The bar wasn't much to look at from outside—half-sunk into the ground, with cracked paneling and a sign that no longer lit up. But inside, the place breathed.
Low light washed the room in amber and smoke. A narrow stage glowed in red neon at the far end, long dormant, now repurposed as a liquor rack. The scent of old wood, engine oil, and spice-rubbed glass hung heavy in the air.
Scattered across mismatched stools and patched booths, a handful of regulars nursed drinks and half-finished meals—mechanics, runners, a medic or two.
From a dusty speaker in the corner, a track played low and warm—crackling vinyl feed, unmistakably analog.
Miles Davis. "Blue in Green."
Soft, mournful, and slow as a confession.
Arlen recognized it the moment he stepped through the door. He didn't say anything—just paused for a beat.
Rei followed with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Did I miss something? Feels like a scene I've walked in on before." he muttered.
Arlen shrugged off his coat. "It's a classic. Might fix your taste"
Behind the counter, the bartender looked up.
She was tall, sharp-eyed, and wore an old band tee torn at the neck and cut into a crop, the collar hanging just low enough to offer a glimpse of skin and the shadow between. Silver rings on both hands. Hair coiled in a messy twist, streaked copper in the dim light.
And the side of her neck bore an old barcode tattoo, half-faded, mostly covered.
She leaned one elbow on the bar and raised a brow.
"Drink or trouble?"
Rei slid onto the nearest stool, grin sharp. "Start with the drink. Trouble can wait."
Arlen unwrapped his scarf, voice low. "Hey, Jex. Can I get my usual?"
Jex turned, met his eyes, and smiled, "Hey, Mr."
She reached up, back arching slightly as she pulled a glass from the rack above. Behind her, the wall bore a faded poster of the Chicago Bulls—Jordan mid-air, tongue out, frozen in flight.
The corners were curling. Someone had scrawled grid coordinates over the score box in thick black marker. No one remembered why.
She poured the whiskey without asking. Neat, dark, two fingers. Slid it toward Arlen like muscle memory.
"Didn't think I'd see you this week," she said, smiling—not wide, but warm. "Figured you were busy."
He met her eyes. "Work's been... a lot."
"Mmm." She picked up a glass, wiped it slowly. "Mentoring the new girl, right?"
Arlen didn't answer right away.
"Lina," she added. "Pretty one. Sharp."
"It's not like that."
Rei raised a brow, glancing between them. "Should I leave?"
"No," they both said—at the same time, then not at all.
He exhaled, half-smiling. "Cool. Now can I get my drink, or should I come back in ten?"
She laughed under her breath. "Relax, Rei. I haven't forgotten you."
Jex turned away to pull a glass for Rei. She moved with a practiced ease, hips shifting just enough to draw eyes—and one pair in particular. She dropped a cube into the glass, poured a slug of sweet vermouth—dark and red as old velvet—and leaned back on her palms.
"What do you want, Arlen?"
He held her gaze. Like something between them was moving quietly beneath the surface.
"Just checking in." he said.
She didn't answer.
Just leaned forward against the bar, weight on her elbows, the neckline of her tank dipping low enough to catch the eye if he let it.
"Heard the girl gave you trouble."
Her tone was light, mocking.
"Got your stance blown—tell me, Arlen, getting soft?"
Then quieter:
"Senn won't like that, you know. Not when you're throwing punches at his favorite piece on the board and lit up your base in one move."
A muscle near his eye twitched, once.
"So your little birds have told you everything."
Arlen picked up the glass and tossed the whiskey back in one shot.
Then set it down with a dull knock.
Rei cleared his throat. "Well. I'm off to Sector Four tomorrow."
He raised his glass. "Since neither of you bothered to ask, I figured I'd announce it myself. If I don't come back, I expect someone to cry. Just a little."
He drank.
Jex didn't laugh this time.
She topped off Arlen's glass, then raised the bottle in the air.
"Hey," she called, loud enough to cut through the low hum of the bar.
"We've got someone heading out tomorrow—Sector Four."
That got a few heads turning.
"Rei," she added. "You know him. You've sworn at him. He's covered your flank, fixed your gear, and grilled meat for half this room when the kitchens broke down. He's still the best shot in this bar, even after two bottles."
Scattered chuckles broke out.
Jex grinned, "Come back in one piece, yeah?"
That got real laughter.
Then she raised her glass high.
"For the ones who go when no one else will."
The room answered—sudden, raw, rising.
"Sector Four!"
"For the runner!"
"To the mad bastard with the loudest boots!"
