Holt didn't dress up for the contract closeout.
She showed up in a rain-dark coat with mud on her boots and a tired face that had learned how to look calm even when it wasn't. Two militia officers followed her into the hangar office like sentries, carrying sealed cases and a stack of paper that smelled like chemicals and bureaucracy.
The hangar office was a narrow room bolted onto the side of Bay Three—too small for the Dire Wolf's shadow, too small for the basin's problems, but it had a table, a heater that worked when it felt like it, and a wall map that had been stabbed with pins so many times it looked infected.
Taila stood near the door, slate in hand, posture straight enough to be armor.
Jinx lounged in a chair she hadn't been offered, boots on the table like she owned the place. She'd gotten bolder over the last two weeks—less afraid of being told to leave, more comfortable acting like she belonged.
That change was dangerous.
It meant she believed it.
I sat across from Holt and watched her set the cases down.
"Contract completion," Holt said, voice rough. "Two weeks of stability. No Ash Hound activity in basin perimeter. No raids on convoys. No comm spikes that match their old signatures."
Jinx raised a hand. "So you're saying we fixed capitalism."
Holt stared at her.
Jinx lowered her hand. "Okay, serious face."
Holt opened the first case. Inside were stamped documents—local authority letters, salvaging rights, transit clearance, and a single MRBC-style bond certificate printed on heavy synth-paper with security threads. It wasn't a full MRBC registration (Holt didn't have that pull), but it was close enough to get you through a lot of checkpoints without someone deciding your DropShip should be searched "just because."
Holt slid the stack toward me.
"This keeps your crew legal in three systems that matter," she said. "And it keeps you from being declared pirates by some bored port commander who wants an excuse."
I flipped through the pages. Names, dates, seals.
It felt strange, seeing the last month of violence condensed into administrative language.
**ASSET RECOVERY.**
**LOCAL SECURITY STABILIZATION.**
**HOSTILE ORGANIZATION ROUTED.**
My father's death would've been a line in a ledger too, if Kess had gotten what he wanted.
I signed where Holt pointed.
Taila watched my pen the whole time like she was memorizing how a man became "official."
Jinx watched Taila watching and smirked.
When I finished, Holt opened the second case.
This one had the numbers.
A credit stick. A transfer authorization. Salvage rights. A list of captured equipment that the basin couldn't use and was willing to sell off cheap rather than store.
"Your payout," Holt said. "Plus salvage shares agreed in the contract addendum. Plus a bonus for—" her voice tightened, "—removing Kess."
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't have to.
The numbers did it for her.
I checked the transfer amount and felt my jaw tighten slightly.
It was enough.
Not enough to buy a DropShip outright, not enough to pretend we were a proper merc company with a hangar deck and a legal department.
But enough to change the shape of our future.
Jinx leaned over the table, eyes bright. "We're rich."
"We're solvent," I corrected.
Jinx grinned. "That's what rich people say."
Taila didn't smile, but she leaned forward a fraction, eyes on the stick like it might vanish if she blinked.
Holt glanced at Taila. "You're still here," she said.
Taila stiffened. "Yes."
Holt's gaze shifted to me. "She's your responsibility."
Taila flinched at the word.
I didn't.
"Yes," I said.
Holt nodded once, as if filing it under *acceptable risk.* Then she slid a third item across the table: a small data wafer in a sealed sleeve.
"What's that," I asked.
"Everything we could pull from the Ash Hounds' network," Holt said. "Cleaned. Copied. Redundant. Payment routes, contact relays, dead drops. Enough to make sure their replacements don't grow in the dark."
I looked at the sleeve, then at Holt.
"You're giving me this," I said.
Holt's mouth tightened. "I'm giving you a problem. Because if you're smart, you'll keep moving until the problem can't catch you. And if you're stupid and you stay, you'll become the next basin story people tell each other when the rain is loud."
Jinx leaned back. "She's so romantic."
Holt ignored her. "One more thing."
I waited.
