knows how much is real?"

Miyu lets out a thoughtful little hum, leaning over to look at Slippy's screen.

"Bah!"

With that declaration, Falco turns on his heel and marches back into the VR booth. The door hisses shut behind him, and a moment later the holoscreen flickers to life with a fresh instance of the Impossible Rakali Siege.

At the bottom of the display, a small icon appears: INERTIAL DAMPENING: OFF

Miyu barks out a laugh, her tail swishing beside her on the couch. She tilts her head back to look up at Fay, eyes bright with amusement. "So? What do you think?"

Fay runs a hand through her ear fur, smoothing down the white fluff as she watches Falco's fighter streak into the first wave of enemies.

"If that score is real..." she murmurs, trailing off.

"If it's real and this new hotshot really is flying some wacky Gs…" Miyu's face cracks into a minxy little grin. "Do you think he's got steel buns?"

"That, or another set of steel somethings for working Falco up into such a tizzy," Fay dryly comments.

It's difficult with the sweat dotting his brow and the faint haze of smoke curling from the VR booth behind him, though.

Jodie stands before him with her hands planted firmly on her hips, her gaze flicking between him and the sparking, slightly singed pod. One eyebrow climbs steadily higher.

"Did you really have to do that?" She asks, sounding more even than he expected.

"It was a good workout," Trigger says, keeping his voice level. "And a stress test for the onboard VR systems." He pauses, then adds, "I'll be making a note to purchase heavier-duty pods when funds and means allow."

Jodie stares at him for a long moment. Her exasperation is capped off with a resignation that reminds Trigger of every other crew chief he's worked with in the past, and part of him has to wonder if this is what it's like getting "The Look" from a disappointed parent.

Finally, she sighs. "I'll get to work on fixing it up."

"Appreciated."

Trigger turns and power-walks toward the hangar door, his pace just a hair too quick to be casual. He rounds the corner into the corridor and nearly collides with Mila, who is leaning against the bulkhead with a grin stretched across her muzzle and her shoulders shaking with barely contained giggles.

Mila falls into step beside him, her smaller hand slipping into his as they walk through the hangar. Her fingers curl around his palm, and after a moment, her grip tightens.

"How'd you break one of the pods?" she asks, glancing up at him with curiosity dancing in her ruby eyes. "Your hand's shaking a little, and that's more sweat than I've ever seen on you!"

Before Trigger can respond, Mila's pink nose twitches. She leans in, pressing her face against his collar, and inhales deeply.

"Oooooh..."

She pulls back with a blush creeping beneath her cream-colored fur, her ears folding back and her tail curling.

Trigger clears his throat, feeling heat prickle at the back of his neck. "I ignored the overload warnings for the pod's grav systems," he admits. "I asked Nidhogg to find a solo scenario of appropriate difficulty, and the one he selected was... fitting."

Mila drifts closer again, nose twitching, and Trigger catches her by the shoulder before she can bury her face in his shirt a second time.

"Work appropriate," he says. "We're on duty."

The mink shakes her head as if clearing it, then offers a sheepish grin. "Sorry, sorry. You just smell really good right now." She takes a steadying breath. "So what scenario did Niddy pick?"

Mila's wristcomm keys like Nidhogg is going to admonish her for the nickname again, only for a sound like a sigh to come through before it goes silent.

Trigger frowns, searching his memory. Once the flying started, everything else had faded into background noise. The scenario name, the score tracker, even the steadily climbing G-forces, all of it had blurred into unthinking instinct and reflex.

"Something… Rakali," he says after a moment. "I got into the zone. The details slipped."

Mila perks up immediately. "The Rakali series? That's super popular with pros!" She nods to herself, seemingly satisfied. "No wonder Niddy picked it. He probably figured you'd want something that'd actually make you work for it. You know that Falco Lombardi has the record on almost all of them? He-"

Her voice trails off as they approach the center of the hangar, drowned out by the sounds of exertion.