Glasses slammed. Fists hit tables. Someone banged the wall with a wrench.
Rei blinked, halfway through a grin. "Shit," he muttered. "Now I actually have to come back."
Jex just clinked her glass against his.
"You better."
Arlen raised his glass.
"Brother," he said. "Make it back."
A beat.
"I'll hold your bunk till then."
They clinked.
Rei muttered, half-smiling, "Don't change the sheets."
The bar began to thin out.
Chairs scraped. Bottles clinked. Someone started humming over the old record player.
Rei disappeared out the back with three people and a promise to come back louder.
Arlen stayed.
Not talking. Just tracing the rim of his empty glass with one finger.
Jex wiped down the bar, slow, eyes on him now and then. Not pushing.
Finally, she said, "You crashing here or wandering?"
He didn't answer. Just stood, followed her when she moved toward the back door.
Jex didn't turn on the overhead light—just flicked the lamp near the bed, flooding the room with a warm, amber glow.
He paused at the doorway, hand resting on the frame.
His gaze flicked across the room—bed, lamp, the folded towel on the chair.
Jex didn't wait.
She reached back, fingers brushing his wrist before closing around his hand—firm, steady. Then she tugged him in, laughing under her breath.
"Don't be shy."
The room was warmer than he remembered—low lights, soft carpet underfoot, and a woven throw draped over the back of the chair. She'd even swapped the thin cot for a proper mattress. Not new, but clean.
Arlen scanned the space.
On the shelf near the bed, something caught his eye—a small analog clock with exposed gears ticking behind cracked glass. New.
"You don't usually keep things that tick," he said quietly.
Jex bent down to unlace her boots. "I don't usually keep much," she said. "But I like this one. Feels real."
She kicked the boots off, then glanced over her shoulder.
"I heard about the girl," she added, tone shifting without warning. "Her arm wouldn't stop bleeding after the fight."
Arlen said nothing at first.
Then he sat down, elbows on his knees, voice low and without its usual armor.
"Six of us died." Arlen said, voice flat.
He didn't look at her.
"Thorne. Ressa. Eban. Burned through for a target no one understood."
Jex didn't move.
"They sent us in blind and called it strategy. I thought it'd be worth it."
He looked down at his hands. Callused, scarred, slightly shaking.
"And now Rei's going back to Nine. Then to Four. Like it's a game we already know the end of."
Arlen stopped talking. He sat, eyes fixed on nothing.
Jex shifted closer quietly, enough that her presence filled the silence between them. Her hand found his shoulder—steady, gentle pressure. He felt the warmth through the fabric, familiar and safe.
She leaned in, her breath soft against his ear.
Arlen turned slightly. For a moment he breathed with eyes closed, feeling the quiet rhythm of her breath against him.
Then he turned fully toward her. His fingers found her face, tilting her chin upward, and he kissed her—tasting whiskey and warmth and everything from her.
She didn't pull away.
Instead, her hands slid to his back, slow and deliberate, drawing him in.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. His fingers found the hem of her shirt, paused there for a beat—long enough to let her stop him.
She didn't.
So he pulled it upward, fabric brushing warm skin, mouth finding hers again before the cloth hit the floor.
This time, she kissed back harder.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders.
Somewhere behind them, the lamp still burned.
Muted gold spilled across the sheets, catching on skin, on scars, on breath.
Then the light went out.
The engines were already humming when Arlen stepped onto the launch platform.
Four transport units—Ashhounds lined the access rails—rust-scarred, armor-stitched, their low-core reactors pulsing faint blue beneath the chassis vents.
Exhaust curled like steam ghosts into the morning air.
Rei was already on the step rail of the lead hauler, adjusting the sling on his rifle.
Lina stood beside him, eyes scanning the ridge, face unreadable.
Her right arm hung at her side, wrapped in thick white bandages that climbed past the elbow. Elya hovered just behind her, one hand on her back.
When the ramp dropped, she moved with her.
The Ashhound's hatch groaned open with a hydraulic hiss. Someone slapped the side twice—go-time.
Arlen didn't wave. Just watched.
A hand touched his shoulder—light, brief.
Jex stood beside him, eyes on the horizon.
"Didn't get to say this last night," she murmured.
"Heard chatter from Sector Two. Church has been buying up chips and medtech—bulk stock, mostly. Including some routed toward Sector Four."
She didn't look at him.
"No details yet. But it smells like prep."
Arlen exhaled.
"I can't help them now."
The haulers were already dusting the far end of the ridge.
"I've still got Senn on my back."