Holt's voice dropped. "There was a comm ping three nights ago. High altitude. Tight-beam. Didn't match your gear or ours. It didn't do anything. No follow-up. Just… a presence."
Taila's shoulders tightened.
Jinx's grin faded a fraction.
Holt looked directly at me. "Your handler's still breathing."
Sable.
I nodded once. "I know."
Holt stood. "Then we're done."
She paused at the door and, without turning, added, "You bought us time, Jarn. Don't waste it."
Then she left, boots echoing down the hangar corridor.
The room felt warmer after she was gone, even with the heater barely working.
Jinx immediately slapped the credit stick lightly with two fingers. "So. Shopping."
Taila's eyes flicked to me, cautious. "We… can afford it?"
"We can afford something," I said.
Jinx leaned toward Taila, voice conspiratorial. "A medium. A heavy. A cute little murder-machine just for you."
Taila's face flushed. "Don't call it—"
"Your first mech," Jinx said, softer, and for once she didn't joke. "Your first choice.:
Taila went still at that.
Choice was a strange word for her. A word that didn't sit comfortably in her mouth yet.
I pocketed the credit stick and stood. "We leave tomorrow."
Jinx blinked. "Oh. We're doing it fast-fast."
"We don't stay on a finished contract," I said. "Not with a missing handler and a dead employer. The ledger chain will look for a new grip."
Taila nodded slowly like she understood that kind of logic better than comfort.
Jinx sighed dramatically. "Fine. But I'm picking your outfits for the port."
Taila's eye narrowed. "No."
Jinx smiled like she'd already won. "Yes."
---
The DropPort sat on a neighboring world, one jump and a short burn away—an industrial hub that survived on repairs, resales, and mercenary desperation. The kind of place where people didn't ask why you needed a replacement gyro at 0300, they just asked how you were paying.
Our ride was a leased Union-class hauler Holt had arranged through a friendly captain who owed her favors. It wasn't ours. It wasn't safe. But it was legal enough to move three 'Mechs without attracting the kind of attention that came with military transponders.
Space wasn't romantic.
It was empty and cold and full of ships that could kill you from distances that made personal courage irrelevant. We stayed in the hauler's belly, strapped into acceleration couches, listening to the hull creak and the engines hum.
On the second day, when the ship's gravity stabilized and the fear of sudden death dulled into routine, I caught myself counting again.
Twenty-nine days.
Thirty.
Thirty-one.
Each day since the first contract had felt like a separate life.
Taila sat across from me on the mess bench with a sim manual open on her slate, lips moving slightly as she read. Jinx lay sprawled along the opposite bench, pretending to nap, occasionally opening one eye just to see if Taila was looking at me.
Then she'd smirk and adjust her shirt "accidentally" lower.
Taila had started doing smaller versions of the same thing. Not brazen like Jinx—more like she was experimenting with permission.
Two weeks ago, she would've hidden herself under baggy workwear. Now she wore a fitted tank under her jacket and left the jacket open just enough to show she wasn't trying to disappear.
It was subtle.
And it worked.
I noticed.
Which, apparently, was the point.
Jinx sat up halfway and stage-whispered to Taila, "He's staring. Mission accomplished."
Taila choked on her water. "He's not—"
Jinx leaned in and gave Taila a quick, playful swat as she stood to move past.
Taila froze, cheeks flaming. "Jinx!"
Jinx grinned. "Port prep. Confidence training."
Taila glared like she wanted to file a formal complaint with the universe.
I kept my voice level. "Enough."
Jinx held up her hands. "Yes, boss."
Taila muttered, "Thank you."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
They'd started giving each other casual touches now—shoulder bumps, quick hugs in narrow corridors, half-asleep leaning that neither of them would've tolerated from anyone else a month ago.
And sometimes, when the ship lights dimmed and the engine hum turned into background, they'd drift closer to me too—Taila's hand brushing mine briefly like she was checking if I was still real, Jinx kissing the corner of my mouth in passing like it was normal.
It was becoming normal.
That was the part that made me the most alert.