A large square of interlocking gym mats has been laid out on the deck plating. There, Eli has a gasping Eddy trapped in a headlock, one arm locked around the gecko's throat while his free hand presses a blunted hardlight knife against the scales of his neck. Eddy's legs kick uselessly, his claws scrabbling at Eli's feathered forearm and his thick tail slapping the mats with a deep thud-thud!

Off to the side, Stella watches with her arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between sympathy and morbid fascination. Beside her, Catrina stands with perfect posture and an air of studied boredom, her tail flicking idly behind her.

All of them sport loose casual wear, with Stella in a pair of hip-hugging shorts and a halter, and Eddy bare chested with a set of trunks. Eli's own plate carrier is absent in favor of a faded tank top and plain shorts, and Catrina…

Trigger's eyes narrow a little.

The sweatpants and simple t-shirt have to be borrowed, as the shirt is too loose in the chest, filled only by Catrina's considerable chest fluff, and the waistband cords of the sweats are drawn tight. Despite the ill-fit of her clothes and the thick fur, the body below is oddly… Lean. Maybe toned is the better word. It's not the figure of a socialite who tried to cry advanced age to avoid physical exertion.

How curious… He doesn't dwell on it too long, however, and looks away before his stare grows inappropriately long. With that, his thoughts return to their mission.

The Mining Consortium escort mission has, so far, gone off without a hitch. Their route due north to LOSA space was uneventful, the convoy of ore barges lumbering along at a sedate pace while Strider Squadron held the vanguard position. The rearguard team and two auxiliary escorts had been skeptical of a single Javelin-class corvette's ability to take the most dangerous role, with the rearguards, a downright pleasant outfit calling themselves "Headhunterz," (And don't forget the Z, monkey!) demanding they swap positions.

Surely the extra fifty thousand credits Strider was being paid as the vanguard didn't factor into their concern.

An agreement for a "friendly match" was struck. All weapons were dialed down to training mode, safeties engaged, the whole nine yards, and Strider clashed with the rival team outside a fuel stop.

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All twelve Headhunterz pilots were downed within three minutes, and their captain refused to say another word for the rest of the mission.

Now, two weeks of fastlane cruising later, the Aquila sits at the border of LOSA space with their clients loitering a few hundred kilometers behind them, waiting to be let in.

And waiting.

And waiting.

They arrived four days ago. The normal processing time anywhere in civilized space is twenty-four hours, tops. If this grinding bureaucracy is what LOSA is defined by, Trigger is glad he brought Catrina aboard. It has to be all the worse for Stella, who is only a stone's throw away from the warrant for her arrest being worthless.

With so much downtime, the crew has had to find ways to entertain themselves. Eli, it seems, has chosen to make it the non-combat members' collective problem.

"Fucked it up again," Eli clicks his beak and slightly loosens his hold, letting color return to Eddy's face. "I told you. When a melee weapon comes out, what do you do?"

The gecko sucks in a deep breath, trying to look back at the eagle pinning him. "Run away?"

"This is a confined space scenario, moron."

"Pull out my gun?"

"What gun, smartass? Try again."

"Uh…" Eddy tries to gulp, but it's hampered by the knife under his adams apple. "You uh… Do the thing, you know? The thing you're supposed to do…?"

Eli lets out a long-suffering sigh and releases the lizard, who scrambles back to his feet. "Reset!" Eli barks.

Eddy snaps into a shaky stance like a whipped dog being ordered to sit, hands up and leaning too far forward… Or so Trigger thinks. The team crook's tail is a considerable counter balance.

Giving his knife a shake, Eli points it at Eddy. "When a bladed weapon like a knife comes out, your first priority when you can't get away is to control it. You take the wrist-" he steps forward, taking Eddy's hand and planting it on the wrist of the hand holding his knife "-and you divert. Do not use both hands, because your other one should be coming at my face, at eyes if you can. Anything you can do to stun and make space is what you should be doing. Get it?"

Eddy nods rapidly, his eyes narrowing. "So like…"

Without any warning, the gecko twists around on a heel, and his tail comes spinning around right for Eli's shins.

"...This?!" Eddy lets out a smug little cackle.

The cackle turns into a wheeze when Eli simply jumps over the attack and snaps a kick into Eddy's back, laying him out flat on the mat.

