Dominic Hughes stood at 170 cm, weighing in at 87 kg at 28 years of age. With a stout build and a perpetually jovial expression, his broad shoulders and barrel chest spoke of both strength and indulgence.
"CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
And currently, he was downing a pint of vodka.
The restaurant buzzed with excitement. After all, Squad Alpha had just completed a three-star two stripe, one of the toughest missions available—and they'd pulled it off without a scratch.
The Veritas mission classification system, based on stars and stripes, was something they knew all too well. Stars were the major denominator that determined the class of the mission. One-star missions were simple enough, while two-star tasks introduced substantial risks. But at three-stars, the danger became significant. Meanwhile stripes were the minor denominator. Each star had three levels of stripes with one stripe being the least perilous and three stripes marking a nearly impossible task. So the levels went: 1 star 1 stripe, 1 star 2 stripe, 1 star 3 stripe, 2 star 1 stripe and so forth.
The mission they had just pulled off was a three-star two stripe mission, one of the toughest out there. The payout, even divided among the five of them, was enough to let any average citizen retire comfortably.
"PUAH!"
"WOOOOOAHHHHHH!"
The restaurant roared as Hughes slammed his empty pint glass onto the table, vodka dripping from his beard. Luna—a compact storm of scarred knuckles and cropped black hair—whistled and tossed a napkin at his face while Rufe's thunderous laugh drowned out the applause. Jax rolled his eyes and pushed his untouched cocktail away.
"Barbaric," Jax said, wrinkling his nose. "You drink like a gutter in monsoon season." Sitting ramrod straight, he had a platinum-blond knot and frosty glare at odds with what Hughes had just done.
Hughes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. "Got a drink in you and suddenly you're full of cheek, huh? At this rate we should pregame before missions." He jabbed a finger at Jax's glass. "Though with real drinks. What even is that? Looks like a garden threw up in it."
Luna snorted, stealing the umbrella and tucking it behind her ear. "Let him live, Hughes. Not everyone's a caveman with a liver of steel."
"Thank you, Lu—" Jax said primly—just before she stole a sip of his drink and gagged.
"Ugh. Tastes like perfume and regret."
"Amateur," Jax muttered, swirling his Elderflower Spritz with artisanal ice. "Wouldn't recognize a proper bespoke cocktail if it—"
"—If it what?" Hughes leaned in, grinning. "Beat you like Theon's scores at the range? Three bullseyes. Blindfolded."
"That was a malfunctioning sc—" Jax' protest died as Rufe clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger a rhino, his muscles rippling and tattooed neck thicker than Hughes' thigh.
"He still beat you with iron sights!" Luna managed to squeeze as nearly choked laughing.
Rufe grinned. "Face it, brother. The kid outshot you, out-thought you on the Brekov mission, and looks better doing it."
Jax's eye twitched. "...Freakishly calm weirdo."
"Aw, don't pout," Hughes chuckled. "We all know you're just mad he spotted that ambush from the damn truck."
Luna flicked a peanut at Jax. "Just admit it. You love having a human radar on the team."
"I love not dying," Jax muttered into his glass. "Doesn't make him less creepy when he blinks at sniper fire."
Luna flicked a peanut at Jax, her smirk softening. "He's steady. Like… you know you're covered." She glanced at Rufe, mischief flashing. "Unlike some people who yell 'CONTACT!' at garden gnomes."
Rufe pointed accusingly. "That gnome was armed! I announced a potential threat! With situational awareness!"
Hughes scanned the table, frowning. "Where's the kid? He better not be filing the damn report already."
Luna rolled her eyes. "You know Theon. Probably dissecting his gear or practicing. Again. Or maybe he's resting this time, I think he mentioned managing something like a fund raiser or gala or something. "
Jax sniffed. "Or he's just avoiding your legendary hangovers."
Amidst the raucous laughter, a sudden, sharp buzz from Hughes's communicator sliced through the air. He squinted at the screen, then groaned louder than a dying engine. "Ugh. Ren says..." He affected a perfect imitation of their boss's dry monotone: "'Congratulations on the mission. Save some liver capacity for the after-action report. The date for the council meeting has been determined, it's next Monday. Play nice while I'm gone—'" Hughes' voice jumped an octave as he read the last part, "'and Dominic, try not to burn the place down.'"
A wicked grin split his face. "You know what that means, kids? Daddy's home." He spread his arms wide, nearly clotheslining a passing waiter.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos.
"OH HELL NO!" Luna slammed her palms on the table, sending silverware jumping. "There is no universe where this drunken raccoon gets command!"
Jax pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced up as if seeking god. "I'm formally requesting immediate transfer to literally anywhere else. Even the sewage treatment division."
Rufe just stared into the middle distance, whispering: "We're all going to die."
"Rejoice, peasants! Your glorious new leader promises three things: More booze! Less paperwork! And—" He paused to snatch the cocktail umbrella from Jax's drink, planting it behind his ear like a crown. "Mandatory mustache Fridays."
Luna mimed vomiting. Jax started typing furiously on his tablet—probably drafting that transfer request. Rufe began counting his fingers like he was calculating survival odds.
They were all exaggerating of course, Hughes regularly took the position whenever Ren was busy. Play nice? Please. He'd kept this circus alive for years—even if it meant letting them think he was just the clown.
Rufe shook his head. "How's our boss the only one who can go from cracking skulls to crunching numbers without missing a beat?"
"Tragic case of corporate corruption," Hughes declared, raising his fresh pint. "To Ren - may he someday remember what fun tastes like and may his soul someday escape spreadsheet purgatory!"
The team echoed the toast, glasses clinking as Hughes added under his breath: "And may those Council pencil-pushers stop wasting his time with their—"
"Dominic." Luna kicked his shin under the table. "They monitor these channels."
Hughes blinked innocently. "What? I was gonna say... sparkling personalities.""Though now that you mention monitoring..." He made an elaborate show of turning his communicator facedown.
The table erupted in groans. Hughes opened his mouth for another quip—then froze as the restaurant's lights caught their glasses just right, painting liquid gold reflections across their faces. A slow, genuine grin spread across his features as he stood, chair screeching like a battle cry.
"To Vertias!"
"TO VERITAS!" the group echoed, their glasses clinking together as the energy in the room soared once again.