Normal is where you get sloppy.
So I held the line: slow, disciplined, no forcing.
And when Taila asked—quietly, late at night—if she could practice in the ship's sim bay again, I said yes.
Because fear doesn't disappear on its own.
You train it into something useful.
---
The DropPort world was all metal and smoke and rain that tasted like chemicals. The city sprawled around the landing fields like a parasite—repair yards, auction lanes, bars, contract boards, and fenced compounds where expensive machines sat under floodlights like idols.
We offloaded the Dire Wolf and Highlander into a secured merc holding lot, paid for a guard detail that looked bored but competent, and then walked—hoods up, boots splashing through puddles—into the mech market district.
The market wasn't one place. It was a network of lots and hangars with painted numbers, brokers leaning on rails, and buyers pretending not to be desperate.
Taila moved close to me without thinking.
Jinx moved close to Taila on purpose.
She leaned toward Taila and murmured, "Remember: you're not property. You're crew."
Taila's throat worked. She nodded once.
We passed a row of battered lights—Locusts, Wasps, Jenners—cheap, fast, and fragile. Taila looked at them with something like longing and fear mixed together.
Then we passed the mediums.
That's where her gaze stuck.
A Centurion sat in one lot under a tarped awning, armor scuffed and repainted, but the silhouette was solid—broad shoulders, stable stance, a machine built to take a hit and keep walking. Its right arm mount was unmistakable even without a weapon installed.
A broker noticed Taila looking and smiled like a man who smelled credits.
"Centurion chassis," he called out. "Reliable. Forgiving. Easy maintenance. Good for new pilots. Old FedSuns workhorse."
Jinx whispered, "It's cute."
Taila shot her a look. "It's— it's not cute."
"Everything is cute if it's yours," Jinx replied.
I stepped closer to the Centurion and scanned its frame: joint seals intact, actuator housings not visibly warped, patch welds done by someone who knew the difference between "looks good" and "won't shear under load."
The broker leaned in. "CN9 series. Comes with a standard kit: autocannon mount, missile rack, lasers. We can refit depending on budget."
Taila's eyes flicked to me. "Autocannon?"
"Stable punch," I said. "And missiles give you range control."
Taila swallowed, still staring at the machine like it might reject her.
Jinx looped an arm through Taila's and squeezed lightly. "You don't have to be perfect in it. You just have to be alive."
The broker tried to insert himself into the moment. "It'll run you—"
I cut him off with a look. "We'll inspect the cockpit."
His smile stiffened. "Of course."
He led us into the lot's small office, pulled up registry records, maintenance logs. Taila stood close, hands clenched, eyes tracking every detail like she was afraid this was a trick.
It was a trick, in the sense that markets always are.
But it wasn't sabotage.
Not this time.
I checked the serials. Checked the service record against the physical wear.
Then I looked at Taila.
"You want this one," I asked.
It wasn't a command.
It was an opening.
Taila hesitated. Her voice came out small. "What if I ruin it."
Jinx whispered, "Then we fix it. That's literally our thing."
Taila blinked, then—slowly—nodded. "Yes."
The broker's eyes brightened. "Excellent. We can—"
I named a number.
He laughed like it was absurd.
I didn't.
He stopped laughing.
We negotiated the way mercenaries negotiate—cold, precise, with the understanding that no one here was anyone's friend. The broker tried to inflate price based on "demand." I countered based on "wear" and "risk." He tried to upsell refits. I kept it basic.
In the end, we bought the Centurion and a spare parts package: actuators, seals, a backup sensor array, and enough ammo bins to keep it functional without begging for supplies in the first week.
When the transfer cleared and the broker stamped the registry under Taila's name—*Taila Jarn, crew designation pending*—her hands shook slightly.
She stared at the paper like it was a holy text.
Jinx leaned in and kissed Taila's cheek, quick and proud.
Taila went red. "Jinx—"
Jinx smiled. "You own a mech now."
Taila whispered, almost disbelieving, "I own a mech."
I watched her say it like she was trying the words on for size.