"Don't get cute, gecko," Eli sneers down at the moaning form on the floor. "You try any hammy kong-fu shit in real life and it'll get you killed."

"Got it…" Eddy groans.

Catrina's ice-blue eyes drift toward them, and the corner of her muzzle twitches upward.

"Captain. Miss Minks." She inclines her head in greeting. "Will you be joining us for our self-defense lessons, or will you be continuing with your leisure time?"

The jab is subtle, but Trigger catches it. A pointed reminder that while the rest of the crew sweats on the mats, he's been off "playing video games".

"If you wish," he says evenly, "I can assist. Though Eli is a considerably better teacher in this area than I am."

Eli waves a dismissive wing without looking up from Eddy, who is still groaning on the mat. "If you two want to exercise, go pull out more mats and do your own thing. I don't need some wiggly tubesock and a gibbon on adreno-chems to look after on top of these three."

Mila sputters. "Tubesock? Gibbon?! Hey!"

"Hey!" Eddy mirrors her shout and pushes himself up onto his elbows, his earlier defeat apparently forgotten. "How come Jodie and Lars aren't getting the rough treatment with the rest of us? Why's it just me, the doc, and the stiff?"

Catrina lets out a little scoff at the "stiff" comment.

"Coyote is busy doing real work," Eli says flatly. "And Ortiz not only already knows how to fight, he is getting started on lunch." He fixes the gecko with a hard stare. "Now get up and stop complaining."

Eddy grumbles something under his breath but complies, hauling himself back to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man marching up the gallows stairs.

Mila tugs at Trigger's sleeve, her earlier indignation already replaced by a familiar spark of mischief. "Wanna go a round with me?" She grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'll be gentle!"

Trigger considers for a moment. It's not like they're doing anything else, so he shrugs. "Why not?"

Twenty minutes later, after changing into more appropriate attire and dragging a stack of additional mats from rear storage, they square off in the back of the hangar toward the engine room, fittingly between the Wyvern and the Caracal. Mila rolls her shoulders and drops into a loose stance, her weight balanced and her tail swaying behind her. Trigger mirrors her, keeping his hands up and his posture relaxed.

Conflict is as old as time itself, and everyone has opinions on how to go about it, with many focusing on if it's better to move first or second.

Mila clearly subscribes to going first, as she is on him within a second.

Normally in a situation like this, a man might be tempted to pull his punches or softball for his girlfriend. Despite what people say about skill conquering all, size and reach matter in a fight. Trigger has both advantages over Mila.

And he cannot afford to sideline either of them.

The mink, he thinks as he ducks under a high kick that would have rung his skull like a bell, has to have been some kind of drunken fist master martial artist in a past life. Her moves are wild forms mixed with wilder instinct, combinations that trash any sort of conventional prediction. Add in her flexible, deceptively powerful frame, and it's like trying to box a tornado.

Trigger is faster, and stronger too, but neither is doing him any good.

Mila presses forward with a flurry of quick jabs, testing his guard. He parries two, slips the third, and counters with a straight punch aimed at her jaw. She twists at the last second, letting his fist graze past her, and steps forward to snap a knee toward his ribs.

He catches it on his forearm, but the impact still stings. Before he can capitalize, she's already spinning away, forcing him to dodge a kidney-aimed kick that would have left him on the ground.

"C'mon, Trigger!" She beckons with one hand as she bounces back a step. "You're not even trying!"

He is, though. That's the problem.

He closes the distance this time, throwing a combination with all the speed he can muster. Mila ducks the first and is already weaving under the second in the same motion, and somehow turns his third strike into an opportunity, grabbing his wrist and using his own momentum to pull herself inside his guard.

An elbow clips his chin, just hard enough for stars to flash in his vision for a moment.

Trigger resets, shaking off the sting. He feints low, then snaps a hook toward her temple. She reads it, drops under the arc of his arm, and drives a palm strike into his solar plexus that forces a grunt from his lungs.

'Am I that easy to read?' he wonders during a half-second where no fists are flying. 'Or she's just that good at improvising.'

