Day 47 since his father died.
Dack kept the count in a place nobody else would ever look—inside the Dire Wolf's cockpit, under the lower lip of the main HUD housing, scratched in with a scribe the way you marked ammo crates and kill tallies. A thin, neat line for each day. Nothing ceremonial. Nothing romantic. Just proof that time moved forward whether he liked it or not.
Rook's Fall kept moving too.
The spaceport was still crowded with mercs and officials and vultures looking for anything loose enough to steal. But the Leopard's bay—and now the half-owned, half-stolen Union-class DropShip sitting out in the yard under a tarp and a dozen forged papers—felt like the first pieces of something permanent.
Not safe. Just… theirs.
They spent the first day the way mercs always did after blood: fixing what the world had tried to break.
The Bay Smelled Like Hot Metal and New Plans
Lyra ran the work like a flight line chief who'd been given a war to organize. She had the Griffin's diagnostic tree projected on a wall panel, the Union's refit spreadsheet open on her tablet, and a rotating list of parts they still needed—actuator sleeves, armor plate stock, coolant lines, seals, a clean gyro cradle.
Taila hovered near the Griffin, eyes tracking every tool a tech lifted like she was afraid the whole chassis might vanish if she blinked.
Jinx wandered between machines like she was inspecting her personal kingdom, stopping to tap armor plates, tug straps, and offer "help" that mostly involved distracting everyone.
Morrigan stood with her arms crossed and her gothic skirt brushing the deck, glaring at all of it like the Leopard's bay was a crime scene.
Dack didn't talk much. He pointed. He checked. He made decisions. The techs stopped trying to upsell him by noon.
They started with the Griffin, because it mattered most.
Lyra had the gyro housing open and the stress fractures highlighted in bright red on the projection. "Reinforcement plates go here and here. If we don't brace it, she'll feel it in every turn. It won't fail immediately—just enough to teach her fear."
Taila swallowed. "I don't want fear."
"You want respect," Dack said, and put a hand on the Griffin's shin plating—metal still warm from yesterday's test cycle. "Same result."
Taila nodded once, fast.
Jinx leaned on the Griffin's leg like it was a bar counter. "We should paint it black and red."
Lyra didn't look up. "After it walks clean."
Taila's mouth tightened like she wanted to argue.
Dack cut it off with a simple glance. Taila exhaled and backed down.
They moved to the Centurion next. Taila's old machine sat in the cradle with its panels opened, wiring bundles exposed like veins. It had survived the raid, the spaceport, and the hill. It had also shown every one of its limits.
Lyra's fingers flicked through a parts list. "We can tighten the neurohelmet calibration, rebalance the targeting link, and re-route the coolant lines so it doesn't spike when she fires and moves at the same time."
Taila watched the board like it was scripture. "Can we fix the shoulder plating? The Panther hit—"
Dack nodded. "New plate."
Jinx grinned. "And we give it a pin-up decal."
Taila glared.
Jinx immediately held up both hands. "Fine. Not on the Centurion. On my Highlander."
Lyra made a small, pained sound. "No pin-ups on an assault-class machine."
Jinx looked wounded. "Why do you hate joy?"
"I like joy," Lyra said, not looking at her. "I hate maintenance nightmares."
Jinx's grin turned predatory. "You like joy? Prove it."
Lyra's ears went faintly pink. She stayed focused on the tablet.
Dack turned toward his own machine before the conversation slid off a cliff.
The Dire Wolf was the anchor. The thing everyone measured themselves against, whether they admitted it or not. Its armor was patched, its racks refilled, its actuators freshly inspected. It was still a Dire Wolf—too much machine for most worlds, too much history for one cockpit.
Dack climbed halfway up the access ladder and leaned into the open paneling behind the right torso.
"Feed's sticking," he said.
A tech glanced up. "Autocannon feed?"
Dack nodded. "Dirty from the hill. Clean it. Replace the guide rollers."
Lyra looked up sharply. "We don't have spare rollers for that model."
Dack didn't blink. "We do now."
He reached down and tossed her a tagged crate—King Crab salvage, repurposed with the calm certainty of someone who'd been scavenging since he could walk.
Lyra caught it, eyes widening slightly. Then she nodded. "Okay."
Jinx whistled. "He's building a monster."
Morrigan snorted from her corner. "It already is."
Dack didn't react to that either. He just said, "Heat sinks next."
They moved. Work moved with them.
By late afternoon the Griffin's reinforcement plates were welded in, the gyro cradle was braced, and the cockpit harness had been replaced with something that would hold Taila without bruising her shoulders raw.
Taila climbed into the Griffin again for a clean sim cycle and—this time—her first turn wasn't jerky.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was controlled.
She exhaled like she'd been holding her breath since childhood.
Jinx watched through the cockpit glass and clapped slowly. "Look at you. A real pilot."
Taila's voice crackled through comms. "Don't jinx it."