It was dangerous.
It made her real.
Real things can be taken.
That's why people like Sable preferred inventory.
Taila looked up at me. "Thank you."
I nodded once. "Earn it."
Her mouth tightened into something determined.
"I will," she said.
---
We stayed three days at the port to finalize paperwork, arrange transport, and let Taila sit in the Centurion's cockpit without pressure.
The first time she climbed the ladder, she froze halfway up, breathing shallow.
I stood at the bottom, hands ready but not touching.
"You can stop," I said.
Taila swallowed. "No."
Jinx called from behind, "If you throw up, do it on the broker's lot. For spite."
Taila made a strangled sound that might've been laughter.
Then she climbed into the cockpit.
She didn't power it on.
She just sat.
Hands on the controls. Helmet resting on her lap. Eyes closed.
Breathing.
When she climbed out ten minutes later, she looked exhausted.
And proud.
That night, in the tiny rented bunkroom we shared above a repair bar, Taila sat between Jinx and me on the bed and let herself lean—just a little—into our shoulders.
Jinx kissed her temple. Taila didn't flinch.
Taila kissed me, quick and shy, then kissed Jinx, even quicker, like she was still learning how to be brave without apologizing.
Jinx grinned and whispered, "See? We're building a star."
Taila's cheeks warmed. "Stop calling it that."
Jinx's eyes sparkled. "No."
---
On the fourth day, as we prepared to lift and head back toward Kestrel Basin to collect the Centurion and continue onward, my secure channel chimed.
A contract packet.
MRBC-adjacent routing, but not full registry—someone using official pathways without wanting full visibility.
High pay.
Short deadline.
And a clause that made my attention sharpen:
**Minimum Unit Strength: 3 BattleMechs.**
**Primary Theater: Planetary surface.**
**Secondary Theater: Orbital escort / DropShip interdiction (optional).**
**Objective: Convoy security + retrieval of cargo from downed transport.**
**Threat: Unknown raider unit using disciplined lance tactics.**
Taila was still in the Centurion bay, running a low-power systems check with a tech. Jinx stood beside me, reading over my shoulder.
"Three mechs," she said, pleased. "Convenient."
"Too convenient," I replied.
Jinx's grin faded slightly. "You think it's bait."
"I think someone's testing," I said.
Jinx leaned closer. "Sable?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But the timing is clean. The pay is high. The terms are specific. And they want a unit strength we only just achieved."
Jinx's voice turned quieter. "Then we don't take it."
I stared at the packet.
Then I heard my own thought, cold and unavoidable:
If we never take contracts because we're afraid of traps, we stop being mercenaries. We stop moving. And that makes us easier to catch.
I keyed the channel and requested more details—origin point, contact name, drop coordinates.
The reply came back within seconds.
Too fast.
A single line appended at the bottom of the packet, like a signature without a signature:
"Make it worth your time."
Not educational.
But close enough to make my spine tighten.
Jinx's eyes met mine.
Taila's voice came behind us, tentative. "What is it."
I turned.
Taila stood at the Centurion bay doorway, grease smudged on her cheek, eyes bright in a way that wasn't fear this time—more like determination, like she'd tasted control and didn't want to let it go.
"A job," I said. "Good pay. Planet-side. Convoy protection and retrieval."
Taila swallowed, then said quietly, "Do we… take it."
I looked at the three machines in the holding lot beyond the fence: my Dire Wolf, Jinx's Highlander, Taila's Centurion—newly hers, newly real.
Thirty-four days since the first contract.
Enough time to build a crew.
Enough time to make enemies.
I nodded once.
"Yes," I said. "We take it."
Jinx grinned like she'd been waiting for permission to be alive again. "Road trip."
Taila's hands clenched, then relaxed.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
And somewhere in the city's rain and smoke, I felt the faintest impression of eyes on us—distant, patient, already calculating the next lesson.
We were moving again.
Which meant the universe would start reaching for us again.
This time, we'd have a third machine.
And a third heartbeat in our formation.