He tries to create space, backpedaling to reset the engagement, but Mila doesn't give him the chance. She surges forward, fakes a high strike that draws his guard up, and then drops, rolling through his legs before he can react.

Trigger spins, already knowing he's too slow, and then a pair of strong legs wrap around his neck from behind. Mila's momentum carries them both, her body coiling around him like a vice as she throws her whole weight backwards and wrenches him off balance.

He goes down hard, his back hitting the mat with a thud.

For a moment, Trigger's instincts scream at him to escape, to buck and twist and fight his way free, but then his brain catches up with his circumstances, and he finds himself... distracted.

Mila's thighs are clamped firmly around his head. Strong, yes. Dangerous, certainly, if she squeezed harder.

Also soft. Very soft. The spandex shorts she's wearing don't block the feeling of plush fur or the vanilla-mink scent practically forced up his nose.

'...Huh.'

Only by remembering that they're not alone does he push back the sudden, burning want to snuggle in deeper, and too soon, Mila lets go to stand.

"Phew! You're so quick, Trigger!" The mink chirps like she didn't just manhandle him. He takes her offered hand, and Mila helps him to his feet with a theatrical grunt.

"...Not quick enough, apparently," Trigger replies once he can put words together again, hoping his face isn't red. He wipes at his face as if to brush away sweat, and it doesn't feel too warm…

Mila hops back to her side of the square, and now it's impossible to not notice the bounce of the tight sports bra restraining her breasts, or the slight, almost invisible protrusions right in their middles.

'Based on the size of the outlines and accounting for deformation caused by the spandex of the sports bra, her nipples must have a diameter of-!'

The calculation is rudely cut off by a punch that comes within an inch of busting his jaw.

"Attention. Priority transmission incoming, addressed to the Captain of Mercenary Vessel Aquila." Nidhogg announces.

Trigger and Mila pause mid-grapple. Across the hangar, Eli releases Stella's ankle, letting her pull back into a distracted kick-boxing form.

The man pries himself from Mila's now-slack hold and rises to his feet, rolling his shoulder. "Who's calling?" he asks, looking at one of the RK-4s by the stairs to the bridge.

With any luck, it's the Mining Consortium's representative finally telling them that the LOSA border agents have contacted them and they can get on with the second half of this job.

"The caller has identified themselves as..." A brief pause, as if the AI is parsing something unusually verbose. "Majordomo Icarus Ganrland of the Duchy of Ganrland, serving at the pleasure of, and calling on behalf of, the Supreme Lord of Ruling House Rosamond D'Safnord, Masters of the Reach."

Trigger blinks.

Across the mats, Eli's expression darkens into a scowl. Catrina's studied boredom evaporates, replaced by something sharp and attentive.

'Not a call I can ignore, then.'

"Mila." Trigger turns to her. "Go get my flightsuit from the bedroom."

The mink nods, already moving, her playful demeanor reluctantly shelved.

Trigger catches Eli's eye and jerks his head toward the bridge, then glances at Catrina with a similar signal. Eli falls into step beside him as they leave the hangar, throwing on his usual dark attire where he left it folded on his fighter. By the time they reach the bridge, Catrina has joined them, her borrowed workout clothes replaced by a tailored suit. Not a single strand of fur out of place, as if she hadn't been sweating on gym mats five minutes ago.

'How did she manage that so fast?'

Mila arrives moments later, Trigger's flightsuit bundled in her arms. He takes it with a nod of thanks and steps into it, zipping up to hide the sweat staining his undershirt. It's not ideal, but it's better than taking a call from foreign nobility looking so disheveled.

"What should I expect here?" he asks, glancing at Eli.

The eagle's beak clicks once. "Sovereign Reach is a mess of warlords dressed up in fancy titles. Their internal borders shift constantly, and the only diplomacy they know is the gunboat variety." He crosses his arms, feathers still ruffled from exertion. "All their 'noble houses' are little more than jumped-up pirates and the descendants of freaks with too much money."

"It's more complicated than that."