Jinx's grin sharpened. "You said my name."
Taila groaned. "I didn't mean—"
Dack cut in. "Good work. Keep the pace."
Taila steadied immediately. "Copy."
Lyra looked pleased for half a second. Then she buried it behind professionalism again.
Black and Red
That night, they ate in the Leopard's galley again because the Union wasn't "theirs" yet—not inside. Not until they stripped the pirate stink out of it and made the corridors theirs.
Jinx came in first wearing a black tank top and gym shorts, red jacket hanging open like she wanted everyone to notice she'd chosen it on purpose. Taila followed in her tight halter top and black combat leggings with red stripes, looking like she'd dressed for war and accidentally looked good doing it.
Lyra stepped in last, in a fitted black pilot suit half-zipped, hair damp from washing up. She paused when she realized all eyes were on her.
Jinx's eyes, especially.
Morrigan sat in the corner seat, gothic dress pristine despite the ship's grime, arms crossed, glaring at the table like it was insulting her.
Jinx leaned across the table, bright as a knife. "Lyra."
Lyra's voice stayed careful. "Yes."
Jinx reached out, caught Lyra's chin gently—not forcing, just claiming attention—and licked her cheek in one slow, teasing swipe.
Lyra froze like she'd been hit with a stun charge.
Taila choked on her drink.
Morrigan made a disgusted noise like she'd been personally violated by the concept.
Dack's eyes flicked up.
Lyra's face turned bright red. "Jinx—!"
Jinx sat back, pleased. "You taste like soap and anxiety."
Lyra's mouth opened, closed, then she inhaled hard. "Do not do that in public."
Jinx blinked innocently. "This is our ship."
Lyra pointed at Morrigan without looking. "She is sitting right there."
Morrigan snapped. "Don't involve me!"
Jinx grinned. "Too late."
Lyra wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, still flushed. Then she looked at Jinx with a steadier gaze than she'd had a day ago.
"If you're going to tease me," Lyra said, voice even, "tease me without turning me into entertainment."
Jinx paused.
That was a boundary. Not a rejection. A line.
Jinx's grin softened into something approving. "Okay. Fair."
Taila watched Lyra like she'd just learned something important: you could say no and still be wanted.
Jinx leaned forward again anyway, eyes gleaming. "But since we're talking about you—"
Lyra's shoulders tensed.
Jinx's gaze dropped to Lyra's chest, unapologetically. "—you're still winning."
Lyra's face went scarlet. "I'm not 'winning.'"
Jinx rested her chin on her knuckles. "Your boobs are bigger than mine, bigger than Taila's, and you carry them like you're trying to apologize to the universe."
Taila made a strangled sound. "Jinx!"
Lyra stared at the table like it might open and swallow her.
Morrigan's glare sharpened. "Animals."
Dack finally spoke. "Eat."
It wasn't a reprimand. It was a reset.
Jinx laughed, satisfied. "Yes, boss."
Lyra exhaled slowly, then—quietly—kicked Dack's boot under the table once. Not hard. Just… contact.
Dack didn't move his foot away.
Taila saw it. Her cheeks warmed. She pretended to focus on her food.
Morrigan saw it too and glared like she was offended that anyone could touch without pain.
Jinx noticed everything and smiled like a cat.
Naming What They Were Becoming
The next day started with more refit work and ended with something that mattered as much as armor: identity.
They were no longer just a Dire Wolf, a Highlander, a Centurion-in-training, and a Leopard. They had salvage. They had a Griffin waking up under Taila's hands. They had a Union hull sitting in a yard waiting to be claimed properly.
They needed a name.
They argued about it over a workbench while Lyra rewired a diagnostic bay and Taila helped a tech fit a new plate on the Centurion's shoulder.
Jinx threw names like knives:
"Red Howlers."
"Moon Wolves."
"Black Maw."
"The Jawline." (Taila threw a bolt at her for that one.)
"The Red Moon Pack."
"The Howling Contract."
Lyra suggested cleaner things, more respectable: "Iron Star Mercenary Group," "Kestrel Breakers," "Rook's Fall Recovery."
Morrigan scoffed at every single one like she hated names in general.
Dack listened without expression until Jinx finally said, "Fine. You pick."
Dack stared at the Dire Wolf's chest plating where the old insignia had been sanded away.
Then he said, "Moonjaw."
Jinx blinked. Taila paused. Lyra looked up.
"Mouth on the moon?" Jinx asked.
Dack shook his head once. "Dire Wolf. Moon in its jaws. Howling."
Taila's eyes lit. "Black and red."
Jinx grinned. "Sexy uniforms."
Lyra's mouth twitched like she wanted to argue about practicality, then she stopped herself because she already knew this crew: compromise or die.
Morrigan narrowed her eyes. "That's… stupid."
Jinx smiled sweetly. "You're stupid."