Catrina's voice cuts in smoothly, and both men turn toward her. She stands near the communications console, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp.

"I've never worked within Reachic law or politics," she admits, "but they make for a fascinating case study of both topics." Her tail flicks once behind her. "House Rosamond D'Safnord rose to prominence during the second war between Andross and Lylat, after many of the other houses overextended their support to the losing side. Notably, they neither condoned nor condemned the actions of Andross or their fellows. They occupy the central territory of the Reach now, and they maintain their hold through ruthless displays of power and a carefully cultivated mystique."

She pauses, one claw tapping against the console.

"No one has ever seen the Supreme Lord. Some speculate that the title belongs to a ruling council rather than an individual. Others question whether the Supreme Lord exists at all, or if it's simply a fiction the crown's vassals unknowingly perpetuate by serving an empty throne. Either way, a direct vassal of the Supreme Lord reaching out to an unaffiliated mercenary crew is…" She trails off, eyes narrowing a touch in thought. "Unprecedented."

"Stick around and 'unprecedented' will get pretty precedented before long," Mila pipes up from behind them.

"Mila, please wait outside," Trigger turns his head to look back at her. "No slight intended, but…"

Blinking, Mila looks down at herself, studying her damp clothes and matted fur. "Oh, right!"

With that, she takes her leave, but not before stopping at the door and turning back around. "Trigger, can we please do some renovating and get one of those big multi-sprayer showers? Because the ones in the girls bathroom suck! Do you know how long it takes to really clean a hydrophobic coat like mine? A long time! You gotta agitate the top layer, then work soap past it and-"

Mila can really chatter with the best of them…

"We'll look into better bathing facilities when it comes time to upgrade," Trigger stalls her with a raised hand. "Shop around and earmark a few that look interesting, and I'll discuss it with Jodie."

Her eyes sparkle at the thought of digging into a shopping catalog, Mila bounds away, the door hissing shut behind her.

"-wasted on the young…" Catrina mumbles something Trigger only half catches, then folds her hands behind her back.

Trigger glances at Eli. "If this Ganrland recognizes you, will there be friction?"

The eagle's beak curves into something that isn't quite a smile. "If some Sov duke knows who I am off the cuff, it'll be a good litmus test for how dirty his hands are."

'Comforting.'

Trigger turns to the communications console and accepts the transmission. The system prompts him with display options, and he notes that the incoming signal wants to default to the bridge's 3D holo projectors rather than the standard flatscreen.

'Grandiose indeed,' he thinks, pressing 'connect'.

The projectors hum to life, and before them materializes the enlarged upper half of a chimpanzee.

The chimp is past his prime. His dark fur has gone gray in places, most notably around his jaw, where it has grown out into a neatly trimmed beard. His outfit is a deep green parade uniform, crisp and immaculate, with the left breast decorated with seven medals arranged in two rows of four over three. The hologram's resolution is sharp enough that Trigger can make out the writing on several of them.

Heroic Service to Our Reach. Survivor of Venom's Fall. Prisoner of War.

A red half-cape drapes over his right shoulder, and the uniform is capped with a beret bearing a gold pin. The design depicts multiple hands gripping a single sword as one.

The chimp's dark eyes sweep across the three of them. If there is any reaction upon seeing Eli, it's so subtle that Trigger misses it entirely.

"Captain." The voice is polite without being familiar. "I apologize for the abrupt nature of this call. I hope I have not caught you at an inconvenient time."

Trigger inclines his head. "It's no trouble, Duke Ganrland. I'm Trigger, captain of the Aquila. With me are my executive officer and a crew member."

He offers no names for the other two. No sense giving away more than necessary.

Ganrland's lips curve into a faint smile. "There is no need for coyness, Captain Trigger. While the visage of 'Wanting Yellow' is not quite so infamous as that of Fox McCloud, any Reachic serviceman worth his salt knowsallhis enemies, past and present, well."

Even as he speaks, the ape's gaze drifts back to Eli. His fingers rise toward one of the medals on his chest, then stop partway, the gesture aborted before it can complete.

Trigger takes a measured breath. "I assume this call is regarding the conflict between my team and a Sovereign fleet in the Griath region of Libret territory several weeks ago."

He's been expecting this. Strider Squadron was responsible for likely hundreds of deaths that day. Of the Sov frigates downed, all suffered catastrophic damage with all hands lost. The cruiser that Trigger split in half was worse than the rest of the losses combined. He counted two dozen escape pod launch points on the starboard side of the vessel before it broke apart, so it's reasonable to assume forty-eight total pods between both halves.

Between all of them, he saw a mere six pods launch successfully.

Ganrland's expression firms, the polite warmth cooling into something more official. "It is," he begins. "The Sovereign Reach presence in that region was strictly for relief efforts aimed at our impoverished and oppressed neighbors," Ganrland continues, his tone nothing but rock-solid belief. "The actions of Captain Yowler, commanding officer of the detachment involved in the incident, were unsanctioned by the Order of Great Houses and the Reachic Centralized Navy. An internal investigation into the incident is ongoing."

Trigger blinks.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Eli's shoulders shifting. The eagle was clearly expecting this to be a far less cordial exchange as well.

'How truthful any of that is, however...'

Ganrland's hands clasp behind his back. "Video review of the incident made its way to the Supreme Lord, on whose behalf I speak. His Lordship not only wishes to extend his thanks for stamping out a rogue element within the proud Reachic Centralized Navy, but also to express his admiration of your crew's skills." A pause. "It is a rare thing to see four lone fighters turn away a fleet and break the back of a cruiser. Even one as poorly led as the detachment under Captain Yowler."

'Is he praising us, then cutting us down? Or just trying to brush off shame by association?' Trigger withholds a frown.

"In fact," Ganrland continues, "the Supreme Lord was so impressed that he wishes to inquire about the services of Strider Squadron."

'Ah. There it is.'

Trigger inclines his head, keeping his expression neutral. "We are flattered by the praise, Duke Ganrland." He ignores the way Eli is visibly struggling not to scowl. "However, due to the nature of our profession, availability and capability are difficult things to promise on short notice. Any contracts proposed by the Supreme Lord, House Rosamond D'Safnord, or any other House will require review by my crew."

He pauses, letting the words settle.

"Additionally, we are currently engaged on a job, with another lined up immediately after. I apologize for any inconvenience, but it would harm our professional integrity to abandon our current assignments."

Ganrland is quiet for a moment. The duke's gaze shifts to something off-screen, a display they can't see, perhaps, before returning to Trigger.

"Of course. I understand completely." His tone remains pleasant and unruffled. "The Supreme Lord does not have a particular contract in mind at the moment, but there is no shortage of work to be done for the betterment of the Reach and its people. Should you find yourselves with idle hands or empty coffers, know that the bountiful Reach provides for those with the spirit and conviction to work hard and cultivate exceptional skills."

They exchange closing pleasantries, the kind of hollow courtesies that exist purely to end conversations gracefully, and then the hologram flickers out.

Trigger exhales slowly, reaching up to rub at his temple. "That was more of a pain than the vows of vengeance I was expecting."

Eli cracks a small smirk at that, but it fades quickly. His arms cross over his chest. "You're not seriously considering working with the Sovs, are you?"

Trigger's head throbs. To his annoyance, he can feel a headache starting to build behind his eyes. "I said what I meant. Any contracts have to be approved by the crew as a whole. If there's an objection from anyone, we don't take it."

Eli lets out a breath through his nose. "That's disgustingly reasonable."

"I try."

Catrina, who has been silent throughout the exchange, steps forward. "A word of caution, Captain." Her eyes hold his. "Law and order in the Reach ebbs and flows with the influence of the Houses. A contract with a Reachman should never be considered ironclad."

Trigger turns toward the bridge door, his hand still pressed to his temple. "Then someone will eventually become an example of what happens when you stiff Strider Squadron."

The door hisses open, and he steps through.

As he walks, a small, traitorous (but is it actually traitorous, though?) part of his mind wonders if it would be inappropriate to ask Mila to squeeze his head between her thighs again.

Who knows? It might help with the headache.