Morrigan bristled. "I'm not—"
Dack cut in. "Moonjaw Mercenary Company."
Lyra repeated it softly, testing the weight of it. "Moonjaw."
Taila nodded, almost reverent. "I like it."
Jinx leaned in close to Taila's ear. "I love it. It sounds like biting."
Taila flushed. "Jinx…"
Jinx kissed her cheek anyway, quick and shameless.
Lyra pulled up a rough sigil mock-up on her tablet—nothing fancy yet, just a shape: a dire wolf head angled skyward, jaws open, a crescent moon caught between teeth like a trophy.
Taila leaned over the tablet, fingers tracing the lines without touching. "The moon should look like it's… strained. Like it's resisting."
Lyra nodded. "Good detail."
Jinx added, "And the wolf should look hungry."
Morrigan muttered, "Like all of you."
Dack didn't react. He just said, "Black base. Red accents."
Taila smiled.
Jinx's eyes glittered. "Uniforms."
Lyra sighed, already bracing herself. "Fine. But combat-ready."
Jinx immediately started describing tight, revealing pilot outfits like she'd been planning it since day one—black and red body suits with harness straps, thigh holsters, cropped jackets, boots that looked good and still had grip, gloves that didn't ruin the silhouette.
Lyra tried to interject with "heat dissipation" and "mobility" and "fireproofing."
Jinx nodded seriously, then said, "Sexy and fireproof."
Taila laughed—quiet, surprised at herself.
Lyra's cheeks went pink again, but she didn't shut it down. Not fully.
Because she liked being looked at.
She just didn't like being reduced.
And the crew was learning that difference.
Morrigan Offers a Deal
On the third day, while Lyra reviewed Union maintenance logs and Dack negotiated with a yard foreman about docking access, Morrigan finally approached like she wasn't doing it on purpose.
She stood beside Lyra's tablet, arms crossed. "I can help with the Union."
Lyra didn't look up. "How."
Morrigan's jaw clenched. "I know people."
Jinx looked up from where she was lounging on a crate like she belonged there. "Oh? Our goth prisoner has connections?"
Morrigan glared. "I'm not a prisoner."
Dack's eyes flicked to her. Morrigan shut up.
Lyra's voice stayed calm. "People who will sell furniture cheap."
Morrigan hesitated, then nodded once. "And parts. Interior. Beds. Tables. Filters. Lighting. Pirate crews don't buy new. They buy… off the books."
Lyra's eyes sharpened. "And you know who."
Morrigan's chin lifted. "Yes."
Jinx snorted. "She wants to redecorate her daddy's ship."
Morrigan's glare turned razor sharp. "It's not his anymore."
The words came out too fast, too raw.
Dack watched her for a moment. Then he said, "You help. You don't bring trouble."
Morrigan's mouth tightened like she hated being given permission. "Fine."
Lyra studied her—careful, practical. "You give me names. I vet them. If they're clean enough, we buy."
Morrigan bristled. "They won't be clean."
Lyra didn't blink. "Then we don't buy."
Morrigan glared… and then, very quietly, nodded.
It was the first time she'd agreed to something without spitting afterward.
Taila watched that exchange and felt an uncomfortable flicker of sympathy.
Then she smothered it, because Morrigan still hated them and still had a knife in her past.
Jinx saw Taila's expression and smirked. "Careful, babe. You're going to start liking her."
Taila snapped, "No."
Morrigan muttered, "Good."
The Days Keep Counting
That night, Dack sat alone in the Dire Wolf cockpit for a minute before sleep. The bay was quiet. The machines were cooling. The ship hummed like a low animal.
He scratched a new line under the HUD.
Day 50.
He stared at the marks for a long moment.
He hadn't avenged his father. Not really. Not yet. Kess was dead, but the chain that had paid for the murder still existed somewhere out in the stars, quiet and patient.
He thought of Sable—gone to another system, not here, not tied to this job. A problem delayed, not solved.
He thought of the crew.
Taila, who had stopped flinching when she was praised.
Jinx, who could be vicious and warm in the same breath.
Lyra, who had stopped pretending she didn't want anything.
Morrigan, who wore lace like armor and offered to help build a home anyway.
A merc unit didn't become real because of a logo.
It became real when people started acting like tomorrow mattered.
When he climbed down, Lyra was waiting near the bay door with her tablet tucked under her arm.
She didn't speak right away.
She just stepped in close enough that her shoulder brushed his.
Dack didn't move away.
Somewhere down the corridor, Jinx laughed softly—probably teasing Taila about uniforms again.
Dack looked at Lyra and said only, "Union tomorrow."
Lyra nodded. "Tomorrow."
Then, very quietly, she added, "Moonjaw looks good on us."
Dack didn't answer with words.
He just let his hand rest on her waist for a second—brief, steady—before letting go.
Lyra exhaled like she'd been holding her breath.
And the next day—because the days never stopped—they went back to work.